“A friend of ours, the wife of a pastor at a church in Colorado, had once told me about something her daughter, Hannah, said when she was three years old. After the morning service was over one Sunday, Hannah tugged on her mom's skirt and asked. "Mommy, why do some people in church have lights over their heads and some don't?" At the time, I remember thinking two things: First, I would've knelt down and asked Hannah, "Did I have a light over my head? Please say yes!" I also wondered what Hannah had seen, and whether she had seen it because, like my son, she had a childlike faith.”

“There is no escape if love is not there," Hannah had said. Had Hannah known when she herself had not even suspected? It was not escape that she had dreamed about, it was love.”

“I don't know why I said what I did. Maybe I wanted Hannah to remember something, or maybe I wanted to test her, but when she asked me my name I didn't even pause. "My name is Aidan," I said. "It means fire.”

“Yeah, she said she just can't wait for you and Daddy to get to heaven."...From that moment on, the wound from one of the most painful episodes in our lives, losing a child we had wanted very much, began to heal.”

“...when I was angry at God because I couldn't go to my son, hold him, and comfort him, God's son was holding my son in his lap.”

“It's fun to talk about heaven, about the throne of God and Jesus and Pop and the daughter we thought we had lost but will meet again someday. But it's not fun to talk about how we got there.”

“...he couldn't help but wonder what Hannah might have looked like if...he'd answered that question April had asked him years ago.”