Courageous by Randy Alcorn Page B

family has been part of our church for many years. And Emily . . . was a delight. She is a delight.
    “At a moment like this, silence seems to be the only expression that fits. What can we, as mere men, say to a grieving and shattered heart? We speak today because we have a living hope.
    “Death is life’s greatest certainty. Of those who are born, 100 percent die. But death is not an end. It’s a transition. Death dissolves the bond between spirit and body. Ecclesiastes 12:7 says, ‘The dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.’ But I stand before you today to declare that we have a living hope and that causes us to rejoice greatly. Death is simply a doorway to another world.
    “Death will come whether or not you’re prepared for it. Talking about death won’t hasten it. Denying death won’t delay it.
    “Death brings us face-to-face with our Creator. There is a God, and all of us will stand before Him. Hebrews 9:27 says, ‘Man is destined to die once, and after that to face judgment.’ The question we each must answer is, are we ready for death? Little Emily was ready.”
    Adam agreed with the words. But he felt he should be able to stand on them. He couldn’t. The ground had caved in beneath him.
    The pastor said, “The greatest memory I have of Emily is when I sat at home with her mother and father and watched her dad get on his knees with her and help her invite Jesus into her heart.”
    Adam remembered that day praying with Emily, and he clung to it. Yes. He’d done something right as a father.
    “You see, our hope today is founded on the fact that Jesus is no longer entombed. He lives. And because He lives, Emily lives. And because He lives, the grieving, broken heart has hope and reason to rejoice. Little Emily loved Jesus. I don’t have the slightest doubt that she’s with Him.”
    A half hour after the service, Victoria had received and given comfort from more people than she thought she knew. When she was hugged by someone she was certain she’d never seen before, she gripped Adam’s arm and said, “I have to get out of here.”
    Adam searched for Dylan. A friend’s parent told him their son had left with him. Adam got Victoria out to the car, and they both sat there. Adam laid his head on the steering wheel.
    “Will we get the stuff on the tables back?” he asked. “All the pictures and Emily’s notebooks and soccer trophies?”
    Victoria didn’t seem to understand the question. Adam felt childish. He didn’t know why he had asked her. She needed his help. But he had nothing to offer her.
    He felt like he was floating in an unreal world, disconnected. He felt everything—but knew nothing.
    Adam had seen many people die, children included. But this wasn’t someone else’s daughter. It was his. Adam wasn’t watching the news. He and his family were the news.
    The afternoon of Emily’s funeral lasted a month, a month in which he’d aged three years. He felt hungry, but not for food. The emptiness was one he couldn’t fill.
    Did he want to go on living in a world without Emily? No. Would he ever want to? He couldn’t imagine it.
    Adam Mitchell had some things he wanted to say to the Almighty.
    We go to church; we put money in the offering plate. We try to live decent lives. Is this how You repay people who believe in You? She was my little girl. You had no right to take her from me!
    The next day was a blur. People kept bringing food, flowers, cards.
    When the last visitor left, he withdrew to Emily’s room—all little girl, with its purple feather boa on the footboard and its pink and purple patchwork bedspread. He saw the sign above her bed as if for the first time, and fresh waves of grief washed over him: My prince did come. . . . His name is Daddy.
    Where was your prince when you really needed him? And where was God?
    Victoria shuffled into the doorway and found Adam leaning against the bed, holding a picture of Emily. She