What do we do when death calls? We — the church — come alive!
Paul L. Walker
On Thanksgiving Day, 1980, our family gathered at Grandmother's house in Tennessee. We laughed, sang, and played with uncles, aunts, and cousins. Extended family had come from all over, and we felt a special closeness on this perfect day of fellowship and reunion.
Thirty-six hours later I received a phone call.
"Reverend Walker," the voice began, "I'm sorry to inform you that your wife and son have been involved in a serious head-on collision. Julie will recover, but your son was killed. Where do you want us to send his body?"
A dull ache washed over me. It can't be true!
In a terrible moment, the joyous closeness of Thanksgiving changed to the empty loss of death. Paul, my first-born, was gone. Paul, who had just finished his master's degree and was beginning work on his Ph.D., this son who had brought nothing but pleasure and pride. Tell me there's been a mistake!
For thirty-two years in the pastorate, I'd had to ...
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