The Accident

The two of them had entered the woods that cold Fall morning.  Only one came out. While the Sheriff said it was an accident, Jack was having no part of it.  Jack McArthur’s son Joey had died that day.  And in Jack’s mind, no one was to blame but himself.

Jack sat in the back of the church, unshaven and reeking of alcohol.  It was the first Christmas since the hunting accident that had taken the life of his precious boy.  He had hit rock bottom.  Hard.  The choir practiced their songs for the Christmas Eve extravaganza.  But Jack didn’t hear a single word.  The sound of a single gunshot repeated over and over in his tortured head.

The accident had torn his family apart. First, his wife and daughter had moved back to Atlanta.  Then the bank took their home.  Finally, his boss finally had to fire him — his drinking had gotten out of control.  He had made a bad decision when he pulled that trigger. And he had been making worse ones ever since.  Now he lived under the Main Street overpass and showered at the YMCA.  He worked odd jobs when he was sober enough to function.  But normally he chose not to be sober. Alcohol was the only way he could extinguish the fires of guilt.

One pull of the trigger. One bullet. One family destroyed.

Jack McArthur sat slumped on the back pew, silently, but he was screaming in pain.  Only God could hear his cries.

God. Where was God when he pulled the trigger? When Joey had run through the brush like a deer?  God had lost His only son. Didn’t He realize the pain he felt? “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” Jack cried.

He began to sob loudly in the back of the church. The choir kept on singing.

A stranger walked up and sat next to Jack. He took the broken man in his arms and held him like a father would a son. Jack began to cry even louder; he cried so hard he busted blood vessels in his forehead. The man just rubbed his back and held him tighter.  “It will be OK.  Joey is safe now.  It will be OK.  You are forgiven. And you must forgive yourself.  It’s the only way you can go on living again.  Your remaining child needs her father. Your wife needs her husband.  And your community needs you to get help.  You must go on living, Jack. You can’t waste the precious gift you’ve been given.”

And at that moment, Jack heard the choir was singing the second chorus of O Holy Night!:

He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King, Before Him lowly bend!

The stranger smiled and said to Jack, “Merry Christmas my tortured friend. Forgiveness is my present to you. Now turn around and give it to yourself.”

At the moment in the back of a small Mississippi church, Jack McArthur began to forgive himself and the difficult job of rebuilding his life. But before he did, he and the stranger sang with the choir to the top of their lungs.