Oh, we talk about the best cold medications and if cherry cough syrup tastes better to kids than orange. We can recommend preschools and sneakers. But the hardest part of parenting is the least often discussed. The roughest aspect of being a parent is losing a child.

 have a very sincere and honest question for you: Will you die for me? Please, before you respond, take a moment to think about it. Most of us, being Christians will say yes without thinking about the ramifications of our words.

Recently I’ve had several people write to say that although they do their best to have faith in the Lord and to follow His teachings, they do not receive answers to their prayers. It is as if they are praying to the ceiling, for it seems they are neither heard nor answered.

Simon Peter answered and said, "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God." (Matthew 16:16)

And Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to me shall never hunger, and he who believes in Me shall never thirst." (John 6:35)

Thirty-six years ago, when I was carrying my first child, Doctors didn’t know as much as they do today about Eclampsia, a potentially deadly condition during pregnancy. By the time my doctor discovered it, I was in my ninth month and gaining a pound a day. If he was alarmed it wasn’t apparent and when he casually suggested we induce labor, I was thrilled. Little did I know labor would take four long days and include convulsions and a coma.

Whether a person you love is leaving to go away for a short time or forever, it's never an easy thing. Many deal with being separated for various reasons. We physically miss people, but we also feel the aching in our hearts.

One morning, I went to the funeral home near my parish in order to offer my condolences to the next of kin prior to the celebration of the Mass of Christian burial. Upon receiving my expressions of sympathy, the brother of the deceased said to me, “Father, I have a question. Where do we go from here?” Assuming that he meant the question literally, I answered, “Well, in a few moments, the funeral director will organize us in paying our final respects to your brother. We will then leave from here, form the line of cars behind the hearse and drive in procession to the Church where we will celebrate the funeral Mass.”

For the last eight days, I have read comments to my article “Stop telling me how wrong I am!” I have read the emails sent to me in response to that article. I have listened to what people have told me when they see me in the store or talk to me on the phone. I have cried because of the heartless and cruel things that have been said to me. It doesn’t seem to matter what I want. It doesn’t seem to matter how much pain I’m in and how much more those comments have added to it. Every day, every single one of the last eight days, I have cried because of something said to me about my grief.

One week ago, while vacationing with my family in Minnesota, I learned of my mother’s sudden death. She was only 58-years-old and had not been ill, so news of her death was quite unexpected.

On September 11, I spent the day alternating between intense anger that made me clench my fists and enormous sadness that made me cry.