The Boy Who Died So Young
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Sixteen years ago, when I was a full-time elementary teacher, we had a student in our school killed in a tragic car accident. At the time his brother was a student in my class. Several teachers attended the funeral and we humbly watched as family members mourned expressively. Words were hard to come by. Thoughts escaped me. I couldn’t make sense of the whys.
So, I took to my pen. When my emotions overwhelm me, pen to paper is often the only healing salve I can apply. As the emotions billowed over my mind and heart like a tumultuous sea, these were the words that escaped the sinking swells.
The Boy Who Died So Young
It’s strange when life is taken,
so quickly, so abruptly.
No preparation, arrangements.
No time to get ready.
When you’re sick, there’s
time for tying loose ends.
But when your life is jerked, removed,
breath ceases, it’s over.
No tomorrows, second chances,
mending bridges, no kisses.
It’s especially difficult with
the death being a child.
Take me!
I’ve lived.
I’ve loved.
I’ve learned.
But a child, barely ten, no more future,
bubble gum, or ice cream.
Taken. Ejected from life’s cockpit with
one driver’s error.
Joy does come in learning of his
recent salvation experience.
His baptism would have been Sunday, but his
acceptance was Wednesday.
Who could have known?
Who may have seen?
Only God.
Only Him.
Students will mourn. Family will cry.
Teachers will mend and hug.
But ultimately life will move.
His face only a memory.
The boy who died so young.
Have you taken the time to put pen to paper lately? How fitting would it be to do it now—during National Poetry Month. And how fitting to honor someone with your words.
