Glenda Parrish

Easter took on an entirely new meaning after the sudden death of my 25-year-old son.

Six of us piled into our Suburban early on Easter morning. We were silent. I felt empty.

After what seemed like a long road trip, we finally arrived at the local cemetery where the body of my 25-year-old son, Nathan, was buried. He had unexpectedly died in a rock-climbing fall, just one day after we buried my husband’s father.

We slowly made the dreaded walk to Nathan’s grave. A year earlier, no one would have ever thought that this would be our first activity on our next Easter.