As we entered the one-room country church, my dad reached to steady my mom. The explosion of color, the thick scent of lilies and the face of my grandfather in a bronze casket had knocked her off balance. At 9 years old, I was too young to fully understand what was happening, but I could feel my mom's anguish. The closer we got to the casket, the more violently she wept. There was nothing I could do to ease the pain. Nearly 20 years passed before I again encountered such grief from a loved one. This time, the pain came as my wife, Kerrie, explained through tortured sobs that the lab confirmed we were unable to have children. Once again, I could do nothing. I thought, It feels like someone died.
