My husband, Jim, wrote this letter to a friend approximately 4 months after young Jim's death:

Dear Friend,

As I write this letter, I’m reminded of St. Barton’s Ode: “I am hurt but not slain. I will lie down and bleed awhile—then I will rise and fight again.” Since the death of our only child, Jim, my wife, Dinah, and I have been sustained by the thoughts and prayers, the warmth and sensitivity of people like you.

At a time like this, the only thing I know to do is to keep extremely busy; it seems to help. During this past week as I talked with one gentleman, he said: “I understand that Jim was your only child and that with his passing, you will no longer have any children.” I responded gently by saying: “No, that’s not exactly true, for you see, Dinah and I are like Mr. Chips, we have thousands of children and they all happen to be located at Cumberland College (Now the University of the Cumberlands.) With the passing of our son, our only child, I suppose that is the way it will be for us. We shall never get over our loss, but time helps us deal constructively with the pain. After all, suffering develops character, and I’m told it even helps purify the soul.

As I have my catharsis which is, I believe, therapeutic, I can tell you that I’ve tried to pinch myself to wake up from this terrible nightmare. I, however, have come to the conclusion that this is no dream, and, therefore, we must make the best of it.

Permit me, then to pass on just a few more thoughts.

Jim’s death came as such a shock. It came so quickly, so unexpectedly in all of its finality. I always thought I’d go first, because I’m on the road almost constantly and am therefore the most vulnerable.

Yet, Dinah and I are not angry with God. While we are crushed, we are not made because other people have children and we do not. We are not bitter because others are alive and our son is gone. We will not wallow in self pity nor will we allow ourselves to become bitter. We will not dwell on the “if onlys” or the “what might have beens.” We don’t even plan to ask the question, “Why?” Instead, we are committed to make the best out of what otherwise could be an exceedingly difficult situation. When we see friends, it is at times an awkward situation because no one knows what, if anything should be said. Yet, we don’t mind, for we realize this awkwardness is born out of concern of our friends. With Jim’s passing, we will always feel the void. We will always love our son and cherish the happy moments and wonderful memories he brought to us during the 18 years of his life. He was a pure joy, a dream child. He was so polite, courteous, and thoughtful. As one youngster said of Jim,’ “He was the nicest fellow you’d ever want to meet.” We know he rests in the palm of God’s hand.

Now, however, it is time to begin to look ahead and to set about with the objective of creating a memorial to a life well lived. That will be one of our major goals in life: to memorialize our son so others may benefit because Jim once adorned us with his presence. Who knows what good may come of this? God works in mysterious ways. It could be Jim will be honored as much in death as in life.

I served as the speaker at our son’s baccalaureate on the evening before his death, and I mentioned to the graduating class that problems will never leave you where they find you. That once a problem comes your way, you’ll never be the same. It’s impossible because you’ll either be bigger or bitter and a person’s attitude will be the determining factor.

It is now our responsibility to turn tragedy into triumph and problems into possibilities. We will make the best of it. After all, the sun will still appear and the birds will still sing after the storm, and it still takes darkness to see the evening stars.

The warmth of friends like you, as well as our abiding faith, has made all the difference thus far in our journey here below.

Jim Taylor