August 24, 2008 Adam & the Number 22

August 22, 2000 was the worst day of my life out of the worst several days beginning in the early hours of Sunday, August 19. That was when we got the phone call no parent is ever prepared for—our youngest son Adam, age 16, had been in a car accident. The vehicle had gone out of control, rolling several times. Adam had been ejected through the rear window, sustaining serious head injuries. I have told the story so many times that I can see it, as if I were standing by the highway, powerful to prevent it, a muted scream forming deep in my throat.

Adam never regained consciousness, and it is our belief that the Lord took him at the time of the accident, but it was two days later that the doctors pronounced him, after vario us and repeated tests to make certain, dead. August 22 always looms large in my mind as The Day. The anniversary of my son’s death, as hurtful as date as his birthday, May 22, was joyful.

A while back, a movie came out called “The Number 23” in which a man was haunted by 23s. I could relate—not long after Adam’s death, I began seeing the number 22 everywhere. His birthdate, his death date. The numerals of his birth year, 1984, add up to…22. It seemed as though every time I glanced at a clock to check the time, it was 22 minutes after the hour. It happened too often to be a coincidence Why would God keep reminding me, as if I needed a reminder…didn’t I already think about losing Adam every hour of every day?

For years, years, this continued, as I and our family learned to live in an Adam-less world. He had filled our lives with so much love and laughter, the void seemed hug e, unfillable. Yes, God gave us grace sufficient for the day, but often it was just sufficient, with not a smidgeon to spare. A glance at the clock…another “22”, and I could easily tip over the edge into fresh, raw grief.

Oddly, the 22nd of each month could surprise me. I would be going along fairly functional, BAM! experience a meltdown for no apparent reason—and then notice the date.

The strangest occurrence was several years after Adam’s death when the phone system went out at the dental office I managed,. A technician soon had things repaired, but when the time and date flashed back on my phone, the image that appeared was…you guessed it…August 22. Even though it was neither August, nor on the 22nd. A co-worker and I exchanged looks of amazement and I ran from the room, bursting into tears in the restroom. “Why are you doing this?!” I demanded of God. But just as with my questions about Adam’ s death, there was silence in heaven.

About two years ago, I was sitting at the dining room table reading my Bible one day and I happened to look up at the clock. Of course, it was 22 minutes after the hour. This time, however, I looked down at the pages before me and saw numbers there too. I looked up Psalm 22 and found words of comfort in the midst of despair. Romans 8:22 pointed to hope. And on and on, as I flipped through the pages finding verse after verse. As I did, something happened inside. I began to see all those 22s as assurances of Adam’s love, as reminders that we will be reunited one day in heaven. The pain of loss and separation are still very real, but that one aspect…the number 22…has undergone a transformation.

Last year I was hired as the administrative assistant for a local Presbyterian church. A part-time job would be a financial blessing, I knew, but I wondered, as I suppose many of us do when beginning a new phase of life, if I was really where I shoul d be. We always long for confirmation in such times.

I had had a brief tour of the building during my initial interview, but it was not until I was hired and actually sitting at my new desk that I glanced up and noticed a number on my door. 22.

Thank you, Lord. I love you too, Adam. See you soon.