At the funeral, I stood alone between three wooden caskets.

Jonathan’s parents held me up, one on each side, because I could not have stood on my own.

His mother, Evelyn, wept so hard she could barely draw breath.

His father, Donald, kept one broad hand pressed firmly against my shoulder, holding me upright, so that I would not simply sink down onto the stone floor of the sanctuary.

They had lost their son and both of their grandchildren, and they were using what strength they had left to hold up their grieving daughter-in-law, and I have never in my life witnessed anything braver or more loving.

And my side of the sanctuary was empty.