We stood outside a one room shack made
from sticks and mud. The sun was shining. The kids were gathered,
sitting on the ground while their parents found a spot in the shade
to stand. We were asked to sing some songs, softly. They brought the
coffin out of the shack and sat it on 2 strategically placed wooden
benches. It was small by American standards, with the name and age of
a gypsy woman written on the side with a marker. The woman had been
baptised by Pastor Z a few years earlier, so they asked him to lead
the ceremony. We just happened to be here for the occasion.
It was the day before Alex’s 21st
birthday. I met him when I was 10, he was 5 and dressed in a Dallas
Cowboys Uniform for Super Bowl. He was adorable with his big blue
eyes glistening through his little helmet. From there he became my
little brother. We fought, we played, we loved each other. And one
day during my Senior year of high school he became a Christian as he
and I talked at our kitchen table. When I went off to college I
hardly ever got to see Alex, but when I did it was a good time.
On November 24th, 2005 I got
a late night phone call that Alex had been in a car accident. He was
gone. I drove as quickly as I could to be with everyone at the
hospital, praying that God would use me to love and bring comfort. At
his funeral I shared about his faith in Jesus, and how important it
is to have a real relationship with Jesus. God used me in the midst
of the most horrible tragedy I’d ever experienced. But the story
doesn’t end there.
Over the last 5 years, God has put me
in places where I could bring hope and comfort to people who have
lost people they love. As time goes on I realize that God will
continue to use my story for His Kingdom. There are people all over
the world that need someone to comfort them. God has given me that
ability. This year is no exception.
In Uganda I met a family that lost 2
children, ages 19 and 15, in a motorbike accident. I walked into
their house only 5 months after the accident and I was able to bring
hope and comfort to a mother and her children. My story is not my
own.
As the funeral came to an end in
Romania, we followed the family to the burial site on top of a hill.
The men lowered the casket into the ground with 2 ropes. As the dirt
hit the top of the casket my heart broke. The sound still rings in my
ears. I hurt for those who are hurting. I know how they feel.
In the end I know that Jesus has them
all. As believers they were ushered into heaven, and one day I’ll
meet them. I’ll get to worship my Incredible Heavenly Father as I
stand beside those youth from Uganda, the gypsy from Romania, and
Alex. Until then I’ll share my story. It may still be painful, but it
makes the glory of God even better. My prayer for now is that God
will continue to place me in situations where I can use my story.
Let’s be honest, it’s all His anyway.
