God of the Angel Armies, do you hear us?

For those of you who don't know I work for a Baptist church as their music minister. The title sounds larger than the job, it's just me and Jane (my guitar). Yesterday on the way to the gym I got a phone call. The pastor's wife was in tears. She is a spirited woman, at first I didn't think it would be such an impacting call. It didn't take long for me to register her tones as inflections of grief. And the words that then followed have in fact followed me all day long.

There is a little boy. And Sunday we all giggled inside at his innocence as he scrambled like a wee little soldier up and down the isles on his belly, clutching crayons and peaking out from underneath the pews as we all sat respectfully trying not to ignore the pastor. But it wasn't too hard even for the the Pastor and we all started watching that little boy.

Tuesday night he was tucked into his bed. For some reason he got up, put his shoes on, and slipped out the front door. That precious little boy was hit by a truck and killed. And I think, why? How? Where did THAT come from?

I'm singing at his funeral on Sabbath. He was only three. His family was always at church. And all I can say, as I pout about my life and my needs is why, how, and where did that come from.