Lock-up marks stained the pavement, leaving a rubber trail that led to a pickup truck lodged between two large oak trees. The 19-year-old passenger died and the driver, another boy the same age, survived. 

The crash happened within a mile of my house one Friday night during the Spring of 2007.

I learned about it hours later in the Saturday morning newspaper, and as my eyes roamed from the print to the victim’s photo, I had to quickly looked away. The pose, the dark sweater, the smile, the hair color and style—it was similar to the last formal picture taken of my son. But this mother’s son had died physically, quickly, unexpectedly, and most assuredly, forever from this earthly existence. My son still has an earthly existence, but dies a slow, torturous, drug-addicted death—one that won’t bring surprise when it comes to fruition.  

This boy’s death hit me hard because my heart hurt for his mother. Her loss. Her pain. The empty space in her heart. 

Rain was in the forecast the next morning, so when I arose I grabbed some coffee and went out back to check on some wild baby rabbits. A few weeks before I’d knocked two pink newborns from their nest while preparing the vegetable garden with the hoe. Thankful I hadn’t harmed them, I used the hoe to carefully place them back in their straw-covered home with their siblings. 

As I entered the garden now, I stared in horror at the rabbit nest. Something much worse than rain had fallen upon them. Clean pieces of body parts lay strewn everywhere. No blood, just bunnies bit clean in half. No heads anywhere. Here they were inside a railroad tie enclosed garden that was in a yard with an 8-foot high wooden fence around it. They were more protected than the rabbits in the fields beyond the fence. And they had survived me almost hacking them to death. Now they were not only dead, but morbidly picked apart. As if I didn’t have enough heartache at the moment, life just had to dish out some more. It didn’t rain that morning, but it didn’t matter anymore. 

Monday morning I drove by the crash sight on my way to the store. An injured tree still stood—luckier than its neighboring shard of a trunk two feet away. Life had ended in between them. 

A memorial board had been erected in that v-shaped wedge. Notes of love and grief framed a glossy photo. A family stood dazed. Tears teetered in my lids. Then words from Allen Jackson’s latest song floated from my car radio:

“Remember when I was young and so were you . . .”

“And time stood still and love was all we knew . . .” 

I stared into my rearview mirror as I drove by. Crippling grief is nothing new to me—drugs bring with them a special kind of hell—one that distorts and destroys not only their passionate users, but also anyone surrounding them. They suck the life out of everyone in their vicinity. So, having been down this sad road before, figuratively and literally, I stifled my grief and drove on.

A feeling of being disconnected from society is always with me. No matter where I go, my reality goes there with me. People everywhere, and yet loneliness in my own muck follows me like a heavy ball and chain. At times I want to shake people—complete strangers—and shout at them, “Don’t you see what’s happening? I’m losing my son! Don’t you care?” But life goes on and time waits for no one, regardless of what the song says.  

I often think about the way society responds to the tragedy of others. What infuriates me are those—whether friends, law officers, doctors, clergy or strangers—who are well aware of our family crisis and yet carry on with mechanical indifference. I often try to view my situation objectively, wondering how people can be capable of such apathy toward the distress of others. Surely, it’s a learned behavior, I tell myself. Surely, it’s not a normal response. Internal screaming at the world’s indifference never ceases for some of us. 

Now a nearby parking lot proved to be a good spot for me to imprint my own tire marks as I spun the car around. I wouldn’t bestow that same indifference upon that family. How dare I drive by—slowing down, yes—but continuing on? I must go back. 

As I returned, pain slammed against my heart, and I was grateful for it. I was glad I felt the sorrow of others through the wall of my own terrible reality. I walked up to the mother and fell into her arms. Those previously stuffed tears now spilled down on behalf of their grief.  

After that day I often detoured down that side road on my way to town. That much sorrow could not be confined to the interior of my two-seated car, so I rolled down the windows as I passed by. I’d play that Allen Jackson song on my CD and fill the air with those heart-wrenching words. Fresh air poured in as the lyrics drifted out and over the spot where their truth was most revealed. At other times, the words to an a cappella “Amazing Grace” from another one of my CDs blanketed the victim’s place of his last earthly existence.

One morning, months later, a white cross, plastic flowers and new notes replaced the memorial board. That’s to be expected, I suppose, but what grabbed my attention was something I hadn’t expected. That severed trunk had produced little shoots of new growth. Full and thick, the new shoots vied for a clear shot to Heaven, totally overtaking the brokenness of death.  

Later that same day I was distracted by movement outside my office’s floor length window. A baby rabbit stared in at me. I searched the Internet for the lyrics rattling around in my head, then hit the print button as I read the words I’d been looking for:

“Remember when old ones died 

and new were born

And life was changed, disassembled, rearranged 

We came together, fell apart

And broke each other’s hearts 

Remember when . . .”

New life often sprouts from the destruction of trees, and rabbits reproduce within weeks. Life does go on. For some, perhaps, but for some, we struggle daily with the growth and life that doesn’t go on. Not only are we forced to say good-bye in tragic ways, we’re also forced to make decisions afresh each day that we, too, must strive to bring forth new growth out of death. The song that so broke me also reminds me of the choice that must be made to carry on:

“ . . . we won’t be sad, we’ll be glad

for all the life we’ve had

and we’ll remember when  . . .”