A Journey Through Loss and Hope

It all started, I was seven years old when I first realized that life could change in an instant. That morning, I woke up buzzing with excitement. I had been counting the days to my school performance for weeks. I could see it all in my mind—my dad in the front row, clapping, smiling, maybe even laughing louder than anyone else. He had promised he would come, and I trusted him completely. Dad had always been larger than life to me. Not in height or muscles, but in the way he filled a room. He would sit with me in the evenings, telling stories about his childhood, about things he had done wrong and how he had learned from them. He had this way of making ordinary moments feel magical. He would ruffle my hair and say, “Amos the Parrot, stop talking so much and listen!”—because he loved to tease me about how I couldn’t stop talking. That nickname always made me laugh, even when I tried to act serious. That morning, I could see the sun streaming through the windows, the birds chirping outside, everything normal, peaceful. I put on my school uniform, straightened my tie, and waited for him to come. But he didn’t. When my mother called me into the living room, I could see something in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. Fear. Confusion. A heaviness that seemed to fill the room. “Amos… your dad… he…” she paused, swallowing hard. “…he’s gone.” For a moment, I didn’t understand. Gone? What did that mean? I looked around, half expecting him to appear behind the door or in the kitchen, smiling like always. I couldn’t feel sadness yet—I didn’t even know what death was. I remembered the lessons Dad had taught me about Jesus. He had told me how He had died and then risen again. “Death isn’t the end,” he had said, “it’s just the start of something greater. Always believe, Amos the Parrot, that life has surprises waiting for you.” And so, in my seven-year-old mind, I thought maybe my dad would come back too. Maybe he was just on a long journey and would return like Jesus had. I ran to his room, expecting to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, maybe laughing at me for calling him while I practiced my lines for the school performance. But the room was empty. His shoes were gone, the bed was neatly made, and the smell of his cologne lingered faintly in the air. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. The rest of that day passed in a haze. People whispered. Some cried. Some looked at me with pity. But I couldn’t cry. I was in shock. My mind kept repeating one question: How could he just… disappear? Even in the middle of all that confusion, I remembered small, ordinary things that reminded me of him. The football he had taught me to dribble, the photo albums he had shown me, the stories he had told me about his childhood. I could almost hear his laughter echoing in the house, teasing me about being “Amos the Parrot” again. After the funeral, life became strange. Dad had traveled to Dubai for missionary work, and now, he wasn’t coming back. At least, not the way I imagined. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. I would sit by the window, staring at the sky, imagining him somewhere far away, wondering if he was thinking about me, wondering if he knew how much I missed him—even though I didn’t fully understand missing yet. School became harder. I sat through classes, listened to teachers, but my mind was elsewhere. I talked less to friends, not because I didn’t want to, but because inside, I was trying to understand something that made no sense. How could someone so alive, so full of life, just… stop being here? And yet, in my heart, a tiny hope lingered. Maybe, like Jesus, he would come back. Maybe this was just a pause, not an end. Even with all this confusion, some things remained. I remembered the way Dad had called me “Amos the Parrot” when I couldn’t stop chattering. I remembered the stories, the laughter, the small lessons about life. And somehow, holding onto those memories made me feel closer to him, even in his absence. Then, one day, something happened that I never expected. A group of pastors arrived, and with them… my dad. I didn’t know what to feel at first—shock, relief, disbelief—all at once. He was back, but everything had changed. The home I knew felt different, and the boy who had waited for his father’s smile had grown in ways both quiet and painful. We didn’t talk about what had happened right away. Words seemed too small. But just seeing him, feeling his presence again, was enough. Slowly, I began to understand life’s strange ways—that it could take what it wanted but sometimes returned what it could. And I held onto hope, just as he had taught me, even if I didn’t fully understand everything yet. Through all this, I learned something vital: life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. And though I would never stop thinking about the father I had lost and found, I also knew that hope could survive even the most impossible moments. And in the quiet corners of my heart, “Amos the parrot” still talked.