This week's column

It’s that time of year again. The start of summer brings with it the rolling thunder. The sounds of the fierce storms, mingled with the warm air, bring back memories of the summer we lost our youngest son.

It was the summer of 2008. We had just spent the entire day in a waiting room. Our daughter Hannah had surgery that early June day. Before we left, we prayed with the children. We prayed for the safety for our travel, wisdom for the doctors and healing for Hannah. Our morning routine prayers were answered, but it was in another hospital, with another child, that the prayers went from routine to desperate cries for help.

The first sign something was wrong came in a perplexing phone call. Our then, 16 year old son was planning on going to a basketball “camp” that evening. Being 16, he lived for two things: the new truck his big brother surprised him with the month before on his birthday, and basketball. The day, by his estimation, was going to be full of what he loved most. We were just stepping into the elevator when the call came.

It was a friend looking for the boys. They were due at the gym for basketball, and had not shown up. There were four boys riding together: two sets of brothers, two sets of childhood friends. Although I found it slightly odd, that this particular friend was calling, because his child wasn’t involved in basketball, I dismissed his concern and stepped out of the elevator. We walked the short distance into the room where we were to wait for Hannah to return and recover from surgery, when the second call came.

The voice on the other end of this call was that of the coaches’ wife. As she began to talk, she realized I had no idea what she was talking about, and stopped. “Oh, Rhonda you haven’t heard?” she said with concern in her voice, “There’s been a terrible accident.” From that point on, I think all I heard was, my son Tom was driving...helicopter transport...all four boys had gone to different hospitals. No one really knew where each boy was at.

I turned to Hannah’s fiancée, and asked him to care for her. We had to go. The sky reflected our state of being. It had turned dark, gray and swirling with tormentive winds. It was to be at least an hour drive to the nearest hospital, where at least one boy might be. The rain and the hail couldn’t slow us. We sent adult children to search hospitals from Champaign, to Mattoon as we headed to Decatur, Illinois. Calls were starting to come in. They located the two other boys, they were critical but alive.

The call came from St. Mary’s Hospital in Decatur, they had our 16 year old Tom. He was alright, but we needed to get there right away. “What about Dan?” our 13 year old. He didn’t know about him, but Tom needed us. With hail pounding at the windshield, winds trying to push us off the road, we made call after call frantically trying to find our youngest boy. Was he hurt badly? Did he need me, and I wasn’t there? He just had gym shorts on. No identification. How would they know how to call us?

We were ushered into a room, and behind closed doors, the unthinkable was spoken. Our precious son Dan, was killed on impact. The boys were going through an intersection, when another truck struck them on the passenger side. The other driver never saw the boys, never touched his breaks. He was on a cell phone.

I’ve learned what the old saying “a family marked by tragedy” means. The son, brother and uncle missing in our family has left a deep wound—that painfully breaks open when we least expect it. But I have also learned that we are far from alone. The invisible pain of grief is carried by people all around us. We just seldom take time to notice.

If I knew I could only have my boy for 13 years, would I do it over? Yes--gladly. If I could take him from the presence of his Savior to have more time here with me, would I? No. I want to go to him.

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