This time it’s not the expected passing of a close friend from cancer that stirs thoughts of death.  Nor is it the sudden loss of a beloved physician from a heart attack.

It’s the shocking, gut-wrenching news that another young man has died from addiction.

He is the tenth “child” – because aren’t they all children? – known to my family since addiction became a thing we had to know.

Each death punches my heart. The dark scepter stands before me and slaps me ‘cross the face.  Wake up!  No complacency.  Death is here.  I’ve come this time for a young one, and you are powerless to prevent me.

Another child gone.  The tragedy for his family and friends.  The loss to society on what might have been.

It is always a shock.

These aren’t nameless, homeless, faceless kids, and even if they were, would it matter? They are from “good” homes with parents who’ve made breakfasts and packed lunches and saved for college for years.

For some reason, they are all males.  Present yesterday.  Absent today.

And what now?  What to do with the grief?

Most recently, I sat with profound admiration as a father told of his son’s death just days before. The “boy” was in his twenties, rising in a career he chose and living on his own.

His father spoke in our quiet kindergarten room, in the basement of a church, on an average weekday night.  But nothing about it was average.

Al-Anon, he said, gives him the strength to help his family now – and to help himself.

Maybe that’s all we can do when moments like this scorch our souls.  Listen. Share the pain.  Trust that time takes time. Believe in something greater than ourselves.

But for today I am sad.  Just undeniably, unendingly, agonizingly sad.

And that’s ok, too.

I am allowed to grieve.