I heard someone raving about this book recently. She works in a hospice and is face-to-face with death, especially the death of children on a regular basis. So I tried getting hold of a copy, which proved to be quite hard. Eventually though, via abebooks.co.uk, I managed to trace one.
Nicholas Wolterstorff lost his son in a climbing accident. In this book, which is a series of short meditations he reflects on his life, and probes for meaning in his horrific experience. He remembers his son Eric, he writes of his grief, and the way that living through the death of his child has coloured every day of his subsequent existence. He writes tenderly, with great gentleness and passion, making the book utterly compelling, and very, very moving. He writes with complete honesty, of both his faith and his questioning, of his coping and not coping, of his belief in eternal life, but his overwhelming incurable anguish in the now. He speaks of joys, of regrets, of guilt, of those who came to help him and why some did, but why others made things worse.
Despite Wolterstorff's academic credentials, this is not an academic work of impenetrable philosophy, but on that level an easy read. In terms of the effect it has on the reader it is far from easy-reading.
Very sobering, deeply affecting, wonderfully profound; there is not a trite phrase in this book. If you see a copy, get it. Here's an extract, from p34. If the text is too small to read, please click on the image and it should enlarge.