We are okay. At least, I think we are. To be honest, I don’t really know how to judge that, or even what it really means. But I think it’s true. We’re badly broken, but somehow okay.
It was four weeks ago, on a Tuesday evening, that we received a flurry of terrifying text messages, then waited through a brutal silence, then got the dreaded phone call—our Nick had collapsed, had been rushed to hospital, but had been beyond the best efforts of the best professionals. I paused and asked the ER doctor on the other end of the line to repeat himself: “I need to hear it one more time. You’re telling me that my son, Nicholas Challies, has died, right?” Though he was just 20 and, to our knowledge, completely healthy, he had gone to be with the Lord. Then, as now, no one knows why. One moment he was playing sports with his friends, his sister, and his fiancée, and the next he was gone. Just like that.
Our lives were pretty much put on hold that day. Our normal lives, that is. They came to a screeching halt and have remained on near-hiatus
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