My God is the LORD

When the fire trucks and police cruisers and ambulances race by, they are nothing more than a temporary nuisance. People stare for a second, pause their conversations, sigh and roll their eyes. But the sirens wail on and on; it seems the screaming lights will never fade into the distance. In a moment, finally, the assault on ears and eyes does fade, the conversations and silences and music—torn by the sirens—are rethreaded, and life flows on as usual. It always seems like the world should stop, freeze for long moments, because somewhere, someone’s world has stopped.

At least, that’s how it was for us.

He was only sixteen, beautiful, hopeful, and invincible as anyone ever was. A month earlier, he’d come walking with us, climbing fences, being a gentleman, teasing, flirting, grinning. As usual—as it always would be.

But no. The road was too wet, the truck was going too fast, he was too new a driver, the load shifted too fast, the ditch was too deep—on and on went the reasons. People spoke of it "not being his time," but really, there was only one reason for his going. God wanted him to come Home.

I’m sure that day, that wet grey March Sunday so many years ago, the fire trucks and police cruisers and ambulances raced by, and I’m sure that people stared and waited and rolled their eyes. But I am also certain that the coversations and silences and music and life that we knew that morning will never be rethreaded, will never continue just as before that afternoon.

Because when the rest of the world went back to their business, our world stopped.