Chapter Twelve - Healing in a Van

    I've been mulling over memories.   Memories from the worst week of my life.  Struggling to come to terms with the fact my family who I had envisioned always being together had instead been ripped apart, I was gradually spending less and less time with my younger brothers.  I was nineteen years old and still reeling emotionally from my parents' divorce and combating a fresh wave of disillusionment. Then, still raw from my own struggles, I staggered through tragedy after tragedy over a short and bitter two week span.  In that brief fortnight alone I suffered the loss of a friend, then the death of a friend and role model, an abrupt and unsettling proposal of marriage, a new job, then several days aiding a close family whose house had been burnt down, and witnessed the fights that led up to and the separation of some close family friends, and finally cussed out under false accusation.

    Near the end of that time, I was carpooling back from an event in a 15 passenger van.  We were a hodge-podge of kids from different families ranging from myself as the eldest at about 19, to the youngest, a boy of about 5.  It was a long ride, and we swiftly settled into our respective rhythms of gazing out the window, talking, or playing games together.  The youngest was talking rapidly; nonstop like water gurgling over pebbles in a brook. "Hey Alexis! Look at this! 'Lexis, did you see that tree?  'Lexis, look at this card I found.  'Lexis, can I lean on you?"  He said my name over and over, pointed out object and toy and told story after story. He prattled on and on in his childlike innocence.

    "David!  Stop talking!" a sibling tried in vain to encourage him to be quiet, worried that he was bothering me.  I dismissed the attempt.  I wanted him to talk.  I had been surrounded day in and day out by young boys who talked too much for most of my life, and that time was drawing to a close and I already missed it.  I missed the energy and liveliness and mischief and annoyances that young boys bring.  I loved having someone there who would talk to me with no awareness of the pain and battles that were being fought around him.  David's childish chatter poured over my injured soul like water over a parched tongue.  He didn't know I was in pain, so he didn't treat me like I was fragile.  He didn't know I was fighting a war within and without myself, so his innocence soothed me.  His love and enthusiasm for life ministered to my exhausted soul and tired and strained emotions.

    I remember you, David Asher.  I am thankful that you were here on this earth for a time.  I am thankful that even though I spent very little time with you during your short life, that you were in my life long enough to be used by God to heal my broken heart.  Your death has left many broken-hearted, but I hope that this story of how you helped me simply by being who you were will help heal their hearts as well.

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Thank you for David Asher..  Thank you that you are a mighty God who heals.  Thank you for using David to heal me.  Please heal those broken by his death.  Show yourself faithful and gentle.  Bring peace and healing to the hurt.  You knew Death, and you overcame.  You love me, and you love David.