The song linked below is beautiful. I hope you listen to it. Last week was tough, and only yesterday did I look at the no trespass order you had the sheriff give me while in Virginia last week. Many were concerned with how it affected little Noah. Only seven years old, he wanted to come with gramma to knock on his aunts and uncles doors again and try to see them. Instead what he saw was his uncle running out of his house, not to hug his mom and nephew, but to angrily confront a photographer working for The Washington Post, standing in the street, taking pictures of us knocking on your door, as we have done month after month for nearly seven years.
The sheriff was kind, and I will copy it below this letter to you. I had to ask him to explain what it meant. Until the day I die, unless you bring me into your home, I can never leave you presents on your doorstep, knock on your door hoping to catch a few moments of seeing you and hearing your voice, or even hug you briefly. I cried. I love you. I will still come and just stand in the street now, hoping you will look out the window so I can see you. You are my son, and I will not give you up to a pastor so cruel, who teaches you to do these things.