The Friend who Died.

5 years.

Seems like too much time and not enough time… at the same time.

It was a dreary day, a misty May morning. The whole morning felt off to me, like a ship about to be engulfed by a massive wave. How was I to know what was headed my way - our way?

I could see the look in our substitute Bible-teacher’s face as the office runner whispered in her ear. Her shoulders fell. Her eyes closed. Her lips went tight.

She asked for our attention. And spoke the words, which were the wave, the ones which cause my tiny boat to sink.

“He’s been in a wreck,” she said. “They don’t know if he’ll make it,” she finished.

10-minute break came. We stood around, not daring to hope, but not tempting despair. Unable to consider what might be. I hid in the Chemistry lab’s office, where the teacher let me cry.

The news came. I could think of no one else I’d rather of heard it from than Mr. Trombold, my Chemistry teacher.

“He didn’t make it,” he said, “He passed away.”

Tears came freely and we, as a class, hugged and wept and walked around not sure what to do…

My dad would tell you I changed that day. That in one son’s death another son came fully to life. Indeed I can look back five years and see that wave, the one, which sunk my boat, actually changed its course.

I won’t speculate on the reason God does what he does, other than his own glory. I can’t tell you he kills one and lets another live to make one stronger. Nor will I even claim to be strong, you see he was a lot stronger than me.

But now, now I cannot say I’m sorry for his death… I can say I’m thankful because it’s helped make me who I am. To his dad I said, “Thank you for willingly, and unknowingly, sacrificing your son so that I would preach Jesus.”

Death, you see, has lost its sting.