Today—October 13th, 2025—is my son Matthew’s 45th birthday. He’s spending it in heaven, I believe, having left this place five years ago this week. To say I miss him is a shallow description of my daily reality. They say a parent was not meant to outlive a child. I think I know why. Their loss leaves an empty hole, an ache that nothing “fills.” You wouldn’t want it to. The loneliness is part of the love and that was worth having every day of his life.
Today I will celebrate my boy, the memory of his smiles, his laughter, the special way he loved to make other people laugh. How he loved Raffi songs and Willie Wonka and raspberry yogurt and giggling with his younger brother as they wrestled on our living room floor. Matthew found great joy in the simplest things of life—and he wanted to share that joy with other people every chance he got.
Which is deeply ironic because I’ve also never met anyone who suffered physically as much as Matthew did. Dozens of surgeries, starting Day One. Hundreds (thousands?) of apneic spells where he would stop breathing, turn blue and need CPR. Hundreds (thousands?) of blood draws and needle pricks and trach suctions. Painful muscle-stretching therapy sessions. Never able to walk or run. Forty-five years of that. I’d be frustrated and angry after 45 minutes. That was never his choice. Ever.
I’m not going to dwell on Matthew’s painful stuff, but I’m not going to forget it, either. It helps make the hope of his 45th birthday today—in heaven—even sweeter. A reality without pain, suffering, or limitations. I picture him eating a cheeseburger and drinking a milk shake. He deserves that. I believe God is giving that to him. Am I silly or naive to put my faith in that? If you think so, give me something better. This dad needs it very much.
Happy birthday, my boy. I can’t wait to see you…again.
