Not too long ago, a news story broke near our town about a father and son that were killed in a boating accident. This man and his five-year-old son woke up at four in the morning, got into a small boat with the family lab, and rowed out into the middle of the lake for a day of fishing. By seven, they were both dead.
Stories like this have always tugged at my heartstrings. No one wants to see a family torn apart by tragedies like this, which often leave family members grieving for decades, wondering how it could happen to them and wishing that they could have just ten more minutes with their lost loved ones. As a husband and a father – two stations I didn’t occupy even just a few years ago – this hits me even deeper. All I can think about is the wife that now has to go through life by herself, as well as a profound sense of sorrow that I was even partially responsible for what happened to my son.
Accidents happen, and this article is in no way a condemnation of the father for what occurred. By all accounts, the storm that claimed their lives rose up quickly, and arrived in a place that they were not counting on. Indeed, I remember seeing the news reports the night before that stated the storm would not arrive until late morning, and would hit a nearly one hundred miles south of us. No one could have anticipated the storm rising up where it did and when it did.
Not that would make me feel any better about what happened, if I were the father. At the end of the day, my son’s life is lost. I’m the one that drove him to the lake, and I’m the one that looked him in the eyes as it started to rain and told him everything would be ok. Regardless of how out-of-control the situation got, I know that it was up to me to take care of my son, and for whatever reason or whoever’s fault, that did not happen.
I can’t bear the thought of burying my son. I can’t even imagine the anguish felt at looking in the casket at the face of someone who was so pure, so dependent, so full of energy, and had the entire world in front of him, and know that it is now gone. More than anything else, I would want to be with him, to watch him play, to watch him run, to watch him smile and laugh that silly little-boy laugh just one more time, and to feel the happiness that radiated from his soul.
If it were me that lost a son, I would yearn for his presence every single day that I had left on this earth. But I would also try desperately to remind myself of the essential truth that Scripture teaches us about existence: that though we may leave this earth, if we abide in Him, we will never actually die.
I have sometimes been guilty of viewing David’s heartbreak at losing his son after his adulterous (and murderous) relationship with Uriah through very cold eyes. After all, it was his fault his son died in the first place, so he got what he deserved! It’s only after looking at it as a father that I uncover the sad circumstances around 2 Samuel 12: yes, his son died, and yes, it was his fault, but neither of those mean that he will ever see his son again.
David’s strength in that hour, no matter the context surrounding it, is what has amazed me more and more as I grow older. When confronted with the awful truth that his son had indeed died, as God said would happen, he got up, took food, and comforted the son’s mother, his wife Bathsheba. When asked why he was so calm now, as opposed to the week he had just spent fasting and laying on the ground, he replied, “I will go to him, but he will not return to me” (2 Sam. 12:23).
His son would not be raised from the dead, no matter how many prayers David uttered, how many nights he slept on the ground, or how many days David went without eating. But even though he knew that he would not see his son in the physical realm, David had complete confidence that he would meet him in the next. We learn from David that, for the faithful of God, death is but a temporary separation of a unity that will last for all of eternity, where God “will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away” (Rev. 21:4).
I pray that I never have to endure watching my son or daughter die. I hope that I never have to place my child in a casket, and then try to go on with my life as if that moment never happened, fighting back tears every time I see a happy family playing together in the park, and knowing that mine are gone. But I pray even more earnestly that if I do, and that moment comes when I hear the words “your child is gone,” that I will pick myself up off the ground, thank God for the time I had with them on this earth, and faithfully claim, as David did, “He will not return to me, but I will go to him.” I teach my kids the Bible so that they will know that, and that, prayerfully, when they hear the news about my passing, they will utter the same words.
But I also teach my kids about the Bible because I want that eternity with them. I want them to grow up as Christian men and women so that their own souls will be saved, but also because I want to know that when I die, or they die, we will spend eternity together. I do not want our life together on this earth to be the only life that we get to spend together. I want to stand by them for all eternity, enjoying each other’s presence in the presence of the One who made all of this possible. And if that means giving up time in front of the TV, or not letting them go places or do things God says they should not go or do, then it will be time well spent, for it will be an investment in our eternity, and no one can put a price on that.
