Sometimes I feel it when I hear about a drunk driver killing someone. Other times, it is when I see his parents on Facebook. I felt it yesterday and today when his parents mentioned his birthday. I don't feel it every day like his parents do, but when I feel it, I feel it.
Robbie was my patient—a high school kid who wanted to be an aviator—a naval aviator. He was a solid boy - a boy who became every bit the solid man that you knew the solid boy would become. He exuded good. His parents are good enough, but he was the best of them, placed in one person. He didn't get into the US Naval Academy, but he got into the Merchant Marine Academy and hit his marks and became a naval aviator, flying helicopters.
It wouldn't feel so bad if he had died in training or in military action in Afghanistan, where he had been deployed. It would have felt terrible, but there would be some sense to it. Instead, he died riding his bike back to base after hanging out with the guys in his squadron. He was struck by a drunk driver. At the driver's trial, they showed video of the driver at the liquor store AFTER he hit Robbie. His mother's nighttime call woke me up. What I remember was the agony in the sobbing.
As I stood at the funeral home in the lake of tears from his mother and his sister, I remember looking at his sister and thinking to myself, only her having a baby can possibly reduce all this grief. But she wasn't old enough to have any kids then. That relief would have to wait. I don't recall Robbie's father's tears. The heat from his anger made them evaporate before most of them could leave his eyes.
It was cold as hell at the grave site, even for Northwest Indiana. I was looking down when the gun salute went off. I wasn't expecting it, and it visibly shook me, like I had been shot. I guess I had "been shot" - the grief compacted into one brief boom. I cried every day after the funeral. Every doggone day. I'm crying now. It hurt me so bad I had to be treated for depression for a while.
I could call his parents today and say, "Shelia and I are so, so sorry," but I already said that, and they already know that. The pain I feel, I know they feel every day with a triple helping on holidays and birthdays. And I don't want to just say anything eloquent or poignant. It would feel almost disrespectful to the ongoing moment.
Instead, I want to say some real - something transformative. something that takes the mind and the spirit and the soul to a different place. It won't be a perfect place, but it has to be a better place.
Here is what I have to say to Robbie's parents.
There is absolutely no earthly cure for your pain. You will have it for the rest of your lives. It will wax and wane and be mitigated and amplified at different times and circumstances, but it will not end. In 2 Corinthians 12:7, the Apostle Paul informed us that he suffered from an incurable ache of his own - a "thorn in the flesh" - and that God had no intention whatsoever of removing it. There was no way through it, no way past it, and no way around it. But what there was - and will forever be - is a way above it. My friends have a granddaughter now. She is about 3 years old. Robbie's father posted a picture of him on a boat with her. It was about the most beautiful picture I had seen in my life, because I knew of the pain they had to go through to get to that moment of joy.
Light is brightest against the darkness. That picture gave me hope. It ought to give everyone hope that, in the midst of our pains, God blesses us still. Paul wrote, in that same Letter to Corinth that God told Paul that "My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness. Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”
So here's the deal - Robbie's parents lost Robbie. But they got Christ. Robbie was good, but Christ is even better. When we reach above our pains and our losses - above the sorrow, and the ache, and the rage of the stupidity and injustice of it all, we find Christ - above it all. Robbie's parents travel. They go to concerts. Christmas before last they came to here to Vegas to visit family and we went out to dinner. They were me and my wife's Christmas present that Christmas. They need to know that every moment of the joy of life they participate in - in spite of their horrible loss - they help other people endure their lesser or even more horrible losses with hope and with strength. That is what they need to know.
So to Robbie's mother, I say this: when the sorrow is drowning you in tears and just missing him, say "thank you Jesus for my life and my son and your love!" Insist on joy! Keep saying it over and over and over and over and over and over and over until the devil takes his wicked red ass back to the hell he is trying (and will fail) to bring you to.
And to Robbie's father, take pen and paper and write down every rage in your soul you have for EVERY SINGLE SOLITARY PERSON you have rage and contempt and anger and hatred for regarding Robbie or any other situation or person. Make a copy of that paper and put it in an envelope. Take your phone out and make an appointment exactly one year from the day you write the letter and label it, "The Envelope." Place the envelope in a drawer. Then get a metal garbage can, take it to the backyard and burn the original letter in the can. When you burn it, tell Jesus that you are giving all the anger and rage to Him to make a disposition with. Tell him "Lord, I am WEAK with anger and rage, and I need your help." He will provide it - I promise you that if you do what I say. And in one year, you can open that envelope, read that letter, and see how far you have come.
As for the rest of you, please pray for Robbie's parents. They are beautiful people and my wife and I love them dearly. While you are at it, pray to Jesus for me. And if you are similarly situated with Robbie's parents, grieving an unimaginable loss, I am praying for you too. What you are going through ain't easy. Only God can help you. Fortunately, though, He will. All you have to do is ask to be lifted, and rise above.
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