Nearly a year ago Peg and I had a very hard week. Wednesday night: Mike slept downstairs in his room where children belong, and we slept upstairs in ours where moms and dads belong. Thursday night: we were 350 miles away and he was in Ramada 325 and we were in 323—connecting rooms and we left the door open and talked and laughed together. Friday night: 700 miles from home and he was in 247 and we were in 239, but it was just down the balcony and somehow we seemed together. Saturday night: he was in the freshman dorm, and we were back in 239. Monday night: we were home and he was 700 miles away in Chapman 309.

Now we had been through this before. Bob, Jr., had gone away to college and we had gathered ourselves together until we had gotten over it, mainly because he's married now and he only lives ten miles away and comes to visit often with Deb and Robert III. So, we thought we knew how to handle separation pretty well, but we came away lonely and blue.

Oh, our hearts were filled with pride for our fine young man, and our minds were filled with memories from tricycles to commencements, but deep down inside somewhere we just ached with loneliness and pain.

Somebody said you still have three at home—three fine kids and there is still plenty of noise, plenty of ball games to go to, plenty of responsibilities, plenty of laughter, plenty of everything…except Mike. And in parental math five minus one just doesn't equal plenty.

And I was thinking about God. He sure has plenty of children—plenty of artists, plenty of singers, and carpenters, and candlestick makers, and preachers, plenty of everybody…except you, and all of them together can never take your place. And there will always be an empty spot in His heart, and a vacant chair at His table when you're not home.