In 1983 I and a few friends started doing outreach work among the homeless in Manchester. The feedback we got indicated that on an average night, some 200 people were sleeping rough in a two mile radius of the city centre.

We planned to launch the new project, Lifeshare, in January 1984. In September 1983, our son Richard was born. We had a daughter and four other sons, all of whom were present at his birth at home when Elaine went into labour early. Mum and baby went to hospital for checks, but were soon pronounced fit as fiddles and allowed home.

One morning, when he was 17 days old, we found Richard almost dead in his cot. He was rushed to hospital and put on a life support. A viral toxin was knocking out his immune system. Over the next couple of days, 24 other babies in Britain were affected by the same condition. His doctors, a Jewish consultant and Muslim registrar, and a whole team of nurses and specialists did all they could. On the fourth day, the doctors took me aside and quietly told me that we needed to say goodbye to our son.

In a moment of extreme anguish, I suddenly found myself looking down on the scene. I had this idea that if only I could find the place his soul had gone to; I could follow and bring him back. For a frantic moment, I realized the hopelessness of my situation. My son had gone to some place far beyond the world I knew, and there was no way I could follow him.  Defeated, I slumped back into my own physical body and wept. A nurse came and put her arms around me and led me away.

A little later, Elaine and I, along with a woman friend, were walking home through Boggart Hole Clough, the park which our home stood on the edge of. There was a storm brewing inside me, and I rushed on ahead of the two women and stood swaying at the side of the boating lake.  Though I don't think I uttered a sound, the storm broke and my soul screamed out at God:

"Why? How can you do this to me? It is not right that I should outlive Richard. Do you know what it is like for a father to lose his son?"

Jesus Christ! Of course he knew! He gave His son. My mind was flooded with memories of my own infancy and the sense of God that was with me from the moment I was born ... and which may have been with me before then, but quite natural things happen to memories after trauma - and birth is traumatic. In particular, I remembered my own experience as a baby on the day I had been Christened.

Just as suddenly as it had arisen, the turmoil within me began to subside. My next thoughts were along these lines: "My father, forgive me. I am not worthy to be the one who heads Lifeshare, for when tested I have fought to get a decision that affects my son overturned because I don't know how to cope without him. Were he to live after all he's been through, Richards soul would now be housed in a damaged body. He would spend his life handicapped.

It would be him who had to live that life - not me. I know he is with you now, and that he is safe. Please thank him for bringing us such short-lived joy, and ask him to forgive his earthly fathers selfishness. Thank you for all the blessings you have given us in all our children. Thy will be done".

With that, my body let out a great sigh, and it was as if I was enveloped in a cocoon of unconditional love. Richard was dead, but all would be well - on earth and in heaven.

After long moments, during which it felt as if I stood on the cusp of worlds in a place that had been sanctified by the presence of the All-Maker, Elaine came up and touched me on my shoulder. When she spoke, there was both sadness and awe in her throat:

"Where were you? There was a hole in the night, and I could not see you - then I looked again, and you were there". We held each other. "Richard is dead, isn't he?" Elaine said at last. "Yes", I told his mother, my wife. We walked home in silence.

The phone in High Care kept ringing. At last, a now familiar voice came on the line.

 "Hello, sister", I said. "Oh, David!" her professional voice was wavering with emotion. I thought that this compassionate, efficient woman had become hysterical. "We are OK", I told her "we know what has happened".  "But you can't know what has happened", she responded, "How could you?"

"You know what?" "We know that Richard is dead". "Look, come back to the hospital ...."  "Can we come tomorrow? We've just accepted that our son is dead and ..."

"Oh, David, David, David", I felt a change in my perception. This woman wasn't hysterical at all. She was not in need of comforting; she was in some strange state of wonderment. It was as if she was trying to reassure a small child that a grazed knee was not the end of the world.

"David, listen!" I listened. She told me that they had taken the life support away…, The staff had all been subdued. All the other children who had this condition had died, including another that had been in their care. Richard was the last. They felt deflated. As she spoke, I hovered between several theories as to where this story was going. "Come back", she said at last, "your son was dead, but he is alive.

We are all amazed, but when we looked back at his little body, he was breathing on his own ...".

Richard spent ten incredible years with us. He was in constant need of medical care, yet awoke every morning with a smile, and went to bed each night full of an indescribable joy. His short life was an unfolding miracle. He could never speak, but communed with many who met him. Richard's short stay on earth changed not a few lives.

Richard went from total blindness to full vision. Though he never walked, it was ever a joy to carry him where he would find stimulation for his mind and soul - up a mountain, deep into a mine. By the time he left us, we knew far more than we could ever have otherwise known about the love of God.

Though Richard had returned home to his heavenly father by the time I knelt before my bishop in Manchester Cathedral for my ordination as a priest, he was no less present at that stage in my own journey than he had been in life.

Thank you for your patience. Grace, Love and Fellowship,


Rev. Maj. David Gray, RMN; OM.

Society of St. Francis (T).