About 12 years ago, I began writing a song that I instantly knew was special. The sinewy, meandering, groove-laden riff… the open, expansive landscape chorus… the cycling, hypnotic lead hook… they all presented themselves to me in a way that we songwriters often hope for, but rarely get to experience. It felt somehow divine, or otherwise supernatural to feel the music and energy coalescing and choosing me as their medium. It was one of the most exciting, satisfying and elusive feelings I’ve ever known.

Knowing that I was on to something special musically, I began the task of penning lyrics to this new creation. Art was imitating life. I was very newly in love with a beautiful young woman who would eventually become my wife. I yearned to let her know how deeply I felt for her, painstakingly scribbling lyrics asking my love to “take hold of my hand” and promising her she was “never alone.” The song was called “Walk With Me In Hell.” I must admit, at the time, I had absolutely no idea that my quasi-poetic notion of asking my new partner to “walk with me in Hell,” meant that she soon would.

Four years later, my wife and I found ourselves in a small corner of a neonatal intensive care unit, holding and caressing our first born infant daughter. The ambient hum of medical machinery droned in the background and a panoramic window framing the Shenandoah Mountains sprawled out in front of my new family and I. We gazed lovingly over every detail of our daughter’s face, every freckle on her skin, cataloging every sound and smell the way all new parents do. The difference was that our child had developed an infection during delivery. She was very, very sick and her prognosis hadn’t yet been determined. Later that day, our daughter Madalyn Grace Morton died in my arms. We were walking through Hell. Life was imitating art.

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