A Sad Phone Call

A Sad Phone Call

God is our refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble. Psalm 46:1

Candace had barely arrived in the intake room at the county jail when an officer handed her a piece of paper with a phone number on it.

“You’re supposed to call this number right away,” he said, handing her a portable phone.

She recognized the number as her brother’s.

She stared at the phone for a long moment. If she didn’t call, she wouldn’t hear the news. Somehow, she knew her sons were in trouble. Six and four years old, they were living with her brother while she awaited trial for burglary and possession of stolen goods. One stupid night of smoking weed had caused all this.

“Just one little job, and we’ve got enough to see us through the whole month, Sweets,” her boyfriend had said.

Well, that one little job had created one big mess.

“Lady, make the call,” the officer said. “I gotta get you settled.”

She tried to keep her hands from shaking as she dialed. And she steeled herself for whatever she might hear. There was no way she was going to cry here.

For one glorious second she was encouraged when her brother picked up the phone. Maybe everything was okay after all.

“Hey, this is Candace. What’s up?”

As soon as she heard “Oh, Sis,” she knew.

“What happened?” she begged.

“It’s Darin, honey. Some guy went through a red light on us. Darin’s side of the car was hit pretty bad—” Her brother’s voice broke.

“Is he . . . ? He’s gonna be okay, though, right?”

“No. He didn’t make it.”

Screams were forming deep within her. “What about my other baby?”

“Paul’s gonna be okay, but the hospital is keeping him overnight.”

He cleared his throat. “I talked to the police chaplain there. He offered to tell you, but I told him I had to do this. He’ll come by tomorrow morning, though.”

His voice broke again. “Sis, they aren’t going to let you out to attend the funeral. I’m making the arrangements. We’ll bury Darin next to Mama in Oak Grove. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” was all she could manage before hanging up the phone. She put her hand over her mouth to keep the screams from escaping. —SANDRA

Lord, why do the innocent often have to pay for the sins of others? Please bring your good out of those sad situations.

The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.

—SOPHOCLES (CA. 496–406 B.C.), GREEK DRAMATIST