This is from an old paper I wrote some years ago for an English class about how Christ redeemed and transformed a horrible situation of the death of an amazing friend of mine. It's a little old, but the story of the power of God's hand through it all will never be too old to tell...
Two years ago, my parents called my brother and me to their bedroom. I knew by the quiet stillness of the room that this was no ordinary family meeting, for the atmosphere was much too solemn. "Sit down," my father told us. Panic gripped my heart. I did not want to hear the news that turned my mother's constantly sunny countenance into a grave one. I did not want to hear news so serious that I had to sit down to learn of it. But just as one must, amid the terror, look over the edge of a cliff once at the top, I had to listen to the news addressed to me. I reluctantly sat down.
"I just got off the phone with Pastor Paul," my father began, "and he told me that yesterday Phil was fooling around with a friend and there was an accident. As Phil's friend was leaving the driveway he put the car in drive instead of reverse while Phil was walking around the front of the car. When his friend stepped on the gas he pinned Phil to the garage door, and he was killed." What could I do but cry? It was as if my hand, something I had always expected to exist, was cut off in my sleep, only to wake up the next morning to find only a bloody wrist in it's place.
After a time of weeping and prayer together I left to mourn in the solitude of my room. I climbed onto my bed and stared the blank stare of one looking beyond the blurred walls and into the past. Short and random visions of Phil's smile, chuckle and odd greetings flashed before me. A tall, skinny young man, Phil in the past year had experienced a transformation of heart, and consequently a change in appearance as well. The old Phil featured spiked chokers, dressed in black clothing from head to toe and topped if off with dying his hair black, despite the fact that his true color always returned after a swim. But the dark dress disappeared once he turned his life over to Christ. This "changed Phil" was the one I came to know and love. When I joined the high school group at church I saw him around and talked to him a bit, but I never really came to know him well enough to call him a friend until we both joined the worship team. I stood in front, singing alongside my parents, and he stood behind us playing the bass. If I did not say hello to him during practice, he would greet me from behind, making sure I returned his "Hello". He always took the time to hug me, no matter how busy he was and always took the last seat next to mine. Then there was the last time I had seen him. At the other end of the room, surrounded by friends and conversation he stopped, made his way to where I stood and gave me a simple side hug, ending with his head on mine. He had never done that before.
The following day after hearing the news, my mother, brother and I made a trip to Phil's mother's house to visit. I brought two cards, neatly signed for his mother and brother. The car ride was quiet, and as we walked up to the house we were faced with the misshapen garage door, adorned with flowers, photos and candles. There laid the evidence before me, just as the story had been told.
The tale continued to reveal it's veracity in red-eyed friends, shaking figures, long-held hugs and the half-spoken half-sobbed whispers. Kathleen, Phil's mother, somehow managed to smile through the tears as David, Phil's brother, remained stiff and reserved. The evidence before me caused the emotions to resurface, yet as I entered the house I was greeted with familiar voices, embraces and knowing smiles. Where words were lacking, sharing the pain formed a comforting bond between us.
After hovering around in Phil's living room, I joined a few of my friends, headed into the back yard and was offered snacks and drinks. "We have to remember to eat," a friend of mine stated. Eating at that moment felt like watching cartoons after witnessing a bombing raid, but we took them anyway.
"Phil wouldn't want us to cry," Aaron, one of the boys outside with us stated, "he'd want us to be happy for him. He's where he always wanted to be—in heaven." Of course we knew that. We are Christians with a hope. But Phil was still not here.
The door to the house opened and Phil's aunt stepped onto the porch, inspecting and circling around the potted plants hanging from the roof and lying around the side of the house. "These plants look horrible!" she complained, fidgeting around the backyard. "Someone start watering these flowers up here. They're terribly dry." We all knew the plants were fine, but we watered them anyway.
Walking around and doing as we were told, my heart was heavy yet I did not know how much grief was due in my relationship with him. I was his friend, yet I had not been his best friend or the closest. I had known and loved him, but I had not returned the same eagerness to know him as he had shown to me.
A Wednesday night church service followed that day of mourning, and all of the worship team was present except for the bass player in the back. There was no one behind me to greet me. I was expected to sing like every other day, to stand tall and breathe--to smile as normal and reply with "I'm good, how are you?" like every other day.
"Tonight I picked songs that Phil loved." our worship leader explained. Loved. Past tense. Why did everyone speak of him in past tense?
We sang through the set as usual, but the missing instrumental gap echoed the hole in our hearts. Lifting my eyes to the music sheet, I stared at the lyrics to a song that was all too familiar, one I had often sang without really paying any attention. It was not a clapping or a force-a-smile song. It was utterly honest: "Blessed be Your name on the road marked with suffering, though there's pain in the offering, blessed be Your name….You give and take away, my heart will choose to say, blessed be Your name." Tears of a mixed sort flowed, for now I could smile a different smile, one that knew not only suffering and regret but also absence and presence, repentance and forgiveness, death and Life. I could not sing without choking up and I could not listen without crying, but I could now smile through the tears as we sang in unison, "Lord, blessed be Your name."
