I remember it like it was yesterday. Micah and I sitting on my great grandmothers' porch swing. The hot, East Texas air helping us to glide along in our endeavors. It was my favorite spot to park myself at her yellow, wood-frame house. Corrigan, Texas offered little in excitement to the likes of any child seeking much adventure. It seemed like the most boring place ever created. Just about the only thing it had going for it was that it offered a chance to play with cousins. My little baby cousin, who had perfect pitch even at two years of age was my playmate. I was so smitten with that little boy. From the time he would let me cart him around in my grandmother's pink shopping cart, I did. I always felt like he was mine for the taking (even though he had parent's that would have argued otherwise). We both adored the movie An American Tail and belted the song Somewhere Out There at the highest possible octave our voices could squeak out. Mine squeaked much more often than his.
But, babies grow up and porches once full of life sometimes grow dark.
In 2004, Micah passed away. A budding recording artist. A bright smile. A light to all his friends and family. My childhood singing partner and patient. My friend.
I hate that he is gone. I hate that his mother weep's, not only for her son, but for her father, sister, brother-in-law and niece that she lost in other tragic ways since Micah's death. I hate that he never got to meet my children and teach them to play the guitar.
Life is not fair.
I know, however, that God is fair even in death. He promises us eternal life when we place our trust in his only Son, Jesus. He has promised to prepare a place for us in paradise.
Somewhere out there, there is a mansion with my name on it and a porch swing with a very special someone waiting. Until then...