Resillience-Proof of a Loving God

I work in a uniformed capacity, and after the death of my son Tommy, it was as if "the world came crashing down." Nothing mattered, and life as I knew it before, was a dark, damp place void of emotion or compassion. It was a period of deep anger and profound sadness, which just led to feeling completely numb to everything. Gloom was the order of the day, from the time I woke up, until the time my eyes let me somehow go to sleep. The best way in frank terms to describe this time, was "I don't give a damn." Its horrifying to realize that you have near sociopathic tendencies, and it was through the power of an angry prayer, that finally it dawned on me that I wasn't alone.

Alone. Sometimes I really like the peace and tranquility of being alone, but people have always been so fascinating. How could I have lost my love of people, and how could I be full of such animosity towards others, along with God? Prior to Tommy's passing, I have to say that my faith was weak. It still is sometimes, as its a work in progress, much like everything else is. On a cold January day I went through the motions of being at work, responding to calls, and just not caring one bit other than doing what was needed to be done. Forget that "going the extra mile cliche," as giving any extra effort was just not going to be happening.

It was a freezing day, with heavy wind gusts, and I was stupidly wearing a short sleeved duty shirt instead of the long sleeved version, with the sweater and coat that I'm quite fond of this winter. I just didn't care, and sat in a parking lot, hungry, bitter, and screamed at God. If it sounds like I was one step by being part of the "Cuckoos Nest," that wouldn't be far from the truth. I screamed at God, "Why did you take my son? How could you? Why, Why, Why?" The fury and rage were unmistakable, and if there were any animals or people nearby, they would've run in the opposite direction, with good reason.

A call was dispatched to me. I remember cussing, as this routine service call was supposedly handled the night before, and it was at a middle school far away. Another swear word. The hunger for food didn't help my already "prickly attitude," and I slowly made my way in that direction. Schools in our area rent buildings to churches on Sunday, and as I pulled in, I waved to an older gentleman in a security uniform directing traffic. My plan was simple, and that was to go in, get out, and return to the warmth of my vehicle. The call was handled in three minutes, and I walked back to my county car, looking forward to cranking up the heat.

Yet something that I cannot explain to this day, pushed me to this older gentleman, who was done directing traffic. Did he have to be so far away in walking distance? He was a bit far away, yet something kept pushing me to him. We shot the breeze, laughing about "shop talk," and he told me about his growing up. This gentleman told me that "as a black man growing up in the Jim Crow South, life wasn't easy. My father left our family when I was fourteen years old. I had to become the defacto father for my younger siblings, while going to school, and working to help my mother and all of us survive." It was a moving story, and I was taken aback, and realized that perhaps "life isn't fair, its what you make of it." I asked him if he ever reconciled with his dad, and he said that years later he did in fact do that. He told me about going into the military, and being a federal government worker, before retiring and just helping out his church with traffic duties each Sunday.

He looked at me, and said "Did you go to school around here, and if so what year?"  "Yes sir, 1994 class at Fairfax High School." His eyes got sad, and he looked down, mumbling "You probably never heard of my son then." I asked him about his son, and he with a pained expression said "My son died at Herndon High School in 1983, at age 16 of a congenital heart condition, while practicing on the football field." Blam! Every goosebump on my body was charged, as he kept telling me "how devastating it was, and yet how happy he was to have found such a wonderful church." I looked at him, with tears rolling down my face, and just hugged this man, who I later found out was named Bill. I told him about Tommy, and how I had prayed before meeting him, albeit angrily, and we just hugged and cried together.

It must have been a strange sight to see two big guys in uniform hugging and crying with each other in that parking lot. As I type this right now, I'm actually chuckling just thinking about it. I didn't want to stop hugging this man, and we talked about what losing our sons meant to us, and how it ultimately has changed our lives. Finally a call came over, and although I didn't want to respond to it, I knew that I had to. Upon leaving Bill, he looked at me, and with conviction of which I've never seen, he said "resillience." That was indeed the answer to my prayer. It was right in my face the whole time, but through God, Bill was able to relay this message of deep significance. Having a thick skull can be a real pain, but God certainly woke me up that blustery day.

The rest of the day was exceedingly busy, and I have and still do not like running from "call to call" nonstop. It is irritating. Yet that day I didn't mind. In fact, I couldn't stop crying tears of joy, and had a feeling of bliss that is impossible to describe. There have been painful moments since then, and there always will be. You don't get over the death of a child, you get through it. And sometimes we have to admit that even with our imperfections and issues, that while we have control over some things, God is at the steering wheel. I am no longer angry at God for taking my son. Do I wish it didn't happen? Of  course! Yet I have faith that there was a reason for this, and I believe that God is endless love. He certainly proved it  this day, and continues to in both jaw dropping ways such as this, and other gentle ways.