Although my sons, now 15 and 24, are different as night and day, they both began asking questions about hemophilia at about age 5. I tackled the tough issues they wrestled with, always acknowledging that their problems contained merit.
At 5 years old, they each asked the same question that I could not answer. “Dad, why do I have hemophilia and other people don’t?”
I wanted to answer truthfully, without all the trite little answers I kept hearing from well-meaning people. To place the blame on God did not sound right. How could I explain that a loving deity created my children perfectly and then cast a chronic illness into their world? To imply the condition was a result of divine appointment seemed utterly contrary to the faith foundation I hoped to impart upon my stinky boys.
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