Leaving Yesterday by Kathryn Cushman Read Free Book Online Page A

look at the gawky, skinny kid who had been my son and smile. I always waited until I had the audience relaxed and loosened up before I moved into the hard part. The last slide I showed was the one from the day we moved Nick into the dorm.
    “When my son went away to college, he got involved with a very mission-minded group. So during Mardi Gras, he and a couple of friends took the week off from classes and went to New Orleans. They decided there was no other place in the world more in need of a Savior than the group of people that would be partying on those streets.” Here, at this point, I always got choked up. I hated that I did, because I was talking about overcoming, and here I was, four years later, still unable to finish the story. Of course, everyone seemed to understand this, but I considered it a failure. If I was really living in the strength of Christ, I should be able to have the strength to tell this story without crying. Shouldn’t I?
    “They came upon a group of young men who pretended to be interested in what they were saying. This pretense lasted only long enough to get Nick and his friends to a secluded area where they could rob them. The boys had only about fifty dollars among them, which infuriated their attackers. My son Nick was beaten to death.” Each time I told this part, I was grateful for the officer who recommended that I not be the one to identify my son. I still saw him in my mind as the healthy, happy boy I’d always known. “One of his friends was left unconscious but later recovered. The other will never walk without a limp again.” For just a flash I saw Kevin Marshall’s blue eyes in my mind. It comforted me somehow.
    The murmur of sympathy went through the group as it always did. Now was when they were completely on my side. Now was the time I had to deliver the encouragement that would see them through whatever crisis they were facing.
    I talked about the day afterward. The trip down to New Orleans to identify Nick’s body. I talked about the week and months afterward—the funeral and trial—trying to capture a bit of both the deep sorrows and tender moments of comfort I’d felt. I talked about the comfort some friends offered and the distance that grew between others who’d seemed suddenly afraid of me. I tried to be honest and transparent. They’d know otherwise.
    “People always ask me if this makes me angry at God. I won’t lie to you—you’re all far too valuable for that. Yes, I was angry. Yes, I questioned my beliefs. After all, if God really is able to do anything, why didn’t He step in and save my son and his friends? Why did He let them suffer that way?” With each question, the heaviness weighted me more and more, even now.
    “And I won’t stand up here and insult your intelligence by pretending that I know the answer even now. But the one thing I do know is that He has been there, and more. When I think of what my son experienced just before he died, how it must have hurt him to know that the very people he came to help were the ones who were doing this to him—well, I realize the One who understands that even more than me is Jesus. I wonder at the grief he must have experienced, beaten, abused. And all the while the people He was suffering to save spat at him, called Him names. And it must have been ever so much harder for the Father, who watched the whole thing, felt every bit of the humiliation being heaped upon His Son. He could have stopped it, could have given everyone in the crowd every bit of what they deserved. But He didn’t. He loved me enough that He experienced that kind of grief for me, and even for those who scorned His very Son.”
    I always had to pause here. Even though the words were mostly the same from seminar to seminar, the depth of God’s love always struck me anew. I couldn’t begin to fathom the love that would allow Him to do that.
    Finally, I moved forward with some practical steps toward dealing with grief, my personal