A Tidal Wave on the 22nd.
Abraham decided it would be best if he just told me right off the bat when I came downstairs this morning—”The Chapman’s, as in the Steven Curtis Chapman’s—five-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident.”
It was the right decision for him to tell me, rather than me finding out randomly on the internet this morning, since it’s already a heavy day as another 22nd marches on and I can do nothing to stop it.
And I can’t do anything to stop the Chapman’s pain, either. It’s going to hit them like a tidal wave over and over and over and they’ll flip and flail under it. They’ll get their bearings somehow and be able to surface for a well-deserved gasping breath. And then another month passes or another birthday passes or another Mother’s Day passes and they’re head-over-heels again.
I’m not trying to be pessimistic or say that God is not there. He’s the tidal wave and he’s the light at the top and he’s the fresh, cold air that their lungs will scream for.