How I Try to Fill It...
I struggled with what to write about this week.
There were no celebrations. No major events. Nothing monumental happened. It was just a plain week.
And those of you who know me know I’m not really a “plain week” kind of person... hence my struggle to find something amazing to write about.
As hard as writing One Man Made a Difference was, that story was actually easy to tell. We are still in awe of the amazing weekend we had at Texas Tech. The love shown to our family left us honestly speechless, and in many ways, it still does.
But this week was different.
We haven’t had rain for most of the summer. Now it’s cooler, kind of dreary, and every car in North Texas is dirty.
As I was driving around in the rain this week, something struck me:
There is a hole in my heart.
For what seems like forever, Matthew was my copilot.
He was always in the passenger seat of my truck, recounting stories from his day. We never ran out of things to talk about—work, school, friends, medical stuff, nurses, hospital cafeteria food (there WILL be a future post ranking those), life, love, and the future.
Especially the future.
Matthew always looked forward. He rarely looked backward.
I firmly believe his positive outlook and future-forward thinking helped him escape, at least for moments, the reality of a terminal diagnosis.
Now, remember, Matthew and I both liked to tell stories, so here you go...
Most of you reading this probably don’t know this one.
A Different Hole in My Heart
It’s actually kind of ironic that I’m writing about a “hole in my heart.”
There was a time when a newly married, naïve 27-year-old me was sitting in a hospital when a doctor basically said:
“Sir, you have a hole in your heart. It looks like we’re going to be doing open-heart surgery. You might want to call your wife.”
Excuse me?
I thought I had a cold. Maybe the flu.
In my mind, I was going to get a B12 shot, a Z-Pak, and be on my way.
Nope.
Full-blown pericarditis and both lungs filled with blood leaking from around my heart.
So I called Jennifer.
“I think you might want to come to the hospital. Looks like I need open-heart surgery.”
WHAT???
“Yeah... I’m okay though.”
That sentence alone probably tells you everything you need to know about me.
That experience could have broken a marriage that was still young and fragile. Instead, Jennifer was by my side every single day.
At the time, my favorite drink was red Hi-C fruit punch. I drank gallons of the sickening sweet “fruit juice”.
Until one day, some of the medications made me sick.
Jennifer came back that afternoon to what appeared to be a crime scene.
RED Hi-C throw-up everywhere.
She thought I had bled out.
It was bad. Like something out of a serial-killer movie.
To this day, more than 30 years later, if I even smell Hi-C fruit punch, I start to gag.
After surgery, they fixed my heart. From that point forward, I was always the youngest patient in the cardiologist’s office.
Older patients would look at me and say, “You are such a sweet grandson for bringing your grandparents.”
Now, I actually had hair back then, so I did look my age.
I would just smile and say: “Thank you, but I’m the patient.”
The look of bewilderment on their faces never got old.
Ironically, many years later, the tables would completely turn.
During Matthew’s treatment at Children’s Medical Center Dallas, he was often the oldest patient in the Hospital.
We would go through that same familiar line of questioning:
“Who is the patient?”
Matthew would look over at me with that grin of his and say:
“I’m the patient. That’s my dad.”
Funny how life comes full circle.
All those years earlier, I was the young guy in a room where nobody expected me to be the patient. Decades later, I was sitting beside my son while people sometimes had the same confusion about him.
I wish with everything in me that neither one of us had ever needed to say those words.
But today, remembering that grin—and hearing exactly how he would say, “I’m the patient, that’s my dad”—fills a little more of that hole in my heart.
I loved telling my cardiologist story.
Still do.
The look of bewilderment on their faces never got old.
I loved telling that story. Still do.
And I will admit, unlike Matthew, I was not the world’s best patient. I might have complained once or twice.
Okay... back on topic.
How Do You Fill a Hole in Your Heart?
How does someone fill the hole left in their heart by loss?
I don’t have the answer. And my answer may be completely different than yours.
Grief is personal. Loss is personal. Disappointment is personal. What helps fill a little of the hole in my heart may not be what fills yours.
I’m learning that the hole will probably always be there.
As painful as open-heart surgery was, I would gladly go through it all over again if it could repair the hole I have in my heart today.
But that’s what I want.
And once again, I am reminded that my wants are not always God’s will.
So I turn back to the Bible to reaffirm what I believe: God is in control, and Matthew is home.
1 Thessalonians 5:18 (NLT)
“Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.”
That verse carries a lot in just a few words.
Because I struggle with it.
It is very, very hard to say: “Hey, I want to tell the world how thankful I am that my only son has passed away.”
I can’t say that.
And I’m pretty sure anyone who has lost someone they deeply love would struggle to say it too.
But Paul doesn’t say to be thankful for all circumstances.
He says to be thankful in all circumstances.
There is an enormous difference.
It doesn’t mean we have to be thankful for loss, pain, disappointment, sickness, or grief.
It means that even in the middle of circumstances we never would have chosen, we can still find something to thank God for.
Gratitude isn’t pretending everything is good. It’s recognizing that God is still good when everything isn’t.
And notice the last part of that verse: “...for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.”
We spend so much time asking, “God, what is Your will for my life?”
Here, Scripture gives us at least part of the answer plainly.
Wherever we find ourselves, keep looking for reasons to thank Him.
Gratitude doesn’t eliminate grief.
Gratitude and grief can occupy the same heart.
You can miss someone terribly and still thank God that you had them.
You can desperately wish the story had been different while still thanking God for what that life meant.
You can have tears in your eyes and gratitude in your heart at exactly the same time.
Maybe that’s one way I’m learning to fill the hole in mine.
An Attitude of Gratitude
Developing an attitude of gratitude in every part of my life is one way I am trying to fill the void.
And I encourage you to try it too.
Everyone’s situation is different. I’m never going to tell someone that my hole is bigger than theirs or that my loss is greater than theirs.
This isn’t a competition.
It isn’t a social-media poll to determine who has suffered the most or who needs more gratitude.
But I do believe our world would be a better place if gratitude were the norm instead of the exception.
So take a minute. Thank God for something. Anything.
The song that came on the radio at exactly the right time. Food in the refrigerator. Someone who called just to check on you. A memory that suddenly made you laugh.
Or maybe... a pink sunset.
Those seemingly small acts of gratitude have a way of refilling the soul—and maybe even filling a little bit of the hole in your heart.
My Gratitude Journal
I am not a journal kind of guy. But enough people have suggested it that I guess I’m jumping on the trend. I’m starting a Gratitude Journal.
It doesn’t have to be a leather-bound journal where you sit beside a fireplace every evening and write three pages about your feelings.
Mine probably won't be. The main reason is my handwriting is so bad I wouldn’t be able to read it and would need magic decoder..
It can simply be a list on your phone.
Daily. Weekly. Monthly.
The tool doesn’t matter.
The point is to create something you can return to when that hole feels especially empty—a reminder of all the things, people, moments, and “God fingerprints” you have been grateful for.
And someday it might be pretty amazing to look back years into the past and remember moments you had completely forgotten.
So, looking back on this otherwise “plain” week, here is my list.
I am grateful for Reyna Q.
Reyna sent me an incredibly personal text about last week’s post.
That message definitely filled a little of the hole in my heart.
I am grateful for Anna B.
She texted me a random Snapchat memory that popped up on her phone from a competition at the Red Raider Club to see who could draw the best Raider Red.
Matthew’s is the one with MM in the bottom corner.
And what made me smile?
Of course Matthew made sure to include the Big 12 logo, the Ŧ, and the Adidas logo.
He was all about the details. He was all about the brand. That was Matthew.
And that memory filled the hole a little more.
I am grateful for the “routine” sunset texts.
Except they aren't routine anymore.
And honestly, at this point, they’re almost expected.
Amazing sunsets keep showing up in our lives.
Then there was Cincinnati, Ohio.
It had been raining at home most of the week. Gray skies, clouds, rain. We really hadn’t seen a sunset in days.
Then Marlene B. sent Jennifer a message that caught our attention.
One of her cousins in Ohio had posted a beautiful sunset. Then another person sent her a picture of that same sunset from somewhere else in Ohio. Two different people, two different places, looking at the same incredible sky.
Marlene sent the pictures to Jennifer and wrote:
“I’m thinking these might be meant for you too. Thinking of you.”
What Marlene didn’t know was the connection Ohio already had to Matthew.
Cincinnati was where Matthew had the opportunity to present his research. It was an important moment in his academic journey and one of the many things he accomplished that made us so proud.
And now, here we were in Texas. It had rained most of the week. We hadn’t been able to see one of those sunsets that have brought us so much comfort since Matthew passed.
But apparently, we didn’t need to see it ourselves.
Someone in Ohio saw it for us.
And then someone else did too.
And somehow, through Marlene, those pictures made their way all the way back to Jennifer.
Of all the places. Of all the sunsets. Of all the people who could have sent them—Ohio.
Coincidence? Maybe.
I’ve written before about what I call God’s fingerprints. They are those little moments that seem to appear when you aren’t looking for them. Moments that are easy to explain away individually, but sometimes feel far too perfectly timed to ignore.
I don’t pretend to understand what every sunset means. I don’t have the answer, and my answer may be different than yours.
But I know what this one meant to me.
It reminded me of Matthew. It reminded me of a place connected to an important chapter in his life. And during a dark, rainy week when we couldn’t see the sunset ourselves, God found another way to send us a little light—from Ohio all the way to Texas.
I am grateful for Texas Tech.
This week, Matthew’s master’s diploma arrived in the mail.
He always wanted the double Ŧ frame.
So that’s exactly what we did.
It will proudly be displayed in my office at the house.
I mean... “our” new library/office. 🤣
I am grateful for the love between a brother and sister.
I opened Facebook and saw a post from Macie about four cross-stitch pieces she had been working on.
We were each supposed to have one hanging in our offices—including Matthew.
Now those four pieces will become Christmas ornaments.
The plan changed. But the love behind them didn’t.
I am grateful that I can still hear his voice.
Not literally.
But I remember the words. The tone. The inflection. The little phrases that were uniquely Matthew.
Saturday morning, I went to Sam’s Club. Jennifer had literally just texted me.
I got there, saw something and thought, I wonder if she wants these?
So I called. No answer. I called again. Nothing.
Twenty minutes later, as I’m leaving, my phone rings.
“Hey, what did you need?”
And immediately, I could hear Matthew:
“Well, I don’t know why she has a phone... she never answers the damn thing.”
And I could hear myself answering him:
“Oh, I know...”
I smiled.
For just a second, he was sitting in that passenger seat again.
And the hole didn't feel quite as big.
And finally, I am grateful for The Bridge at Whites Chapel.
For the past five years, every time I went to The Bridge at White’s Chapel, I religiously lit four candles.
One for Jennifer.
One for Macie.
One for Matthew.
And one for me.
Four candles. Four prayers.
It became such a routine that if for some reason we missed, someone would inevitably send me a text:
“Hey Kevin, I lit your candles for you.”
Those four little flames have meant more to me over the past five years than I probably ever realized at the time.
Through diagnosis. Treatment. Good news. Bad news. Hope. Fear. And eventually the darkest days of our lives, I kept lighting those same four candles and saying those same prayers.
There is something about lighting a candle in a dark place.
One little flame doesn’t make the darkness disappear.
But it does remind you that the darkness doesn’t win.
For five years, those candles have given me a sense of peace and light during some very dark days.
Today, things are different. One of those four prayers has changed because Matthew is no longer here for me to pray for in the same way.
But I still have four candles to light.
Jennifer.
Macie.
Me.
And Matthew.
His candle just means something different now.
Today, when I light Matthew’s candle, it reminds me that the light I was praying for all those years has not gone out.
Matthew is home.
And I am incredibly grateful for The Bridge at White’s Chapel, for those four candles, and for five years of being reminded that even in the darkest moments…
there is always Light.
God’s Fingerprints
My hope and prayer for each of you joining me on this journey is simply this:
Don’t wait until life is good to thank God.
Don't wait for the celebration.
Don't wait for the promotion.
Don't wait until everyone is healthy, the bills are paid, the kids are behaving, the sun is shining, and everything finally makes sense.
Because some weeks are just plain weeks.
Some weeks it rains.
Some weeks your car is dirty.
And some weeks the empty passenger seat beside you feels incredibly empty.
Be grateful anyway.
Not for everything.
But in everything.
Look for the text message.
Look for the forgotten photograph.
Look for the diploma.
Listen for the voice you can still hear in your memories.
Look up at the sunset.
Look for God’s fingerprints right where you are.
Because maybe we don't completely fill the holes left in our hearts.
Maybe we learn to fill the space around them with faith, memories, laughter, love, and gratitude.
And maybe, little by little, God uses those things to remind us that even with a hole in our heart...
our heart can still be full.
