Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

Most of the regular readers of this blog know why the joint has been shuttered for the past four weeks. There is something I need to write about but I have not yet been able to face doing it. There have been moments, here and there, when I thought I might be ready but they were fleeting–they passed too quickly for me to even start to gather thoughts, build composure, and sit down here to begin. Hell, I am not sure I’m there yet. As I have said here before, it seems like the things I most strongly feel the need to write about are the things I find most difficult to write about. Just one of God’s many little jests.

Yesterday, I sat on the floor of my brother-in-law’s bedroom and cradled in my arms the earthly remains of my adored nephew, Tristan. They were in an oak box–about 10″ tall, six-sided, polished to a shine, heavy. Nothing has ever felt as heavy to me as that box does.

While it won’t be my exclusive subject, I am going to take some time to write about Tristan here. And I am going to write about my grief. I hope you don’t think it’s presumptuous that I would take my title from C.S. Lewis, but his beautiful and anguished little book means a lot to me.