Last Wednesday, I left the house in a rush. I leave for work at 9 instead of 11, because my job is wonderful and they have adjusted my schedule so that I can go to choir practice on Wednesday nights. Wednesdays are long, and I usually end up with no voice (talking on the phone for 8 hours + choir practice + allergies…it’s been fun) but they are my favorite day of the workweek. I had to make sure I grabbed everything I needed for work, plus everything I needed for choir, plus leave the house two hours earlier than normal. So a rush, but a rush that I’m used to because I’ve been doing this for several months. It was a gorgeous day, too, sunny and warm but not too hot, as it can be for a few short weeks in Spring in Texas.
Around 4:15 I had my second break and checked my phone for news/Facebook/calls/messages. Of course, one of those alerts was from the San Antonio news, about a church bus crash. All I could think was, “No no no no no, not us, not us, not us.” But I tapped on the story anyway, because whoever it was was gonna need a lot of prayer.
And it was us.
I called the church, and had a conversation that sounded like it had been had a hundred times. “Events are cancelled for this evening. Head-on collision. Five fatalities confirmed so far. Three airlifted. No one knows any names.” I hung up and called my husband to pass on the information. The love of my life has a “dumb phone” so if he’s not home he doesn’t see email. (He also doesn’t have Facebook, but I’m working on that.) Then it was time to share the word at work. I found one of my supervisors and told her what we knew so far. “Do you need to go?” she asked. “I only have an hour and a half left. I can focus for now.” But as soon as the clock hit 6:00, I was out the door.
By that time we knew it was 12 fatalities. Twelve precious senior adults. Gone.
I made it home, and then Day and I went up to church, a bag full of kleenex and water bottles in tow. Even though all the activities had been cancelled for the evening, the parking lot was full. More full than I had seen it on a Wednesday night ever. I think that was when I started to cry.
Camera crews were already outside. My head was full of conflicting thoughts: “Psh. Vultures. Wait, why are there so many? Is this story everywhere? How far did it go? What an opportunity to witness…”
People were everywhere inside, milling around, talking, praying, many of them staring at phones hoping for updates. Silver industrial-size coffee pots filled one table, water and sweet tea on another. “Do we know anything? Any names? What happened?” But there were no answers. We did know the bus driver…my son’s Sunday School teacher. That news broke Day, which in turn broke me again.
It’s hard to describe the feeling in the sanctuary that night. Everyone leaning on everyone else. Everyone comforting everyone else. Kleenex boxes everywhere. So. Many. Tears. All of us, our church family, knocked off our feet but holding each other up. Everyone grieving together as we waited for the list of names.
The words that I finally grasped, the two words that I have managed to hold tightest to through all of this, were “Great” and “Terrible.” We were all going through a terrible loss, a tragic senseless accident, where a dozen people had lost their lives “in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye.” It was a terrible, terrible night. But the power of God was with us, holding up every member of that congregation as we supported each other. The love of God surrounded us as we grieved. The peace of God, which indeed, is beyond all understanding, guarded our hearts. It was horrible to experience, but wonderful to behold.
The community began to share with us too, almost immediately. There are three churches basically right next door to each other, and pastors and members had come to grieve and pray with us. There was food, too…pizza and tacos (among other things) were donated by restaurants in the area. Our town is loving on us. Again, it is great and terrible.
For two more hours we prayed, talked, shared, hugged, leaned, and waited. Notifications had to be made, families told, before the church family could hear the list of names. By the time Pastor Brad was able to read the list, there were 13 dead. One survivor from our bus. The driver of the other truck survived as well. As our pastor called out the names, people in the congregation cried out. Small cries of heartache and pain that broke my heart all over again.
There was no rush to leave. Many of us stayed for almost another hour, weeping, sharing, leaning, talking, praying. It was 10:00 when I got home. It was hard to believe it had only been 6 hours since I heard the news. It felt much, much longer.
We had to go home and tell our son that he had lost his Sunday School teacher. I have never heard my boy weep like that, weep until we thought he would be sick. We shared our grief again as a family, the four of us curled up in a ball on the couch, weeping together. Liam stayed home from school the next day, visiting with counselors at church.
It’s been a bit of a blur, the days since the accident. I’ve had to go to work, but my employers have been very gracious and have given me things to do so that I didn’t have to talk on the phone the first day. Many times I can do my job, but then someone calls with a familiar name or from a church or someone asks me how I’m doing and I fall apart all over again. Everyone knows about the wreck; word is spreading that is was my church. A friend will say, “How are you doing?” and I will shrug and then someone else will ask “What happened?” I take a deep breath and say “It was my church, with the bus.” “Ooohhhh” is the response. And then a hug. And then I take a deep breath again. One breath at a time.
Sunday was again a Great and Terrible day. The Sonshine Singers (the senior choir) filled the choir loft. Well, almost filled. There were 14 empty chairs. I walked into the sanctuary and lost it all over again. But I have to say, it was one of the best church services I have ever taken part in, for while there was weeping, there was also hope. It is very true that weeping endures for the night. Or for several nights. But joy will indeed come in the morning.
I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will see these precious friends again in heaven. I know that someday I will sit next to Dorothy again as we sing. I know that we will hear Murray sing funny songs with kids. And while it hurts, and it does, it hurts so much we can hardly stand it at times, healing will come. We will laugh again. We will dance again. I will make it all the way through a song again. Why am I so sure? How can I say these things with such certainty? A song is the best answer.
The Solid Rock (Edward Mote)
My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus’ love and righteousness.
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.
When darkness seems to hide His face,
I rest on His unchanging grace;
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the veil.
His oath, His covenant, His blood
Support me in the whelming flood;
When all around my soul gives way,
He then is all my hope and stay.
When He shall come with trumpet sound,
Oh, may I then in Him be found;
Dressed in His righteousness alone,
Faultless to stand before the throne.
On Christ the Solid Rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.
All other ground is sinking sand.
All other ground is sinking sand.
This. This is how we know. Because today is terrible, no one is denying that.
But our God is great…and we cannot deny that either.
