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On occasion I am asked, “How many children do you have?” I take a breath, pause for a moment, smile, and reply, “Two, I have two wonderful boys.”

I’ll never forget the first time I had to answer that question, and it hurt—it hurt all over. It was just weeks after Christopher left us for heaven. I was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Sandra’s softly lit office, the clipboard questionnaire resting on my lap. The question caught me off guard, “Number of children?” and then the blank space for me to write in. How do I answer that?

The tears filled my eyes and spilt onto the paper, blurring the ink all over the paper. Two. I handed over the filled-in paperwork, with my name, insurance information, and medical history. But I wanted to tell the young receptionist my story, as I handed her the clip board. I wanted her to understand about the boy behind that number.

I have been asked this question more times since that first time. Why, even last Wednesday at church, I was asked if I was “a mono-mom or a poly-mom?” (Am I the only one who conjures up images of insects and sea life?) We held up fingers to answer the question; of course, I held up two.

And again today, as I made small talk with a repairman while he fixed my broken garage door: “How many kids do you have?”

The answer, “Two . . . two boys,” never gets easy; the dull ache remains. I have, not had, two children; both beautiful boys, born eleven years apart when I was 19 and 30. One is here with me on earth, with a beautiful wife and growing family, and one in heaven, safely home in my Father’s house.

This year marks the five year anniversary. I am grateful for those thirty-three years with Christopher—every minute—even the hard times. I loved his laugh, his wit, his gift of art, and his tender side that cried easily. I loved seeing him grow into a man, a husband, and a father. Thank God it’s not over. It’s not goodbye, just farewell.

But truthfully, I am getting restless. It seems long enough already and I’m anxious for reunion; for more time together, catching up on all that has happened since he was gone—the trips we missed taking, the special moments.

Ah, I could go on and on. But it’s getting late so I’ll stop here, put the pen down, look up and pray: How long O Lord? Until then, hold him tightly for me.