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Lament for a Son
Well-known Christian philosopher Nicholas Wolterstorff has authored many books that have contributed significantly to scholarship in several subjects. In Lament for a Son he writes not as a scholar but as a loving father grieving the loss of his son. In brief vignettes Wolterstorff explores with a moving honesty and intensity, all the facets of his experience of this irreversible loss. Though he grieves "not as one who has no hope," he finds no comfort in the pious-sounding phrases that would diminish the malevolence of death. The book is in one sense a narrative account of events--from the numbing telephone call on a sunny Sunday afternoon that tells of 25-year-old Eric's death in a mountain-climbing accident, to a graveside visit a year later. But the book is far more than narrative. Every event is an occasion for remembering, for meditating, for Job-like anguish in the struggle to accept and understand. A profoundly faith-affirming book, Lament for a Son gives eloquent expression to a grief that is at once unique and universal--a grief for an individual, irreplaceable person. Though it is an intensely personal book, Wolterstorff decided to publish it, he says, "in the hope that it will be of help to some of those who find themselves with us in the company of mourners."
116 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1987
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About the author
Nicholas Wolterstorff
83 books109 followersWolterstorff is the Noah Porter Professor Emeritus of Philosophical Theology, and Fellow of Berkeley College at Yale University. A prolific writer with wide-ranging philosophical and theological interests, he has written books on metaphysics, aesthetics, political philosophy, epistemology and theology and philosophy of religion.
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May 20, 2022
I read this in part because Woltersdorff had been a professor of Philosophy at Calvin College, where I had done my undergraduate degree in English. He was part of the then famous group of philosophers there at that time, including Alvin Plantinga. I never had them as teachers, but I knew of him and admired his reputation as a philosopher from afar, so I bought the book, but not in 1987, when it came out, but in 2002, when it was reprinted, because I had more reason to do so.
Woltersdorff lost his 25-year-old son Eric in 1983; Eric had been mountain climbing in Europe when he fell to his death. I had read books like C.S. Lewis's angry rant against God, A Grief Observed, when his wife died, but in 1987, when Lament was published, I had had no intention of having children, much less reading a book about the loss of one's child. Who needs living in someone else's sadness? At that point I would have liked to avoid such discussions except when they might come up in tragic (but more distanced) fiction. But by the time I bought the book, in 2002, I had lost my parents and had a son who was in the process of being diagnosed for severe (late onset) autism. The inevitable shit had begun to hit the fan, in other words. But every time I took up the book I also put it back down. I had lost my faith, essentially, had adopted the skeptical position of agnostic, and knew Woltersdorff was a committed Christian. I imagined the book to be a defense of what I had heard at funerals most of my life: It's God's will, we can't fathom the Mind of God, He has His Reasons, and so on. I was imagining a defense of faith supplanting grief, overcoming it.
I went back to it, in the next year, because I was in sort of early, free-fall grief over the regression and eventual turn (if not quite loss) of my son Sammy's brain to autism (he had had language at a relatively "normal" pace and then quite suddenly lost all of his speaking capacities unless you consider screaming as a kind of speaking). I needed some help, and was kind of pleasantly surprised to find that in spite of his retention of faith, that Woltersdorff was not so quick to defend God's purposes. He was hurt and confused about why this had happened. He wasn't as angry as Lewis had been, or as Peter DeVries had been in and through his fictional narrator in Blood of the Lamb, DeVries's semi-autobiographical novel about the loss of an (his) 11-year-old daughter to leukemia. Woltersdorff suffers and doesn't try to explain it away, which I appreciate.
He says useful things in this journal-like book about how grief often isolates instead of Brings Good People Together. I had had friends and actually lost them as they didn't know how to react to Sammy's regression, his loss of language, his strange behavioral tics, his bouts of aggression and screaming. My family retreated from me rather than circled around me. Or so I felt at the time. I felt alone in darkness. It's crushing. It takes away the joy of daily living, and maybe especially when one actually loses a child as with Wolterstorff. Some days, though, I was also inconsolable. So Woltersdorf lives in grief, always, forever, to some extent, as I did, especially early on, and if not completely accepting his grief and suffering, he thinks it is part of life and tries to learn from it, but he would trade that learning-from-suffering for Eric in a heartbeat. It sucks and redefines him in a way he wishes it would not have done.
Lament for a Son is a lovely book that is comforting in its refusal to be facile or simple in its approach to grief. It has rawness and pain in it as it should especially where love and loss is concerned, and that is helpful to a reader like me who either has been or is suffering.
Woltersdorff lost his 25-year-old son Eric in 1983; Eric had been mountain climbing in Europe when he fell to his death. I had read books like C.S. Lewis's angry rant against God, A Grief Observed, when his wife died, but in 1987, when Lament was published, I had had no intention of having children, much less reading a book about the loss of one's child. Who needs living in someone else's sadness? At that point I would have liked to avoid such discussions except when they might come up in tragic (but more distanced) fiction. But by the time I bought the book, in 2002, I had lost my parents and had a son who was in the process of being diagnosed for severe (late onset) autism. The inevitable shit had begun to hit the fan, in other words. But every time I took up the book I also put it back down. I had lost my faith, essentially, had adopted the skeptical position of agnostic, and knew Woltersdorff was a committed Christian. I imagined the book to be a defense of what I had heard at funerals most of my life: It's God's will, we can't fathom the Mind of God, He has His Reasons, and so on. I was imagining a defense of faith supplanting grief, overcoming it.
I went back to it, in the next year, because I was in sort of early, free-fall grief over the regression and eventual turn (if not quite loss) of my son Sammy's brain to autism (he had had language at a relatively "normal" pace and then quite suddenly lost all of his speaking capacities unless you consider screaming as a kind of speaking). I needed some help, and was kind of pleasantly surprised to find that in spite of his retention of faith, that Woltersdorff was not so quick to defend God's purposes. He was hurt and confused about why this had happened. He wasn't as angry as Lewis had been, or as Peter DeVries had been in and through his fictional narrator in Blood of the Lamb, DeVries's semi-autobiographical novel about the loss of an (his) 11-year-old daughter to leukemia. Woltersdorff suffers and doesn't try to explain it away, which I appreciate.
He says useful things in this journal-like book about how grief often isolates instead of Brings Good People Together. I had had friends and actually lost them as they didn't know how to react to Sammy's regression, his loss of language, his strange behavioral tics, his bouts of aggression and screaming. My family retreated from me rather than circled around me. Or so I felt at the time. I felt alone in darkness. It's crushing. It takes away the joy of daily living, and maybe especially when one actually loses a child as with Wolterstorff. Some days, though, I was also inconsolable. So Woltersdorf lives in grief, always, forever, to some extent, as I did, especially early on, and if not completely accepting his grief and suffering, he thinks it is part of life and tries to learn from it, but he would trade that learning-from-suffering for Eric in a heartbeat. It sucks and redefines him in a way he wishes it would not have done.
Lament for a Son is a lovely book that is comforting in its refusal to be facile or simple in its approach to grief. It has rawness and pain in it as it should especially where love and loss is concerned, and that is helpful to a reader like me who either has been or is suffering.
April 18, 2024
〽️I read this years ago. It’s honest and raw and heartfelt. A theologian pours out his crie de coeur over his son’s unexpected and tragic death. You can compare it to Lewis’s A Grief Observed but you will find this one cuts much closer to the bone. You don’t have to be religious to feel his angst and perhaps benefit from it, in some way, in your own world.
July 7, 2016
Fantastic and beautiful. I didn't want a practical book on grief. There are no answers that I can fathom that would be sufficient, and I didn't want attempts. Wolterstorff doesn't try to answer questions - in fact he asks questions mostly. He just shares his own experience of grief, opening up his own heart to welcome other "mourners" to come in and join him. I've handed it on to my dad and he's currently reading it for the second time. I would recommend to anyone, because really it's not just a book about grief, but about love and loving deeply.
December 4, 2017
The most honest Christian book I’ve ever read, which begs the question why as Christians we have such a hard time being honest, especially about the most difficult parts of life - like death. Wolterstorff writes about the death of his 25-yr-old son. His reflection is sad. Beautiful. Perfect. He does not shy away from complaining, nor does he shy away from faith. He complains to God. A true lament. An act of faith that avoids being platitudinous and preachy, and thus shows us the way to care for those enduring the painful death of a loved one.
This will be the book I point such people to. But not because it provides a theology of suffering. Other books do that better than this one. Wolterstorff offers no answers. Just companionship with the sufferer. Which is far better. “God does not explain suffering; he shares it,” he writes. That is what the book does, too. And that is why it is such a gift.
This will be the book I point such people to. But not because it provides a theology of suffering. Other books do that better than this one. Wolterstorff offers no answers. Just companionship with the sufferer. Which is far better. “God does not explain suffering; he shares it,” he writes. That is what the book does, too. And that is why it is such a gift.
February 26, 2015
Wow...what an honest, heart-wrenching, intimate book. While it is true that each person's suffering is unique and personal, this book also contains universal truths. The book is also full of sincere questions, struggles with faith, and genuine "grief work". The reflection on "blessed are those who mourn" is itself worth the price of the book, but there is so much in this short little book. I will return to this book over and over for personal reflection on pastoral care as well as sermon preparation. It's going on my "favorites" shelf.
February 23, 2013
Lament for a Son
by Nicholas Wolterstorff
Simple and elegant are two words that come to mind after reading Lament for a Son. This small, easy book does not overwhelm therefore counterbalances the impossible loss of one’s child. One of the universal changes in grief is the loss of concentration. In losing a child I am not sure this improves dramatically. It took two years before I could read more than a few pages at a time.
In the genre of grief, I found the author’s reflections to be specific, descriptive and without a lot of explanation. When grieving a child, this can be of great comfort because there is in fact, no explanation. All that is left is the narrative. Any analysis is exhaustive and circular.
Nicholas Wolterstorff is an esteemed professor of philosophical theology. He regularly teaches lecture courses in philosophy of religion and aesthetics, and seminars in epistemology, hermeneutics, and philosophy of religion.
He lost his son, Eric, 25, in a mountain climbing accident and wrote Lament for a Son 12 years later. In the Preface he hopes that his words give voice to this, our special brand of grieving. In graceful candor he wonders aloud how it is he answers the question, “Who are you?” Eric’s loss, he writes, determines much of his identity, and that “Lament is part of life.”
I am committed to writing strangers who put into words this suffering. The painful weight is lifted up briefly in finding others who know without my having to explain what is unexplainable. I contacted Dr. Wolterstorff who was generous enough to respond. Finding one further along can offer a nugget of hope in store for a possible future.
Wolterstorff’s response to my email confirmed that the early years of this grief are when the life flame is gone and we feel like doing nothing. He called his experience “living around the gap.” I think his supporting and honoring the open wound in its remaining state is comforting.
Sparse and stark, but marked by his individualized hope, I include some quotes from the book I suggest you own. Whether you are a parent with this hole, or know a parent, it will open up new ways of considering the experience.
In making notes while reading, the funny thing was, I could have quoted almost the entire book….
DARKNESS, ABSENCE
“Will my eyes adjust to this darkness? Will I find you in the dark – not in the streaks of light which remain, but in the darkness? Has anyone ever found you there? Did they love what they saw? Did they see love? And are there songs for singing when the light has gone dim? Or in the dark, is it best to wait in silence?”
“Noon has darkened. As fast as they could say, ‘He’s dead,’ the light dimmed. And where are you in the darkness? I learned to spy you in the light. Here in this darkness, I cannot find you. If I had never looked for you, or looked but never found, I would not feel this pain of your absence. Or is not your absence in which I dwell, but your elusive troubling presence?”
“It’s the neverness that is so painful. Never again to be here with us – never to sit with us at the table…. All the rest of our lives we must live without him. Only our death can stop the pain of his death.”
REGRET
“We took him too much for granted. Perhaps we all take each other too much for granted. The routines of life distract us; our own pursuits make us oblivious; our anxieties and sorrows, unmindful. The beauties of the familiar go unremarked. We do not treasure each other enough.”
“He was a gift to us for twenty-five years. When the gift was finally snatched away, I realized how great it was. Then I could not tell him.”
“I didn’t know how much I loved him until he was gone. Is love like that?”
“Death has picked him out. Death has made him special. Now I think of him every day; before I did not”
“Regrets.. I shall live with them, I shall accept my regrets as part of my life, to be numbered among my self-inflicted wounds. But I will not endlessly gaze at them. I shall allow the memories to prod me into doing better with those still living.”
REMEMBERING
“I lament all that might have been, and now will never be… It means not forgetting him. It means speaking of him. Do this in remembrance…”
“It does not console me to be reminded of the hope of resurrection. What consolation can there be other than having him back?”
“There is a hole in the world now. In the place where he was there is now just nothing, a center like no other, of memory, of hope, of knowledge and affection which once inhabited this earth, now is gone. Only a gap remains. A perspective on this world which once moved about within this world has been rubbed out. Only a void is left. There is nobody now who saw just what he saw, knows what he knew, remembers what he remembers, loved what he loved.”
“Why are the photographs of him as a little boy so incredibly hard to look at? Something is over. Now instead of those shiny moments being things we can share together in delighted memories, I, the survivor, have to bear them alone. So it is with all the memories of him. They all lead into blackness. All I can do is remember him, I cannot experience him. Nothing new can happen between us.”
“From such innocuous things my imagination winds its way to my wound, Everything is charged with the potential of a reminder. There is no forgetting.”
LOVE
“The heart that speaks is heard more than the words that are spoken.”
DEATH
“With these hands I lifted him from his cradle – tiny, soft, warm and squirming with life. Now at the end with these same hands I touch him in his coffin. For though we aren’t our bodies, yet of nothing on this earth do we have more intimate possession than these. Only through those do we dwell here. I knew Eric through his body. Greeting and leaving-taking go best, I think, when we can do them with our hands.”
“To fully persuade us of death’s reality, of its grim finality, our eyes and hands must rub against death’s cold, hard body, body against body, painfully.
I pity those who never get a chance to see and feel the deadness of the one they love, who must think death but cannot sense it.”
“I buried myself that warm June day. It was me those gardeners lowered on squeaking straps into that dry hole. What does it mean? Eric dead, removed from out presence, covered with earth, inert? Or is such shattering of love beyond meaning for us, the breaking of meaning-mystery, terrible mystery?”
“Books on grief offered ways of not looking at death and pain in the face.”
CONNECTIONS TO OUR PAIN
“I must struggle so hard to regain life that I cannot reach out to you. Nor you to me.”
“Doubting Thomas… if you want to know who I am out your hand inside my wound.”
“Suffering is for the loving. If I had not loved him, there wouldn’t be this agony. Suffering is down at the center of things, deep down where the meaning is.”
by Nicholas Wolterstorff
Simple and elegant are two words that come to mind after reading Lament for a Son. This small, easy book does not overwhelm therefore counterbalances the impossible loss of one’s child. One of the universal changes in grief is the loss of concentration. In losing a child I am not sure this improves dramatically. It took two years before I could read more than a few pages at a time.
In the genre of grief, I found the author’s reflections to be specific, descriptive and without a lot of explanation. When grieving a child, this can be of great comfort because there is in fact, no explanation. All that is left is the narrative. Any analysis is exhaustive and circular.
Nicholas Wolterstorff is an esteemed professor of philosophical theology. He regularly teaches lecture courses in philosophy of religion and aesthetics, and seminars in epistemology, hermeneutics, and philosophy of religion.
He lost his son, Eric, 25, in a mountain climbing accident and wrote Lament for a Son 12 years later. In the Preface he hopes that his words give voice to this, our special brand of grieving. In graceful candor he wonders aloud how it is he answers the question, “Who are you?” Eric’s loss, he writes, determines much of his identity, and that “Lament is part of life.”
I am committed to writing strangers who put into words this suffering. The painful weight is lifted up briefly in finding others who know without my having to explain what is unexplainable. I contacted Dr. Wolterstorff who was generous enough to respond. Finding one further along can offer a nugget of hope in store for a possible future.
Wolterstorff’s response to my email confirmed that the early years of this grief are when the life flame is gone and we feel like doing nothing. He called his experience “living around the gap.” I think his supporting and honoring the open wound in its remaining state is comforting.
Sparse and stark, but marked by his individualized hope, I include some quotes from the book I suggest you own. Whether you are a parent with this hole, or know a parent, it will open up new ways of considering the experience.
In making notes while reading, the funny thing was, I could have quoted almost the entire book….
DARKNESS, ABSENCE
“Will my eyes adjust to this darkness? Will I find you in the dark – not in the streaks of light which remain, but in the darkness? Has anyone ever found you there? Did they love what they saw? Did they see love? And are there songs for singing when the light has gone dim? Or in the dark, is it best to wait in silence?”
“Noon has darkened. As fast as they could say, ‘He’s dead,’ the light dimmed. And where are you in the darkness? I learned to spy you in the light. Here in this darkness, I cannot find you. If I had never looked for you, or looked but never found, I would not feel this pain of your absence. Or is not your absence in which I dwell, but your elusive troubling presence?”
“It’s the neverness that is so painful. Never again to be here with us – never to sit with us at the table…. All the rest of our lives we must live without him. Only our death can stop the pain of his death.”
REGRET
“We took him too much for granted. Perhaps we all take each other too much for granted. The routines of life distract us; our own pursuits make us oblivious; our anxieties and sorrows, unmindful. The beauties of the familiar go unremarked. We do not treasure each other enough.”
“He was a gift to us for twenty-five years. When the gift was finally snatched away, I realized how great it was. Then I could not tell him.”
“I didn’t know how much I loved him until he was gone. Is love like that?”
“Death has picked him out. Death has made him special. Now I think of him every day; before I did not”
“Regrets.. I shall live with them, I shall accept my regrets as part of my life, to be numbered among my self-inflicted wounds. But I will not endlessly gaze at them. I shall allow the memories to prod me into doing better with those still living.”
REMEMBERING
“I lament all that might have been, and now will never be… It means not forgetting him. It means speaking of him. Do this in remembrance…”
“It does not console me to be reminded of the hope of resurrection. What consolation can there be other than having him back?”
“There is a hole in the world now. In the place where he was there is now just nothing, a center like no other, of memory, of hope, of knowledge and affection which once inhabited this earth, now is gone. Only a gap remains. A perspective on this world which once moved about within this world has been rubbed out. Only a void is left. There is nobody now who saw just what he saw, knows what he knew, remembers what he remembers, loved what he loved.”
“Why are the photographs of him as a little boy so incredibly hard to look at? Something is over. Now instead of those shiny moments being things we can share together in delighted memories, I, the survivor, have to bear them alone. So it is with all the memories of him. They all lead into blackness. All I can do is remember him, I cannot experience him. Nothing new can happen between us.”
“From such innocuous things my imagination winds its way to my wound, Everything is charged with the potential of a reminder. There is no forgetting.”
LOVE
“The heart that speaks is heard more than the words that are spoken.”
DEATH
“With these hands I lifted him from his cradle – tiny, soft, warm and squirming with life. Now at the end with these same hands I touch him in his coffin. For though we aren’t our bodies, yet of nothing on this earth do we have more intimate possession than these. Only through those do we dwell here. I knew Eric through his body. Greeting and leaving-taking go best, I think, when we can do them with our hands.”
“To fully persuade us of death’s reality, of its grim finality, our eyes and hands must rub against death’s cold, hard body, body against body, painfully.
I pity those who never get a chance to see and feel the deadness of the one they love, who must think death but cannot sense it.”
“I buried myself that warm June day. It was me those gardeners lowered on squeaking straps into that dry hole. What does it mean? Eric dead, removed from out presence, covered with earth, inert? Or is such shattering of love beyond meaning for us, the breaking of meaning-mystery, terrible mystery?”
“Books on grief offered ways of not looking at death and pain in the face.”
CONNECTIONS TO OUR PAIN
“I must struggle so hard to regain life that I cannot reach out to you. Nor you to me.”
“Doubting Thomas… if you want to know who I am out your hand inside my wound.”
“Suffering is for the loving. If I had not loved him, there wouldn’t be this agony. Suffering is down at the center of things, deep down where the meaning is.”
December 25, 2019
Novemberben mindig kell olvassak valamit, ami az elmúláshoz, a halálhoz, a gyászhoz kapcsolódik, így került most a kezembe ez a Sirató, egy apa siratója hirtelen elveszített fia halálára.
Ó, de gyönyörű ének ez!
Igen, úgy éreztem, egy-egy fájdalom-szőtte dallam szólal meg különféle versszakok során át. És a meglepetés (vagy nem az?): egy requiembe csúcsosodik az egész.
Szeretem és becsülöm azokat a keresztyéneket, akik mernek haragudni Istenre, mernek kemény kérdéseket feltenni neki, merik falhoz állítani a Teremtőt, és mernek összetörni a Megváltó előtt és elismerni: most, itt még nincs válaszunk mindenre. Válasz nincs, de reménység van – és ez ragyog minden papírra vetett mondatból.
Ó, de gyönyörű ének ez!
Igen, úgy éreztem, egy-egy fájdalom-szőtte dallam szólal meg különféle versszakok során át. És a meglepetés (vagy nem az?): egy requiembe csúcsosodik az egész.
Szeretem és becsülöm azokat a keresztyéneket, akik mernek haragudni Istenre, mernek kemény kérdéseket feltenni neki, merik falhoz állítani a Teremtőt, és mernek összetörni a Megváltó előtt és elismerni: most, itt még nincs válaszunk mindenre. Válasz nincs, de reménység van – és ez ragyog minden papírra vetett mondatból.
February 26, 2021
“I didn’t know how much I loved him until he was gone. Is love always like that?”
April 22, 2014
This book was recommended to me by a wonderful lady by the name of Mary who owns a bookstore in Sandwich, MA on the Cape. I was curious as to how it would fare due to how thin it was but I began reading it immediately. I could NOT put it down. I read it in one sitting as it's very easy to read due to it's journal style.
Nicholas Wolterstorff is a master at writing about all the feelings one goes through after a loss. Feelings that leave you scratching your head and wondering how you arrived at them and yet mange to still function as part of society. Feelings that leave you numb and wounded from the heavy burden and pain. Feelings that if you wanted to capture you would struggle to form concise sentences from the sheer overwhelming nature of them. Nicholas manages all of the above and more. He will touch you with his heart-wrenching understanding of grief. I cried, I nodded my head, I marveled at just how much my pain was not only recognized but acknowledged and validated.
My pain is still with me, you will never be rid of it nor should you want to be (a notion mentioned in the book) but I have a feeling of peace more so than before I read it. This peace I think comes from not being alone in my pain. And while I wouldn't wish the loss of a child on anyone, I'm so blessed to have had the chance to read Lament for a Son because it has allowed me to feel part of a community of mourners. A community where I am allowed to suffer and grieve, but also clearly be aware of why I suffer and that is because I LOVE. Sadly in the real world we are made to feel we must 'get over' our loss and as a result are outcast in society.
Through his words Nicholas Wolterstorff shows just how much of a force death and grief affect the loved ones left on earth. This book is a gift for those in pain from loss and is also a gift for those who want to help family or friends but don't know what to say. My son was stillborn and while this loss is different from losing a 25 year old child, it is still a loss that has forever changed me. Lament for a Son has helped me in my grief, and I hope it helps your pain too.
Nicholas Wolterstorff is a master at writing about all the feelings one goes through after a loss. Feelings that leave you scratching your head and wondering how you arrived at them and yet mange to still function as part of society. Feelings that leave you numb and wounded from the heavy burden and pain. Feelings that if you wanted to capture you would struggle to form concise sentences from the sheer overwhelming nature of them. Nicholas manages all of the above and more. He will touch you with his heart-wrenching understanding of grief. I cried, I nodded my head, I marveled at just how much my pain was not only recognized but acknowledged and validated.
My pain is still with me, you will never be rid of it nor should you want to be (a notion mentioned in the book) but I have a feeling of peace more so than before I read it. This peace I think comes from not being alone in my pain. And while I wouldn't wish the loss of a child on anyone, I'm so blessed to have had the chance to read Lament for a Son because it has allowed me to feel part of a community of mourners. A community where I am allowed to suffer and grieve, but also clearly be aware of why I suffer and that is because I LOVE. Sadly in the real world we are made to feel we must 'get over' our loss and as a result are outcast in society.
Through his words Nicholas Wolterstorff shows just how much of a force death and grief affect the loved ones left on earth. This book is a gift for those in pain from loss and is also a gift for those who want to help family or friends but don't know what to say. My son was stillborn and while this loss is different from losing a 25 year old child, it is still a loss that has forever changed me. Lament for a Son has helped me in my grief, and I hope it helps your pain too.
April 1, 2018
One of the truest descriptions of grief I have ever read. Poetic and devastatingly beautiful. I loved this quote:
“Rather often I am asked whether the grief remains as intense as when I wrote. The answer is, No. The wound is no longer raw. But it has not disappeared. That is as it should be. If he was worth loving, he is worth grieving over.
Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved. That worth abides. So I own my grief. I do not try to put it behind me, to get over it, to forget it… Every lament is a love-song.”
“Rather often I am asked whether the grief remains as intense as when I wrote. The answer is, No. The wound is no longer raw. But it has not disappeared. That is as it should be. If he was worth loving, he is worth grieving over.
Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved. That worth abides. So I own my grief. I do not try to put it behind me, to get over it, to forget it… Every lament is a love-song.”
December 22, 2010
Although I could relate, it was extremely heart wrenching, too much so, for a newly grieving parent.
It was however, reassuring that I wasn't losing my mind, but merely experiencing what any parent who has lost a child experiences.
It was however, reassuring that I wasn't losing my mind, but merely experiencing what any parent who has lost a child experiences.
September 5, 2023
Very short read, took a little over an hour. A look at a father's loss of his son, and how it has affected him and his family.
March 22, 2024
I was very touched by this man’s grief and sorrow over his beloved son’s death. Parts were excellent but I was uncomfortable with unbiblical language of Gods suffering and tears such as this “ “”
Every act of evil extracts a tear from God, every plunge into anguish extracts a sob from God. But also the history of our world is the history of our deliverance together. God's work to release himself from his suffering is his work to deliver the world from its agony; our struggle for joy and justice is our struggle to relieve God's sorrow. “
Every act of evil extracts a tear from God, every plunge into anguish extracts a sob from God. But also the history of our world is the history of our deliverance together. God's work to release himself from his suffering is his work to deliver the world from its agony; our struggle for joy and justice is our struggle to relieve God's sorrow. “
August 28, 2013
I believe what first had me pick this up was a short piece I read by Helen De Cruz, about a month ago. She was writing, I think, on religious and nonreligious mystical experiences and the kind of warrant (or lack thereof) they might enjoy in epistemically directing our gaze towards a seismic and particular vision of ultimate reality. And there was something in her way of addressing these things, an attitude towards religious thinking that was heartily theistic and yet as heartily modest, that seemed to put in voice the potency of accounts, like Wolterstorff's of his grief, to open our philosophical eyes to new ways of seeing. Perhaps I misremember it, but I read this book with thoughts like those in mind.
Philosopher Nicholas Wolterstorff lost his son Eric in a rock climbing accident on June 11, 1983. Lament for a Son is an attempt in verses (biblical and other), prose and requiem, to see this loss with full clarity. But more, to do so in the company of religious doubt and hope, late and new to the marriage of theistic reality with the contemporary. Because for Wolterstorff, God is not the unmoved mover of classical theism in whom there are no real relations, nor is the creation the instantiation of "miserable materiality" to be escaped from into the "rightful immateriality" at death. The thoughtful Christian is harrowed but doubts and hopes a renewal is to come.
Philosopher Nicholas Wolterstorff lost his son Eric in a rock climbing accident on June 11, 1983. Lament for a Son is an attempt in verses (biblical and other), prose and requiem, to see this loss with full clarity. But more, to do so in the company of religious doubt and hope, late and new to the marriage of theistic reality with the contemporary. Because for Wolterstorff, God is not the unmoved mover of classical theism in whom there are no real relations, nor is the creation the instantiation of "miserable materiality" to be escaped from into the "rightful immateriality" at death. The thoughtful Christian is harrowed but doubts and hopes a renewal is to come.
"But remember, I made all this,
and raised my Son from the dead, so. . . ."
OK. So goodbye Eric, goodbye,
goodbye, until we see.
December 24, 2015
I'm not sure what "shelf" to put this on in goodreads... Is it biography? Is it family? Is it life changers? Or is it poetry? Should it be ministry? Perhaps spirituality? Wellness? I think it's all these things, and more.
This was good to read. Good for the soul. Healthy, I think would be the word for it. In this little book, Wolterstorff gives voice to his grief over losing a son to a tragic mountain climbing incident. He processes his pain via 67 short, yet hauntingly beautiful entries. And he calls them 'love songs' - done in honor of the one who was ripped out of his life. I think this would be a good thing to read on a regular basis, not because I ever plan to go through it, but because it helps me appreciate what I have. We just don't realize what we have until we lose it. But, books like this help me realize while I still have it -- while reminding me that what I have doesn't really belong to me.
Loving well, without hanging on too tight - is my takeaway. Savor everyday with your beloved because every day is a gift.
This was good to read. Good for the soul. Healthy, I think would be the word for it. In this little book, Wolterstorff gives voice to his grief over losing a son to a tragic mountain climbing incident. He processes his pain via 67 short, yet hauntingly beautiful entries. And he calls them 'love songs' - done in honor of the one who was ripped out of his life. I think this would be a good thing to read on a regular basis, not because I ever plan to go through it, but because it helps me appreciate what I have. We just don't realize what we have until we lose it. But, books like this help me realize while I still have it -- while reminding me that what I have doesn't really belong to me.
Loving well, without hanging on too tight - is my takeaway. Savor everyday with your beloved because every day is a gift.
November 29, 2018
Really incredible read. I was surprised by how carefully written it is. I suppose I expected a hodge-podge collection of writings or some reflections. But it’s a crafted lament with themes and sentences that take very intentional form. This contributed to the effect—the suffering had shape and structure, even amidst the chaos.
February 15, 2019
I firmly believe that every person, having experienced the loss of a loved one or not, should read this book. In his writings on death, the author casts a vision for life that is hauntingly beautiful and a testament to the power of the gospel
March 11, 2025
“Mr. Wolterstorff, I must tell you, Eric is dead. Mr. Wolterstorff, are you there? You must come at once! Mr. Wolterstorff, Eric is dead.”
For three seconds I felt the peace of resignation: arms extended, limp son in hand, peacefully offering him to someone—Someone. Then the pain—cold burning pain.
...
Gone from the face of the earth. I wait for a group of students to cross the street, and suddenly I think: He is not there. I go to a ballgame and find myself singling out the twenty-five-year olds; none of them is he. In all the crowds and streets and rooms and churches and schools and libraries and gatherings of friends in our world, on all the mountains, I will not find him. Only his absence.
...
No, I see nothing; no form at all, not even a trace. All bone and muscle gone, the steps swept clear—no smile, no sturdy step, no bright intelligence, no silhouette, no love embodied. Where he should be, I stare straight through. Turn it back. Stop the clock and turn it back, back to that last Friday, that last Saturday. Let him do it over: get up late this time, too late to climb, read a book, wait for his brother. Let him do it right this time. Let us all do it right. It won’t stop; it keeps on going, unforgiving, unrelenting. The gears and brakes are gone. There’s nothing I can do to make it stop. Farther back and farther yet, back into the dimming past. The gap begins to gape. Is there no one who can slow it down, make it stop, turn it back? Must we all be swept forever on, away, beyond, beauty lost, and love, sorrow hard on sorrow, until the measure of our losses has been filled?
...
Death is the great leveller, so our writers have always told us. Of course they are right. But they have neglected to mention the uniqueness of each death—and the solitude of suffering which accompanies that uniqueness. We say, “I know how you are feeling.” But we don’t.
...
There’s nobody now who saw just what he saw, knows what he knew, remembers what he remembered, loves what he loved. A person, an irreplaceable person, is gone.
...
For though we aren’t our bodies, yet of nothing on earth do we have more intimate possession than these. Only through these do we dwell here. I knew Eric through his body. In touching the place of his dwelling, I took leave of him—just as in touching him in his crib, I welcomed him to life. Greeting and leave-taking go best, I think, when we do them with our hands.
...
What does it mean, Eric dead, removed from our presence, covered with earth, inert? Or is such shattering of love beyond meaning for us, the breaking of meaning—mystery, terrible mystery?
...
A mist which soft breeze drives off, a flutter of finch through bushes, a fall of snow, candle’s flickering flame, lily of a day’s endurance, so fleeting is our existence.
...
So it is with all memories of him. They all lead into that blackness. It’s all over, over, over. All I can do is remember him. I can’t experience him. The person to whom these memories are attached is no longer here with me, standing up. He’s only in my memory now, not in my life. Nothing new can happen between us. Everything is sealed tight, shut in the past.
...
Perhaps what’s over is happiness as the fundamental tone of my existence. Now sorrow is that. Sorrow is no longer the islands but the sea.
...
“Can sadness be relieved, or can one only pass it by, very slowly? A day in the radiant sunlight and the sky’s blue, in the shadow of a proud dark sail, over rustling waves, along new coastlines, wouldn’t that help to get past sadness?—for a while, for that one day at least.”
...
Let me try again. All these things I recognize. I remember delighting in them—trees, art, house, music, pink morning sky, work well done, flowers, books. I still delight in them. I’m still grateful. But the zest is gone. The passion is cooled, the striving quieted, the longing stilled. My attachment is loosened. No longer do I set my heart on them. I can do without them. They don’t matter. Instead of rowing, I float. The joy that comes my way I savor. But the seeking, the clutching, the aiming, is gone. I don’t suppose anyone on the outside notices. I go through my paces. What the world gives, I still accept. But what it promises, I no longer reach for. I’ve become an alien in the world, shyly touching it as if it’s not mine. I don’t belong any more. When someone loved leaves home, home becomes mere house.
...
With every fiber of my being I long to talk with Eric again. When I mentioned this to someone, she asked what I would say. I don’t know. Maybe I would just blurt out something silly. That would be good enough for a beginning. We could take it from there.
...
Suffering is the meaning of our world. For Love is the meaning. And Love suffers. The tears of God are the meaning of history.
...
The pictures, letters, and books of the past reveal life to us as a constant saying of farewell to beautiful places, good people, and wonderful experience…. All these times have passed by like friendly visitors, leaving [us] with dear memories but also with the sad recognition of the shortness of life. In every arrival there is a leavetaking; in each one’s growing up there is a growing old; in every smile there is a tear; and in every success there is a loss. All living is dying and all celebration is mortification too.”
...
The valley of suffering is the vale of soul-making. But now things slip and slide around. How do I tell my blessings? For what do I give thanks and for what do I lament? Am I sometimes to sorrow over my delight and sometimes to delight over my sorrow? And how do I sustain my “No” to my son’s early death while accepting with gratitude the opportunity offered of becoming what otherwise I could never be?
...
goodbye Eric, goodbye, goodbye
For three seconds I felt the peace of resignation: arms extended, limp son in hand, peacefully offering him to someone—Someone. Then the pain—cold burning pain.
...
Gone from the face of the earth. I wait for a group of students to cross the street, and suddenly I think: He is not there. I go to a ballgame and find myself singling out the twenty-five-year olds; none of them is he. In all the crowds and streets and rooms and churches and schools and libraries and gatherings of friends in our world, on all the mountains, I will not find him. Only his absence.
...
No, I see nothing; no form at all, not even a trace. All bone and muscle gone, the steps swept clear—no smile, no sturdy step, no bright intelligence, no silhouette, no love embodied. Where he should be, I stare straight through. Turn it back. Stop the clock and turn it back, back to that last Friday, that last Saturday. Let him do it over: get up late this time, too late to climb, read a book, wait for his brother. Let him do it right this time. Let us all do it right. It won’t stop; it keeps on going, unforgiving, unrelenting. The gears and brakes are gone. There’s nothing I can do to make it stop. Farther back and farther yet, back into the dimming past. The gap begins to gape. Is there no one who can slow it down, make it stop, turn it back? Must we all be swept forever on, away, beyond, beauty lost, and love, sorrow hard on sorrow, until the measure of our losses has been filled?
...
Death is the great leveller, so our writers have always told us. Of course they are right. But they have neglected to mention the uniqueness of each death—and the solitude of suffering which accompanies that uniqueness. We say, “I know how you are feeling.” But we don’t.
...
There’s nobody now who saw just what he saw, knows what he knew, remembers what he remembered, loves what he loved. A person, an irreplaceable person, is gone.
...
For though we aren’t our bodies, yet of nothing on earth do we have more intimate possession than these. Only through these do we dwell here. I knew Eric through his body. In touching the place of his dwelling, I took leave of him—just as in touching him in his crib, I welcomed him to life. Greeting and leave-taking go best, I think, when we do them with our hands.
...
What does it mean, Eric dead, removed from our presence, covered with earth, inert? Or is such shattering of love beyond meaning for us, the breaking of meaning—mystery, terrible mystery?
...
A mist which soft breeze drives off, a flutter of finch through bushes, a fall of snow, candle’s flickering flame, lily of a day’s endurance, so fleeting is our existence.
...
So it is with all memories of him. They all lead into that blackness. It’s all over, over, over. All I can do is remember him. I can’t experience him. The person to whom these memories are attached is no longer here with me, standing up. He’s only in my memory now, not in my life. Nothing new can happen between us. Everything is sealed tight, shut in the past.
...
Perhaps what’s over is happiness as the fundamental tone of my existence. Now sorrow is that. Sorrow is no longer the islands but the sea.
...
“Can sadness be relieved, or can one only pass it by, very slowly? A day in the radiant sunlight and the sky’s blue, in the shadow of a proud dark sail, over rustling waves, along new coastlines, wouldn’t that help to get past sadness?—for a while, for that one day at least.”
...
Let me try again. All these things I recognize. I remember delighting in them—trees, art, house, music, pink morning sky, work well done, flowers, books. I still delight in them. I’m still grateful. But the zest is gone. The passion is cooled, the striving quieted, the longing stilled. My attachment is loosened. No longer do I set my heart on them. I can do without them. They don’t matter. Instead of rowing, I float. The joy that comes my way I savor. But the seeking, the clutching, the aiming, is gone. I don’t suppose anyone on the outside notices. I go through my paces. What the world gives, I still accept. But what it promises, I no longer reach for. I’ve become an alien in the world, shyly touching it as if it’s not mine. I don’t belong any more. When someone loved leaves home, home becomes mere house.
...
With every fiber of my being I long to talk with Eric again. When I mentioned this to someone, she asked what I would say. I don’t know. Maybe I would just blurt out something silly. That would be good enough for a beginning. We could take it from there.
...
Suffering is the meaning of our world. For Love is the meaning. And Love suffers. The tears of God are the meaning of history.
...
The pictures, letters, and books of the past reveal life to us as a constant saying of farewell to beautiful places, good people, and wonderful experience…. All these times have passed by like friendly visitors, leaving [us] with dear memories but also with the sad recognition of the shortness of life. In every arrival there is a leavetaking; in each one’s growing up there is a growing old; in every smile there is a tear; and in every success there is a loss. All living is dying and all celebration is mortification too.”
...
The valley of suffering is the vale of soul-making. But now things slip and slide around. How do I tell my blessings? For what do I give thanks and for what do I lament? Am I sometimes to sorrow over my delight and sometimes to delight over my sorrow? And how do I sustain my “No” to my son’s early death while accepting with gratitude the opportunity offered of becoming what otherwise I could never be?
...
goodbye Eric, goodbye, goodbye
May 11, 2018
37% of these pages
Now dog ear’d
Now dog ear’d
February 15, 2019
A simple, sobering read. Thought provoking
April 24, 2020
“Every lament is a love-song. Will love-songs one day no longer be laments?”
January 10, 2025
Such a beautiful writer. The death of Nicholas Wolterstorff's 25-year-old son in an accident prompted him to write his laments for his precious boy. He beautifully puts much of what my heart feels into words, with no attempt to make the reader feel better, just understood.
"How can I be thankful, in his gone-ness, for what he was? I find I am. But the pain of the no more outweighs the gratitude of the once was. Will it always be so? I didn’t know how much I loved him until he was gone. Is love like that?”
"Sometimes I think happiness is over for me. I look at photos of the past and immediately comes the thought: that's when we were still happy. But I can still laugh so I guess that isn't quite it. Perhaps what's over is happiness as the fundamental tone of my existence. Now sorrow is that. Sorrow is no longer the islands but the sea."
"Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving. If I hadn't loved him, there wouldn't be this agony. This, said Jesus, is the command of the Holy One: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. In commanding us to love, God invites us to suffer."
"How can I be thankful, in his gone-ness, for what he was? I find I am. But the pain of the no more outweighs the gratitude of the once was. Will it always be so? I didn’t know how much I loved him until he was gone. Is love like that?”
"Sometimes I think happiness is over for me. I look at photos of the past and immediately comes the thought: that's when we were still happy. But I can still laugh so I guess that isn't quite it. Perhaps what's over is happiness as the fundamental tone of my existence. Now sorrow is that. Sorrow is no longer the islands but the sea."
"Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving. If I hadn't loved him, there wouldn't be this agony. This, said Jesus, is the command of the Holy One: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. In commanding us to love, God invites us to suffer."
June 29, 2024
If you’ve lost someone you love dearly (particularly if that person died way too early), you need to read this book. The author takes you on an emotional journey, first acutely articulating the pain of loss and the myriad of thoughts that go through one’s mind, then moving on to his wrestling with God through the pain. His words elucidated feelings I have been holding onto that I didn’t even know were there. Very thankful for this read!!!! I can’t wait to read it again.
October 28, 2023
A heart-rending lament from a grief-stricken father. Grounded in Scripture but also in the gut-wrenching realities of grief. Those grieving will feel understood (though never completely), those not will understand more than before.
February 25, 2021
“I shall see the world through tears. Perhaps I shall see things that dry-eyed I could not see.”
October 7, 2023
Beautiful. Cried throughout the whole thing.
March 1, 2023
2023 Read: As my former review foretold, I did get around to rereading this when it was assigned for a class on grief, transition, and transformation. It was satisfying to be able to annotate to my heart's content this time through, and I found it even more compelling on a second read. I think I was able to read more from the heart than the head this time around, and was so awestruck by Wolterstorff's profound, striking vulnerability and transparency as well as the immense gift he has offered to the wider world to share this. As insightful as it is raw, which is an unfathomably hard balance to find.
///
2017 Read: A friend loaned this to me on Sunday, making it the first book in a while I've read without owning –– it was so hard to resist underlining portions and scribbling thoughts in the margins! And, of course, I ended up loving it so much that I already plan to purchase my own copy for annotating and re-reading.
I wasn't sure during the first portion. I admired Wolterstorff's unrelenting bleak honesty and his unwillingness to sugarcoat any aspects of his process, but at the same time it felt nearly voyeuristic at times. I didn't necessarily feel uncomfortable bearing witness to his pain so much as I felt confused and unworthy of being invited into such an intimate inner sanctum. It's powerful to be able encounter such transparent grief and agony, but I was initially unsure if the book would be anything beyond that.
It didn't need to be, but it was...and the beyond was what really convinced me that I needed to own it for myself. His meditations, borne from the grief and suffering he's experiencing, on theodicy and divine suffering and enduring faith are achingly profound. I found myself appreciative of his willingness to sit with the tension of unanswered (unanswerable) questions: Why didn't God save his son? Why doesn't God save him now from his own grief? Why is it taking so long to make the world new? For the most part, he allows these questions to just be, echoing all the louder in the silence that they're met with.
As the line of thought continues, however, Wolterstorff finds comfort, solidarity even (although not answers, still) in the reality of God's suffering, in the presence of a God who suffers. This leads into a truly gorgeous revelation around the Beatitudes, particularly "Blessed are those who mourn," wherein he recognizes the hermeneutical/vantage-point privilege of those who have experienced deep suffering in their utter ache for the Kingdom come, which felt really significant and resonant and moving for me.
I did feel a subtle discomfort around some of his generalized statements. At one point, he asks if our suffering is what mirrors God's divinity within us, and he muses whether or not it can be redemptive. He also says that, while he admires those who jump back into work after tragedy, he needed time off to honor his loss. All of this feels tangled together to point out that, as a relatively privileged white male respected academic, Wolterstorff had the option of time off to "honor" his loss and ultimately was a moment away from not experiencing this sort of suffering altogether in the first place. That, of course, does nothing to undermine his very real experience, but I just noticed a contrast around these ideas with the way some of theologians more closely associated with liberation theology (women/people of color/class-conscious writers) have engaged with them. I think it's worth holding onto the vision of God's desire for all to flourish, something Wolterstorff himself seems to acknowledge when noting God's hatred of death, rather than framing suffering as something to seek out as a way of showing glory to God or bringing redemption. With that said, I think those are concepts that are deeply meaningful when taken descriptively rather than prescriptively (e.g. those who mourn are comforted; this doesn't mean we should seek to mourn, but if life leads us there God is in wait) –– and I honestly assume Wolterstorff would see it similarly, as he himself names he would certainly trade any of the "fruits" of his despair to have his son back.
For such a short book, and one I read in one sitting, there is clearly so much depth to it still left to explore further, as well as just to continue sitting with. It's undeniably heavy, yet there is real profound meaning to be found from his grief; although that is far from an expectation I project onto those in the midst of their own agony, it certainly makes this book stand out because of the wisdom it carries alongside it's sorrow.
///
2017 Read: A friend loaned this to me on Sunday, making it the first book in a while I've read without owning –– it was so hard to resist underlining portions and scribbling thoughts in the margins! And, of course, I ended up loving it so much that I already plan to purchase my own copy for annotating and re-reading.
I wasn't sure during the first portion. I admired Wolterstorff's unrelenting bleak honesty and his unwillingness to sugarcoat any aspects of his process, but at the same time it felt nearly voyeuristic at times. I didn't necessarily feel uncomfortable bearing witness to his pain so much as I felt confused and unworthy of being invited into such an intimate inner sanctum. It's powerful to be able encounter such transparent grief and agony, but I was initially unsure if the book would be anything beyond that.
It didn't need to be, but it was...and the beyond was what really convinced me that I needed to own it for myself. His meditations, borne from the grief and suffering he's experiencing, on theodicy and divine suffering and enduring faith are achingly profound. I found myself appreciative of his willingness to sit with the tension of unanswered (unanswerable) questions: Why didn't God save his son? Why doesn't God save him now from his own grief? Why is it taking so long to make the world new? For the most part, he allows these questions to just be, echoing all the louder in the silence that they're met with.
As the line of thought continues, however, Wolterstorff finds comfort, solidarity even (although not answers, still) in the reality of God's suffering, in the presence of a God who suffers. This leads into a truly gorgeous revelation around the Beatitudes, particularly "Blessed are those who mourn," wherein he recognizes the hermeneutical/vantage-point privilege of those who have experienced deep suffering in their utter ache for the Kingdom come, which felt really significant and resonant and moving for me.
I did feel a subtle discomfort around some of his generalized statements. At one point, he asks if our suffering is what mirrors God's divinity within us, and he muses whether or not it can be redemptive. He also says that, while he admires those who jump back into work after tragedy, he needed time off to honor his loss. All of this feels tangled together to point out that, as a relatively privileged white male respected academic, Wolterstorff had the option of time off to "honor" his loss and ultimately was a moment away from not experiencing this sort of suffering altogether in the first place. That, of course, does nothing to undermine his very real experience, but I just noticed a contrast around these ideas with the way some of theologians more closely associated with liberation theology (women/people of color/class-conscious writers) have engaged with them. I think it's worth holding onto the vision of God's desire for all to flourish, something Wolterstorff himself seems to acknowledge when noting God's hatred of death, rather than framing suffering as something to seek out as a way of showing glory to God or bringing redemption. With that said, I think those are concepts that are deeply meaningful when taken descriptively rather than prescriptively (e.g. those who mourn are comforted; this doesn't mean we should seek to mourn, but if life leads us there God is in wait) –– and I honestly assume Wolterstorff would see it similarly, as he himself names he would certainly trade any of the "fruits" of his despair to have his son back.
For such a short book, and one I read in one sitting, there is clearly so much depth to it still left to explore further, as well as just to continue sitting with. It's undeniably heavy, yet there is real profound meaning to be found from his grief; although that is far from an expectation I project onto those in the midst of their own agony, it certainly makes this book stand out because of the wisdom it carries alongside it's sorrow.
September 15, 2024
“God is not only the God of sufferers, but the God who suffers. The pain and fallenness of humanity have entered into his heart. through the prism of my tears I have seen a suffering God.”
Oh how i loved this book. Whatever grief you are currently encountering or have encountered, this book speaks to the heart of that pain and the longing it reveals. It beautifully depicts absolute faith and hope grounded in and never minimizing the reality of the pain of loss. a short but profound read.
Oh how i loved this book. Whatever grief you are currently encountering or have encountered, this book speaks to the heart of that pain and the longing it reveals. It beautifully depicts absolute faith and hope grounded in and never minimizing the reality of the pain of loss. a short but profound read.
September 19, 2020
Very sobering and raw to read and consider honest ways of lamenting in sorrowful experiences. We need frequent reminders of the brevity and seriousness of life. Most of all, the reminder to treasure the ones we’re privileged to know and love without regret in the days allotted. Praise our Rock Who is ever with us!
April 25, 2025
What can I say? He knows what lament means and invites us to join. Loved every minute of this read, only wish it went on past the first year, just for my own craving for more of his thoughts and epiphanies. I was so sad when I flipped to the next page on my Kindle only to find I'd reached the end.
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