Meet Marcus Redding

It had been five years since he passed away. But it seemed like yesterday. That’s what Marcus thought as he stood at his best friend’s grave.

They had just finished their sophomore year of high school. It was three days after school got out and Marcus’s dad took him down to get his license. He passed the test. Making complete stops at stop signs. Signaling plenty in advance. Parallel parking like a champ. He said “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” very politely to the DMV guy behind the counter who issued his license. He marched outside the office with his head held high and showed his dad his new driver’s license. His dad smiled and gave him a high five. And then came “The Talk.” Marcus knew it was coming.

His dad told him how this was another step to becoming a man, how he trusted him to be responsible, how more freedom brings more responsibility, he even quoted statistics about teenagers in car accidents. But his dad said he trusted him. Marcus would have a curfew and he’d have to let his folks know where he was at all times (“That’s why they invented cell phones,” his dad said.) But as long as he checked in with his folks and came home on time, he was free to do what he liked. Then Marcus’s dad prayed for him, right there in the parking lot. Prayed Marcus would be responsible, safe, a good example to his friends as he took this next little step to maturity. Marcus gave his dad a hug and thanked him for trusting him and told him he would not let him down.

The next Wednesday Marcus was anxious to show off his license (and the 1975 El Camino his grandpa gave him) to all the kids in the youth group. After Bible study he invited a few friends to come with him for a ride. The youth minister told them to be careful and check in with their parents first. Turned out only his best friend Bruce could go with him. So they went out for a drive.

Standing at Bruce’s grave five years later, with five years of the grief process behind him, Marcus understood what happened that evening. It was a combination of being sixteen, just getting out of school, his dad’s trust, and a sense of invincibility that made him drive too fast down 346 to Whitehouse. And the sun was setting just low enough that drivers had to shield their eyes and try to stay in their lane while navigating the curvy road. Marcus came around a long turn and the sun hit him in the eyes. As he reached to pull down the sun visor he slipped off the right side of the road, pulled the wheel hard left, and overcorrected. The last thing he heard Bruce say was a quiet and fearful “No.”

The oncoming car in the other lane hit the passenger side of the El Camino head on. Bruce was killed instantly. Marcus, somehow, came away with only a mild concussion, a broken right arm, and a lot of his friend’s blood on his shirt.

The grief and the regret and the self-hatred had settled down in the five years since the accident. But the questions of faith had only intensified. Yes, Bruce was a Christian. Yes, he was saved. Yes, he was in heaven. That was some comfort. But Marcus remembered seeing Bruce’s parents at the funeral...and here at the graveside...and their white handkerchiefs, wet with tears, contrasting with his mom’s black dress and his dad’s black suit.

So Marcus never stopped asking “Why am I still here? Shouldn’t it have been me? It was my fault. Bruce was better than me, he prayed more, he was kind to all the kids at school, from the starting pointguard to the goths who hung out on the corner, he talked about going to Harding someday...”

The ring of his cell phone broke his thoughts. It was a text message. From his wife. She knew where he was. The message just said, “1 John 3:19-20.”

More about Marcus Redding’s journey of faith next week.