A red 99 Ford Explorer is going at around ninety miles per hour. It speeds along Highway 580, heading towards East Oakland. Emotions were splayed across my brow in such a muddle and butterflies swirled around my gut. Imagine you are on a rollercoaster with no form of resistance against the raging winds that whip you breathless. You feel a sudden unsuspected dip, that feeling when your stomach is dropped, left sinking to the floor. My eyes were brim full with tears and sadness overwhelmed me as I pulled up to the driveway.


People are scattered across the lawn and you can not quite label it as one emotion in that mixed atmosphere. The sun still shone ever so brightly on that devastating day and I perceived a couple familiar faces who were the boy's friends and family. Around twenty to twenty-five some people were here and probably beat me to the news. Muffled sobs, detached numbness, impassively frozen and condescending retaliation were perceptible in different pockets. As I climbed up the red asphalt steps, my heart sank with worry and concern for the family.

A deep sense of somberness came over me as I crossed over the threshold and here I was greeted by one of the boy's aunts.

"Hi Pastor. How are you doing?" She asked and wanted to know if she could get me anything. I reclined from the offer and we embraced as the tears began to run down her cheeks. "This is really a rough one." She choked out, her voice wavering. I asked to see her sister, the mother of the boy, but I didn't want to disturb her at the same time.

"No, she would really like to see you. Let me go get her." She said softly and motioned for me to have a seat.

The mother came into the living room, her eyes red and puffy from the news. She wasn't crying at the moment but there was still this dilapidated sense that could not be overlooked.

"Pastor, please, have something to eat." The mother said and my eyes traveled to the kitchen. Food, purchased and homemade, lay askew, piling on top of the counter.

"Pastor, this is really hard for me to deal with. I've never lost a child." She said as her voice broke into silent sobs. I told her that I was not going to preach to her or quote any passages. Instead I would be happy to pray with her and be an ear for her to pour her troubles to. When I told her that, a feeling of relief washed over her weary face and she told me that was exactly what she needed.

Then she began describing what a lovely son she had and I felt tears well up in my eyes. He always had such good relationships with everyone. How special he was and would always help with the young ones. Then she slowly began to weep again. I told her that is was soon, but I knew several groups that dealt with mothers that have lost their sons or daughters to violence.

"That would be good." the mother said and began discussing funeral arrangements but before we could go into the matter any deeper she started to cry. She began to depict the body of her son. He was shot several times in the face until her was unrecognizable from what her nephew, who was at the murder scene, had witnessed. Then she continued conferring about the funeral arrangements although tears were streaming down her face and her voice was barely comprehensible.

"We don't have to do this today." I told her and tried to comfort her but she shook her head and said through her tears, "No, no, this has to be done. I have to do this." Although she was trying so hard to be strong, she was broken with grief from the loss of her son, and she began to weep profusely.