In those dreadful early days and nights after Mike’s son died, the only thing he could think to do, when he collided with the morbid memories of his son’s suffering and the unbearable ache of Jim’s absence, was to find some way to describe how he was feeling. So, he found a spiral-bound notebook and wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote.

Mike believed if he could assign words to the grief and pain, he might find a way to endure them. If he could bring those words into the light, it might make the whole thing bearable. Many of the words were dark and raw and angry and did little more than chronicle ten interminable years of wrestling and railing. But there were island of hope and yes, there were words of light.

Through the gentle and generous encouragement of friends, Mike came to wonder if those words of light, which he discovered in the darkest of nights, might also help someone else endure the unbearable realities of their grief and loss—that they might become someone’s guide. If they could, then how could he keep those words buried in a stack of spiral-bound notebooks?

My thoughts: Wow. This book hit home for me, since we lost my sister-in-law to an aggressive brain tumor several years ago, and she too was gone to young. I appreciated reading Mike Sollom's journal entries as he struggled with the diagnoses that his son faced and, ultimately, losing his son. Grief is something that I have thought a lot on, with losing Sarah, and how we all grieve differently, something I saw with all of us in the family, and how it can be a slow process. This book was an open, honest account of the author's journey with grief.

I received this book from Celebrate Lit. This is my honest review.

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About the Author

Mike and LuAnn Sollom Mike Sollom is a hard-working, Midwest-born, farm boy married to his high school sweetheart. He and LuAnn have raised four children.

Mike is the son of a father who died of cancer at a young age. He is the father of a son who also died of cancer at an even younger age.

In the consequences and aftermath of their son’s death, Mike and LuAnn lost nearly everything. They are “houseless” and living the challenging and adventurous life of modern-day nomads and pilgrims. You can follow their journey at www.mikesollom.com.

More from Mike

My “One Day” Has Come

“One day you will tell the story of how you overcame what you went through and it will become someone else’s survival guide.”

I don’t know who wrote that. I saw it on a poster with no credit given. But it’s a good description of how this book came to be and what I hope will be its outcome—its path and its purpose.

Here’s the truth of it: I didn’t set out to write anything. Much less a book. I still don’t see myself as a writer. Yet, here I am.

I went somewhere I didn’t want to go. I went through something I never dreamed I’d have to go through. I didn’t have a choice. I went there. I went through it. And now I’m telling my story.

My first-born son died of cancer.

In those dreadful early days and nights after Jim died, the only thing I could think to do—when I collided with the morbid memories of his suffering and the unbearable ache of his absence—was to find some way to describe how I was feeling. So, I found a spiral-bound notebook and wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote.

I believed if I could assign words to the grief and pain, I might find a way to endure them. If I could bring those words into the light, it might make the whole thing bearable. Many of the words were dark and raw and angry and did little more than chronicle ten interminable years of wrestling and railing. But there were islands of hope and yes, there were words of light.

Through the gentle and generous encouragement of friends, I came to wonder if those words of light, which I discovered in the darkest of nights, might also help someone else endure the unspeakable realities of their grief and loss—that my voice might become someone’s “survival guide.” If so, then how could I keep those words buried in a stack of spiral-bound notebooks just because I didn’t see myself as a writer?

I’m taking a huge risk by plunging back into that bottomless pit of loss and dragging myself through that incessant slog of sorrow once again, unclear of the worth or usefulness of the outcome. I’m exposing my most intimate grief, with all its messiness and vulnerability, uncertain of its reception or the consequences it will bring. I’m giving a voice—my voice—to the unspeakable pain of death and suffering, unaware of who will hear me or how they will respond. Yet, in the face of all of that, I’ve decided it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

“One day you will tell the story of how you overcame what you went through and it will become someone else’s survival guide.”

I guess my “one day” has come.