“Ezra. My name is Ezra. I’m 18,” said a young man.
“You have a whole book of the Bible with your name,” I said introducing myself.
“I know,” he says, “my grandmother says that all the time.”
The boy is chatty.
“My dad made me play sports. He always checked my homework.”
“Sounds like you and your dad are close.”
“He’s dead. Murdered. A year ago. It’s ok. I am used to it. I cried once about it – on the day, but never again. No one talks about him.”
“Ezra, it is not ok,” I said, “listen to yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me about your dad and sports and then that your dad was murdered — as if you’re talking about the weather. Ezra, it is not ok. You may be ‘used’ to your dad being dead but it is not ok. You have suffered great loss. I’m really really sorry this has happened to you and your family.”
“It’s ok. You know so far I have been offered scholarships to about 5 universities. I am not sure which one to choose. I wish my dad was here to help.”

