***Warning:Hard Questions Ahead***
Years ago, I belonged to the Kiwanis Club. It was a good organization. I made some friends. We did some good things. I even served as chapter president one year.
Aren’t you proud?
I was particularly gratified by the way we partnered with Wal-Mart and our church to provide backpacks full of school supplies to kids who really needed the help.
Becki and I want to start the Ferguson Family Foundation in Karen and Cole’s memory. Not sure how to go about it yet or any of the legalities involved–and I am not asking for donations–let me repeat I am not asking for donations. At least not now.
One of the ideas we are kicking around is “Backpacks for Cole.”
I hope being proactive to honor their memory will help find me find some measure of peace.
In the here and now though, I still have so many questions of God. I still struggle hard attempting to understand his nature or why he didn’t intervene.
And I am weary of his new club I am in.
I believe God is good, but how can a good God not stop such an atrocity?
If I, as a father stood by and watched that evil scum rape and terrorize my son and lift nary a hand to stop it, I would be complicit in the crime and a horrible father to boot.
That’s exactly what God did. He knew what was happening to my boy.
He knew. And did nothing!
All that pain.
All that fear.
All that terror magnified over and over again until two bullets to the brain ended it all.
Why I ask, why I rail, why I rage did God not smite that evil man with a mighty blow before his horror could be inflicted?
Why did the Father God of a precious, innocent, handicapped, and defenseless child stand idly by and do nothing?
Were all the prayers over the years for healing, safety, normalcy just empty words without meaning in a heavenly nuthouse?
I know God hears my complaint.
And still the questions remain unanswered even as they accumulate.
Why did Cole’s mother have to fight so hard and for naught. Why was Karen forced to swing a hatchet over and over again in a fruitless effort to save both of their lives?
Why does a 15 year old have to wrestle with such grown up questions?
Why does a 6 year old have to tie letters to helium balloons to send to his mother?
This week I had the opportunity to share lunch with a man on the two month anniversary of losing his teenage son.
I am not alone in the asking why?
He and I have been inducted forcibly into a new club neither of us want to be in.
And we cry why and the silence is deafening.
Why, Lord , do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? (Psalm 10:1 NIV)
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from my cries of anguish? My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, but I find no rest. (Psalm 22:1, 2 NIV)
I say to God my Rock, “Why have you forgotten me? Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?” My bones suffer mortal agony as my foes taunt me, saying to me all day long, “Where is your God?” (Psalm 42:9, 10 NIV)