A Little Bit Like Home

The Story Continues

March 4 marks eleven years since we lost our son, Alex—eleven years since the day everything changed.

He was 18—sharp, kind, funny. Playing #1 doubles on the tennis team. Working at Chick-fil-A, with prospects of becoming a junior manager. Dreaming about his next mission trip to Arizona with the youth group. He was planning his future, and Beth and I had a front-row seat, watching this optimistic kid.

And then, in one rash moment, it was over. No note. No warning. In an instant, life divided into two chapters: before and after.

For a while, it was hard to breathe, let alone speak.

A friend who had lost a child once told us, “It doesn’t get easier. It just gets different.” At the time, I wasn’t sure what that meant. Now I do. Some days, the weight is still heavy—it hits out of nowhere and just beats on you. But other days? There’s laughter again. There’s light. And there’s hope. The ache hasn’t left—it’s just changed shape.

I still wonder who Alex would be at 29. I wonder where he’d be working, who he’d be with, whether there’d be little ones calling him “Dad,” chasing cousins around the yard. I wonder what music would be blaring from his car, or what new tool he’d have convinced me to buy for the shop. I wonder what advice he’d be giving his sisters and even Beth and me.

Months later, we learned about CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), a degenerative brain disease linked to repeated concussions. Looking back, we believe it may have played a role in his decision. If we’d known, we would have had his brain sent to the UNITE Brain Bank at Boston University, where researchers study CTE in hopes of helping other families and maybe preventing future tragedies.

But there are things I don’t wonder about.

I don’t wonder about his laugh. I can still hear it.

I don’t wonder about his smile. I still see it.

And sometimes, I get a hug from one of his buddies that feels just like his.

There are things I know. I know where he is. He is with his Savior. He is whole. He is at peace.

Our faith has held us together when nothing else could. As Beth often says, “Our time here is just a wisp. Eternity is what lasts.” Without that hope, I don’t know how we’d keep moving forward.

Grief makes people nervous. I get it. Even now, some still don’t know what to say. But here’s my advice—for anyone in grief, or walking beside it: be present. Sometimes words fall flat or land wrong. But presence—presence is powerful. Don’t worry about getting it perfect. Just care.

And if you’re the one hurting, know this: you are not alone. This pain is not the end. The story continues. We will see Alex again.

Until then, we go forward—with faith, with love, and with a hope that never runs out.

Tom Brand writes A Little Bit Like Home, a weekly column about family, faith, and learning to carry hope forward. Find more at ALittleBitLikeHome.com.