I Want Her Too

As I approached the front door of my home that night after returning from an all-day outing, I heard a loud cry, an intense wailing. I immediately unlocked the door, turned off the alarm, and headed upstairs. With each step, the wailing became louder and more intense. As I approached my youngest daughter’s room, she was on her knees, bent over her bed, and looking at a picture of her mom on her phone. Though I stepped in, she never looked up but continued to wail as she stared at the picture. My first thought was to grab her hand, take her out of the room, and tell her everything would be ok, but I didn’t because it wasn’t. I realized she didn’t want a positive word. She didn’t want a scripture, a prayer, or God himself. She wanted her momma. She didn’t want a vision of her; she wanted her. As her dad, the provider, protector, preacher, and fixer, there was nothing I could do; there was no tool I could get or no restart button I could push; I couldn’t rip open my shirt and say “This is a job for Superman!” Because Superman wasn’t coming. It was me, her, and grief. As I stood, I never felt more helpless or hopeless, because I realized I wanted the same thing, too. As her wailing continued, I walked down the hall to my bedroom, closed the door, and started crying.