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AUTUMN’S GRANDPA MIKE
 
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 hen I picked up the phone I thought my friend Mike was calling about my computer. He had kept me sane
during the preceding weeks when I was going through “upgrade
trauma,” and I thought he was calling about the next item we needed to replace. I was wrong.
“Jim,” he said, his voice strangely thin. “I lost my grand-
daughter last night. She’s gone.”
Ministers and those who have worked as hospital chaplains
have this strange belief that they are supposed to have imme-diate answers in such situations. We think we are supposed to
be superhuman or something and always prepared for such
an announcement. I proved my humanity by responding with nothing more than, “What?”Mike went on to tell me more about what had happened. His granddaughter, Autumn Dawn, had been born four weeks and one day earlier. I remembered his joy and pride at his first
grandchild. But now she was gone, and as Mike said, “Last night
I just wanted to die. I’ve lived forty-seven years in this world
and made a mess of things. Why couldn’t God take me and
leave her?”I had gathered enough of my wits about me to realize that
now was not the time for in-depth theological analysis of the
transcendent reasons behind this tragedy. There would be time

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