Hey there my handsome and healthy young friend.

There is no getting around it: you have lost your great-grandmother, and it’s been a tough couple of weeks.

Not many guys even get to know their great-grandmammas, and fewer still get to know them as well as you were able to know and love yours. But that is not what you need to hear right now. How could you know that at your age anyway? And what difference would it make? This was a person who loved you and cared for you and you loved and cared for her. That’s all you know.

And now … gone.

How old are you these days, 13? I think you will be 14 next month. July 2004. I’m sure. Your dad called me the day you were born. I remember because I was driving back from New Iberia from my last game as coach of a Little League team. We’d lost in the state playoffs in the semi-finals. That’s another kind of loss, a loss that, in perspective, doesn’t matter as much as what you are feeling. Perspective is a beautiful thing. And still, pain is relative.

The Little League loss was my fault. I should have talked to my pitcher one batter earlier. He’d have calmed down. We’d have held the lead and lived to fight at least one more day. Then, who knows?

My fault. I think about it almost every day.

The loss of your old and dear friend is nobody’s fault. Or maybe it is humanity’s fault. It’s not yours.

I can’t offer advice. I can speak from experience and tell you how I felt when I lost my grandmothers and grandfathers, but why would you care about that right now? You’d want to, but you can’t. You can later. We can talk about it. But right now, all that matters is that one of your favorites is gone.

I am as sorry as I can be. I love you. I love you because I love your mom and dad and because I was a little boy once and lost a granddaddy who I knew hung he moon. That was not a good time. I cannot say that it compares to what you are feeling. I can just say that in my experience, if yours is similar, it makes me sad. I am as confused talking to you now as I was then.

Life just make no sense sometimes and death makes no sense all of the time. We are not built for a world where people we love are put into boxes, lowered into the ground, and turned back to dust. We aren’t.

It’s a hard truth. But it is as real as the sun coming up in the east, which it surely will.

So right now, it likely matters little that I will be holding a good thought for you. I will be praying for you, even though my prayers might not be very good. There is nothing good in me, but there is everything good in God, who invented good. Who defines good and gives us every good thing, including great-grandmoms. For what it’s worth, I will pray for your understanding of why this happened, your comfort in spite of the fact that it did, and your gained wisdom though this sad and painful event.

So we have that going for us.

Another friend 20 years older than you lost his grandmother a couple of weeks ago. Hurt him. Hurts him still. No age is immune from reality. We soldier along together, and are grateful that God will always show up.

Speaking of showing up: The day your dad called, the day after our little team of guys your age now had lost the lead and the game and our chance at the state title, it lifted me up. Knowing a baby was on the scene now, knowing that our little team had played as hard as it possibly could, made me feel better. One good thing had come to an end, and one good thing— you— had begun. You were good to me before you even knew your own name, Little Teddy.

And realizing that was 14 years ago is a semi-shock. Time is the great mystery. At 14, the mystery of time is not a reality to you yet. It is to me at 58, and it is to your priceless grandmamma, even at 92. Make the most of it.

I look forward to seeing you soon and having you tell me more about her when you’re up to it. In the meantime, nobody can “say the right thing.” But in the uncomfortable silence of loss, know that you are deeply loved, and that you are not alone.

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