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I told them about the day Ryan fell asleep on the bus and missed his stop. Even as they laughed at his response, "I didn't want to bother you," I could see the tears begin to well up in everyone's eyes. Way to go, Ed. Now you've made them all cry.

Ryan's mom started to speak, then grabbed me tight and started shaking with those choking sobs that I dreaded worse than anything. Oh Lord, what have I done? I don't know what to say to stop this kind of pain. To make matters worse, I started crying too. Not discreetly, but all noisy and messy. I held this young mother I'd never met before, and wished I had something to say that would turn their attention away from my tears and runny nose.

Someone who knows the pain
A thought came to me. It sounded good until I said it aloud. "Just remember," I said when we all quieted down a little, "God knows the pain of losing a son, too." With those words, another wave of grief crashed over us.

As soon as I could, I got out of there. I feared I had poured salt in the wounded hearts of those parents.

The months passed quickly. Christmas came and went. My midterm exams were on the horizon. One Saturday, I spent the whole day studying and nursing a stomach ache that wouldn't go away. Finally, I called my doctor. "You'd better get to the emergency room, sounds like appendicitis to me." My wife drove me over right away.

As I lay there on the gurney, waiting for tests before surgery, a shot of something warm took the edge off the pain. In walked a pretty, young woman in white. She looked like Ryan's mom. You're hallucinating, Ed.

"Hello, bus driver," she said with a smile. Oh Lord, help me. It was her—carrying a needle in her hand.

"I want to thank you for being there that night." Now you are really hallucinating. She tightened the tourniquet until my veins popped out. "I can't tell you how much your words about God understanding have helped me over these past few months." She slipped the needle in—I never even felt it. "But the fact that you cared enough to cry with us meant more than anything."

As my blood flowed into the tube, all the feelings of inadequacy and failure from that night seemed to surge out with it. Gently easing the needle out of my arm, I heard her say, "Poor bus driver. I can tell that you're hurting. I wish I could take away your pain like you took away some of mine that night."

I just smiled. "You have—more than you'll ever know."

Copyright © 1997 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
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