The Servant's Quarters

I Wish I Could Touch The Boy's Hand

I just finished listening to my latest Christmas audiobook while doing my morning exercise. (November is the time that I always start listening to my holiday programs as I can beat the rush and check out the ones I want.) This latest one was Christmas in the Adirondacks by W. H. H. Murray. It contains two short stories of how fictional wilderness trapper John Norton spends two consecutive Christmas Days at his rustic, isolated cabin in the Adirondacks.

I don't know much about John Norton other than what is presented in these stories. I get the feeling that Murray wrote other pieces with this character. He has an apparent backstory that has been previously established, and that history includes a deceased son.

At the end of the book, John Norton has said good-bye to his friends and neighbors on Christmas Day evening, sat down by the fire with his Bible, and called his two faithful dogs to his side. The dogs came to their master and each laid a muzzle on his knee, watching him with loving devotion. (Note: Dogs are awesome. I've just finished up my first year of owning a wonderful dog named Walker. He is such a loving and faithful companion. I never want to be without a dog again.)

Norton's last thoughts are of his dead son, and the book closes with him thinking, "I wish I could touch the boy's hand one last time."

That one sentence resonates with me deeply. It moves me in a powerful way. Many are the times that I've wished that I could touch the hand of my dead son, Jonathan. That I could be with him one more time. That I could be allowed to hold him in my arms for just a few seconds more. I've even prayed to God that by some miracle, He would let me do just that.

I understand the longing expressed by John Norton as he sat by that firelight in his lonely cabin. Our sons are both gone from this mortal realm. I have every confidence that Jonathan is with his Lord right now. And one day, I will join him. Then I will get to hold him for as long as I want. But until then, all that I have left are my memories of that day almost 6 years ago and a small grave in a cemetery with a headstone that shows a sleeping baby. All that's left of my son in this world is buried in that hole. In his little coffin, wrapped in the blanket I picked out for him. He's holding the teddy bear and the little book that his oldest brother and I bought for him.

If only I could touch his hand one more time......