Elliot’s birthday is approaching. He should be 20. Is he twenty, or is age something reserved for the living? Maybe he is frozen at 18. After all, does one age after death? Is he older than me now, or is he ageless?
How do we remember this day? I don’t know. I wish I didn’t have to think about it. If only he could be here. Nicholas Wolterstorff talked about his longing to talk with his son. That’s what I would like to do on Elliot’s birthday. I want him to show up. Wolterstorff states:
With every fiber of my being I long to talk with [Elliot] again. When I mention this to someone, she asked what I would say. I don’t know. Maybe I would just blurt out something silly. That would be enough for a beginning. We could take it from there. Every day I wonder and some days I doubt, whether that talk will ever take place. But then comes that insistent voice: “Remember, I made all this and raised my own son from the dead, so I can also…”
“I know, I know. But why don’t you raise mine now? Why did you ever let him die? If creation took six days, why does re-creation take so agonizingly long? If your conquest of primeval chaos went so quickly, why must your conquest of sin and death and suffering be so achingly slow?” (Wolterstorff, 1987, p.78)
When I see Elliot again, I don’t know if I will have words. I hope he says something first.
