A man died in our community yesterday.  He was bicycling, struck by a young man driving in rush hour with a storm moving in.  The lives of these men and their families will never be the same, one gone far too early and the other likely under the shadow of this tragedy for the rest of his life.  I don't know either of the men or their families, or if they believe in heaven, but I would like to think that they do and that that is where the victim is right now.

It was an odd coincidence that this event happened soon after I read chapter one of my daughter's debut novel.  The chapter is devoted to a graveside service and it made me cry;  I have been to far too many of these and recognized in her writing the numbness of the participants, the details of the scene, and the realization that it is all utterly unreal.

Sara graduated from the University of Michigan in May 2009 with a major in English Literature, a minor in Art History, and a completed novel, just short of perfection.  She has been polishing and rewriting some parts of the novel this summer, previously guided in her efforts while wrapping up her last term at Michigan, by a multi-published professor .  Sara was the recipient of a coveted Cowden Memorial Award at the university's spring 2009 Hopwood Award Ceremony after submitting parts of her novel for consideration.  It was pretty clear then that she had something good going on.

Over the last couple of days Sara told me she was putting the last puzzle piece in place - finding a literary agent to represent her and market her novel to publishers.  She sent a dozen letters out to the most suitable, reputable agents she could find who worked her brand of fiction.  These are not pay-to-read agents, or those pointing authors to vanity presses.  They are the real deal, taking on writers they believe will have critical success.  They choose carefully the authors they represent.  Sara prepared for a long wait on responses, as would be typical.  She received two responses within 24 hours; one agent asked for her full manuscript.

When I told Sara that her writing made me cry, she was surprised.  She hadn't viewed the chapter as particularly moving.  (I can only imagine what the rest of the book will do to me.)  I thought about that and realized it wasn't just what she wrote but that she had written it.  We have watched her grow up like all parents do, wondering what their children will make of themselves, and now we are here.

Sara is moving to New York City in September with a defined plan and willingness to take a risk.  We have two other children younger than Sara who have yet to have their special gifts acknowledged, though their days will come too.

Our youngest child told me, circa age 3, as we were resting before our afternoon nap so many years ago, that she had picked us.  I asked her to explain and she told me that before she was born, she looked down from heaven and saw our family, deciding then that that was where she would go.  Perhaps these were the ramblings of a preschooler who had never been schooled in any notion like this, but I choose to believe it happened just as she said it did.

Who Art in Heaven.  The beginning and the end.  One day, I hope to find out.