The Longing

            A twelve year old boy was sent by his mother to the local store to get a bottle of pop. The store was two blocks away.

            Anton never came home.

            In my duties as police chaplain, I happened to be riding this day with a patrol officer when the call came. We were quick on the scene.

            Witnesses said that a s a city bus was making a right turn when Anton rode his bike into the right rear wheel. The bus’ rear tire caught Anton’s front tire, then tragically dragged him underneath. He was killed instantly.

            The lieutenant on the scene suggested that I spend time with the bus driver, who was completely devastated by the accident. By the time I met her, she was still trying desperately to catch her breath. She said that she thought she ran over the curb while making the turn, but when she looked out her side view mirror, she horrifically saw the mangled bike lying in the street.

            I sat with her for thirty minutes, held her hand… and prayed. We prayed hard. I don’t think she will ever remember what I said to the Lord for her sake that day on that bus… but I thank the Lord that He allowed me a moment to lift her up into His hands.

            When she left the scene, I asked the lieutenant what I could do next. The twelve year old held no identification. We hadn’t a clue who he was.

            “Hang on for a bit, padre”, he said, “the word is out, the TV cameras are rolling, and within the next hour, a dozen or so frantic parents will come rushing to the scene, until eventually… well… hang tight, padre, we’ll be needing you.”

            Five minutes later an eight year old boy rode into my day.

            Messy blonde hair. Thick brown-framed glasses. He loved math class, was be going into the third grade, and wanted to be a scientist when he grew up.

            When he identified the mangled bike as his older brother’s, I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. The officer got his address, his name, his brother’s name… but I didn’t know what else to say.

            So the officer and I drove to the house with Anton’s little brother. He lived two blocks away. Two blocks that took two days to get to… at least it seemed that long.

            Policemen are not doctors. They clearly knew that Anton could not have survived the accident, but it wasn’t their call to make. So we began the news as “an accident”. A serious accident. Then it was back to the scene.

            The body was gone by then, en route to the hospital. A local business graciously offered a conference room for the family. For thirty minutes, I sat with his mother, his eight year old brother, and six year old sister. Waiting… that’s all… just waiting.

            There were tears. Questions. Anger. Tears. Confusion. Tears. I remember thanking God that in those thirty minutes she never asked me why we weren’t rushing off to the hospital. But she’s a mom… somehow, I think she knew.

            The lieutenant called me out into the hall and confirmed what we already knew. Her son was dead. Then turned the room back over to me…

            How do you tell a mother that her son was never coming home again? How do you explain that a simple task like getting a bottle of pop meant that her son was gone?

            After the long cries of anguish, we prayed. Hard. I don’t think she will ever remember what I said to the Lord for her sake that day in that room… but I thank the Lord that He allowed me a moment to lift her and her children into His hands.

            I escorted the young mother to the hospital for the formal but painful process of identifying the body.

            In route, I asked if anybody notified Anton’s father, who lived 90 miles away.

            No.

            “Will you be making that call?”, I asked.  No.

            “Your boyfriend?” Not a good idea.

            {sigh…}“Would you like me to call him?” Yes.

            Round three. To go from a serious accident to death notification is rough enough. To do it yet again was simply brutal. At least, because of the distance, I didn’t have to look him in the eyes. His name was Frederick… and I could hear his heart break from 90 miles away.

            I have replayed the events of that day more times than I would care to admit. My mind has drifted from Anton to his brother Conner to his sister Celeste… to my children. From my children to Jesus. From Jesus…back to the boy lying in the street.

            And I wonder…

            When Jesus asked His Father three times in the Garden of Gethsemane for the cup to be removed, are we to assume His Father was silent? Is that why Jesus asked three times? Or did the Father give His Son the answer which we all would clearly understand to be beyond our comprehension:

            A death notification.

            How could our Father God do it? How could He answer His own Son in Gethsemane? How could He watch Calvary? How could God willingly give up His child to death?

            I told a perfect stranger that her son was dead- and it crushed me beyond words.

            I have been a Christian for 43 years. Four years at a Lutheran high school. Four years at a Lutheran college. Four years trained at a prestigious Theological Seminary. Nearly 17 years as a pastor.

            I can explain exegetics, isogogics, systematics, eschatology and sacramental theology. I can confidently tell you that God so loved the world that He gave His only Son.

            I can tell you that God willingly gave up His Son because He loved us…

            But I cannot, for the life of me, explain why.