His Picture

I want to see that picture today. Where did I put it? Think! Think! I walk around where I had it last, remembering I put it out of sight last time. I recall placing some old framed photographs in the back of the basement. Ah, I see it, peeking out from behind the others. I take it out and wipe the dust off the top.

How old is he in this picture? Seven I think. All looks well. So why can’t I look at this picture without having to glance away? Because I know something happened. I just don’t know what it was and I can’t help feeling that I could have stopped it. Oh, that is why I can’t look at the picture. I fear I let down that little boy in the frame. Will I ever know what happened? Will he ever know what happened?

Yesterday I sat in an overcrowded room of a state penitentiary and talked with my little brother over a Mountain Dew and vending machine sandwiches. This is the first time I have seen him in 9 months. The first time I could hug him in maybe two years. Strangely enough I didn’t think I would cry when he walked into view. And I didn’t. But when we hugged and my cheek rested against his cheek, and I felt the warmth of his skin, it was as if we were kids again. Only he’s taller than I now. Sorrow welled up in the shape of brimming tears. I’m sad for the years that have been stolen. I’m sad for the heartache and self-loathing he has endured. But I am happy for what God is revealing to David. It may very well change his life.

His picture is on my desk tonight. I can fix my gaze on his eyes a little longer now.

I will post more on this as I am able to put it on paper