In Memory of our Beloved Christopher Anthony Wentworth
Christopher died on January 04, 02, from injuries sustained in a snow-mobile accident. Chris died instantly; his heart was tore, his lungs were collapsed, his back and ribs were broke. Chris was going about 45 miles per hour and was making a slight turn when his snow-mobile flew up in the air right into a tree. We don't know why, we just know it happened. We guess often but the only fact we have is that it resulted in death. In the end, that is all that matters.
In Memory of Christopher & To All Parents
It looked like an ordinary, wooden door, unique only in the fact that it had no knob. As I saw him walking toward it, my hands turned clammy with fear. He must have seen the shadow across the door, but carried on, undaunted. Looking back over his shoulder, he tossed me a small, wistful smile. It was hauntingly familiar, that smile, and strongly reminded me of another time ≠ and another door.
It was his first day of school, and he had been childishly insistent that I stay outside the classroom door. I tried to argue, but he was firm: "Go back, mommy," he said, "you canít come with me. Iím a big boy now, and Iím going to be just fine." He was only five, but so fiercely independent. Much too young to leave me, of course, but I had to let him go. As I stole a last, brief hug, he smiled at me; a brave, wistful smile that tugged at my heartstring. A moment later, the door swung shut behind him. Against my better judgment, I groped for the doorknob. There was none. It must be on the other side. To discourage over-protective mothers from following, I thought wryly to myself. Standing hesitantly before the door, my eyes were suddenly drawn to the tiny, rectangular window near the top. How could I have missed it? Cupping my eye with a trembling hand, I peered in.
It was a delightful room. Large, colorful, animal and bird posters lined the walls. The desks were shiny, blonde pine, and blue nap mats were scattered across the floor. In a far corner of the room, open cupboards were laden with blocks and toys. Along another wall, sturdy oak shelves groaned beneath their burden of brightly colored childrenís books. My heart lightened. I knew my child could be happy in that room. To reassure myself, I shifted my eye a fraction of an inch to expand my vision. There he was, his little hand firmly clasped in his teacherís hand. She steered him toward a group of noisy, laughing children, and as I caught a glimpse of his eager, animated face, I knew he was going to be fine; just as he had said. In time, he would undoubtedly welcome me to his classroom, eager to show off his new friends and share his newfound wisdom and knowledge. In good time. I could wait now that I knew he was happy!
And now, another door without a knob. Far more terrifying! The wistful smile lingered in the air as he walked through the door and out of sight. It swung shut behind him with a final, dull thud. He was only twenty-one; much too young to leave me, of course. I lunged at the door, but it wouldnít budge. I frantically groped for the knob; then remembered there was none. I was momentarily stunned, but anger soon came to my rescue. I began to hammer at the door with my fists. The knob must be on the other side. Someone was bound to hear me. Nobody would keep me from my son. Nobody. In what seemed like another lifetime, I had read King Davidís chant in the Old Testament: "I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." David had deeply mourned the loss of his child, but took great comfort in the fact that one day they would be together again. I could not exist on this side of the door if my child was on the other side; therefore, I would go to him! I would hammer my way in. Bargain my way in. Weep my way in. Whatever it took. My knuckles became raw with effort, but I welcomed the pain. It was nothing compared to the pain I felt inside. I would break down this door if it took my last ounce of strength. I continued to pound, to bargain, to weep ≠ without response. All too soon, I found myself slumped against the door, physically and emotionally spent.
Wearily, I examined every inch of the door. It was still impenetrable, but in my anguish, I had overlooked the tiny, rectangular window near the top. Or, perhaps it hadnít been there before. Whoever had created the door was surely capable of adding a window whenever. He thought the time was right. I straightened up, and peered through the thick, opaque glass. If it had been any thinner or clearer, the light from within would surely have blinded me. As my eyes adjusted, I gaped in wonder. Golden sunlight rippled through a meadow of waving, blue flowers, like the shimmering ebb and flow of ocean waves. Walking toward me≠ without crushing a single petal were two men dressed in white. It wasnít difficult to ascertain the identity of the One; His entire Being was encompassed in brilliant, white light. Neither was it difficult to ascertain the identity of the other, for I would recognize my son anywhere. But, oh! He was so changed. Always handsome, he was now radiant; dazzling. His eyes, almost as vividly blue as the flowers beneath his feet, brimmed with love and compassion. Stretching out his fingers as though to brush away my tears, he spoke with infinite tenderness: "Go back, mom," he said gently, "you canít come with me. Iím a big boy now, and Iím going to be just fine." He turned away and firmly clasped the hand of his beloved new Teacher. Together, they disappeared into the glorious, blue meadow.
I felt an indescribable peace descend upon my heart. I knew my child could be happy in that place. In time, he would undoubtedly welcome me to his kingdom, eager to show off his new friends and share his newfound wisdom and knowledge. When the door without the knob would open for me. In Godís time. I could wait now that I knew he was happy!