Proof The Bible Is True

The house was quiet. Clinking silverware was about the only sound my wife, Elaine, and I made at dinner anymore, and sitting outside on the patio afterward, it seemed like even the crickets spoke in hushed tones.

 

I longed to hear rock music boom­ing from upstairs, or the rattle of skateboard wheels on our driveway. Elaine glanced up at the dark bal­cony overlooking the patio and I followed her gaze.

 

Stop it, I thought. It had been six months since the motorcycle accident that killed our 16-year-old son, Austin, and it was time to stop looking for ghosts. The silence was haunting enough, a pervasive reminder of his absence.

 

Elaine began to cry. I moved close to comfort her. But what could I say? She couldn’t let him go. Any more than I could. Neither of us could fill that aching void Austin’s death left. What parent could?

 

Often, Elaine told me she had visions of him. The night after he died, she said he came to her in a dream so real that she felt his touch. “He’s reaching out to us,” she said. “I know it. He wants to comfort us. That’s the way Austin was.”

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