Courage Has A Name

And it's Steven Curtis Chapman.

The other night I saw an interview with Mr. Chapman, in which he described the death of his adopted daughter Maria.

Maria had been playing with her older sisters in the yard, when their brother came home. The child rushed to see her beloved sibling...and ran into the path of his truck. He didn't see her, and couldn't have stopped even if he had.

Mr. Chapman talked about this, forcing out the words. He talked about the sense of loss, and the crushing guilt his son went through...and, through a supportive family and God's grace, has survived.

And then he sang "Cinderella".

The audience was in tears. The interviewer was freely weeping.

And Mr. Chapman got through the song. He altered the lyrics, just a bit, to look beyond the veil.

It was a fight, visibly a battle. One might say, well, it's been years.

One might say he's sung it so many times since then.

One might trot out other such hogwash.

The death of a child is the wound that never heals.

It's the heartbreak that is fresh every day.

It's a grotesque obscenity of time, reversing the natural and expected order, and there's no recovery.

There's only the placing of one foot in front of the other.

Mr. Chapman did that, and more. He transcended his heartbreak to share his faith, his hope, and his love.

It's the bravest thing I've seen in a long, long time.