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My father died a year ago today. He was ninety-four years old and had suffered a stroke two weeks earlier. Exactly one year and twelve weeks ago, my brother Bruce died, suddenly and surprisingly, at age sixty-eight.
“They are in a better place,” people have assured us. By “us” I mostly mean Carol and me. The logical and theological implications of that Better Place fascinate me, but I almost always furrow my brow and nod sincerely while resisting the temptation to request “Tell me more.”
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