Mid-afternoon on a sunny October day I dropped my 11 year old firstborn and only son off with his friend to walk the back-road home from a church picnic. He started down the the hill to home, turned and ran back to where his four sisters were watching from our car and said: I forgot to kiss my mother good-bye!

A funny thing to say crossed my mind as I drove home through surface streets.

The phone was ringing (yes, that kind of phone era 1966) as I opened the front door. Hospital and son was all I heard.

A 15 year-old boy in a stolen car speeding in his get-away, took a curve too fast, lost control struck my son and killed him. The impact spun his vehicle around so he returned it to the owner and fled. BOOM! Just like that! Gone.

In 1966, this hospital had a policy not to allow parents into emergency rooms. It was two days later before I saw him — first and last time — same day.

You already know the things going through our heads in this situation.

Terror! Blame! Shooda, wooda, cooda!

What surfaced? In some quirky-way: My sons death was a Gift to me and changed my life forever!

This is why he came into the world in the first place…

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