First Nights and Attachments

Two items landed on my desk this morning. Not bills, not junk mail, not another politician asking for a donation to “save the Republic,” again.

No, these were better—so much better. Eash helped stitch up some of the holes in my heart that have been leaking since Wednesday, September 10, at 12:23 p.m.

If grief had a timestamp, that would be mine. You don’t forget the minute your world shifts, and you know deep down that “normal” has walked out the door and isn’t coming back.

The first item was a message from my high school friend Nece. She reached out to me in that way old friends do—not with fireworks, not with speeches, but with steady hands and plain words.

She explained why the hurt feels like it does, sharp and personal, though I wasn’t the one who took the bullet or drew the last breath. To put it simply, she said, “You feel this man’s death because you’re attached to him through Jesus Christ.”

It’s like having an invisible string tied between us—me on one end, him on the other. When his life got cut, the tug snapped back, and it jolted me. Of course it hurts, that’s what connection means.

Now, Nece isn’t a theologian with a TV ministry and a gold-plated microphone. She’s just a friend who knew me when I still thought a decent grade and a decent haircut were the tickets to life.

But she gave me a truth you can lean your elbows on. I needed that.

Then came the second item, a video from Lori. It was a raw-cut country song—no polish, no studio shine.

Just a singer with a voice that cracked in all the right places, asking a question that split my chest wide open, “How was your first night in Heaven?”

Well. That’ll stop you in your tracks faster than running barefoot on a goat-head thorn.

I sat there, coffee cooling on the desk, and thought about it, “His first night in Heaven.”

Did the angels show him around like friendly neighbors bringing a casserole? Did he finally understand the things that tie our tongues in knots down here—love, justice, mercy, and why bad things happen to good people?

Did he get to rest his head without worry for the first time in a long time? I hope so, and I hope it was better than the best day we’ve ever had here.

The funny thing is, those two gifts—Nece’s words and Lori’s song—didn’t erase my anger or my grief. They didn’t make me forget what happened, or who we lost, or the fact that this world is, at best, a fixer-upper.

What they did was help me hold it differently. It was like turning a jagged rock in your hand until you find a smoother side.

See, it’s common sense that we can’t walk through life untouched. Sooner or later, we’re all going to bleed, and some wounds leave scars shaped like names.

But it’s also true that we don’t walk through it alone. Sometimes God sends you an old friend from high school to say, “Hey, you’re not crazy. You hurt because you love.”

And sometimes He sends a voice in a song that asks the question you were too stunned to put into words.

It doesn’t take much to turn the tide in a battered soul. Not a sermon, or a new law.

Just a couple of reminders that love ties us together, even past the grave, and that Heaven isn’t some abstract thing way out there. It’s the most realest place there is, already holding the ones we miss.

So today, I’m a little less angry, a little more steady. Still grieving, yes—but with my chin up.

Because if I really believe what I say I do, then the story isn’t over. God is only a phone call away, except the line runs through prayer instead of AT&T.

And if you’re wondering—yes, I’m still putting my pants on one leg at a time. But today, at least, I’ve got a reason to stand a little taller while I do it.

Thanks, Nece. Thanks, Lori. Thanks, Lord.

I needed that.