Today, the roads were icy and dangerous - so dangerous that a dear younger acquaintance of mine who graduated from the same high school as myself was killed earlier today during a car accident. Taylor Roark was his name. He played baseball at Sylvan Hills (in Sherwood, Arkansas) for many years before entering college at Henderson State University in order to play baseball. I’ve umpired baseball out at Sylvan Hills for almost ten years of my own short life. Taylor was a catcher. As baseball players understand, umpires form somewhat of a bond with their catchers - probably because they’re both stuck back behind the plate the whole game with not much to do except shoot the breeze. In the few games that I umpired behind the plate with Taylor as catcher, I got to know him as being a respectful, talented, funny and deeply passionate baseball player. Considering that my time with Taylor was limited to the baseball field, I can only imagine how that passion stretched to other facets of his life, such as friends, family and school. Earlier in the school year, I wrote to both Taylor and Garrett (by facebook) that I wanted to have them over and cook dinner for them some night to kind of welcome them to Arkadelphia. We never got around to it. I regret that now.
Of course, my regret won’t change anything. Neither will the whole other set of emotions and fears against which my mind and spirit battle. I didn’t know Taylor very well. Yet as little as I knew him, I liked him - and his death is certainly a profound enough event to invoke my heart to sorrow - for many reasons. Perhaps because he was so young and inexperienced with life. Perhaps because the world has lost a talented baseball player. Perhaps because I recognize the nature of the heartfelt posts written on his wall in his honor - they try to remain positive; but deep down, they’re all hurting badly. Or perhaps it’s something else at least in part:
Truthfully, the startling finality of death is such a sobering reality that it often causes an irreversible solemnity birthed in the hearts of those who feel its sting. Why? Because with each death experienced, a person is reminded of the fact that his/her life itself is nothing more than mist that appears among billions in this long history of humanity. And some day, that mist will end. That’s what we fight against. That’s why it hurts so terribly. It’s not just the loss of a dear friend, brother, son, or teammate. It’s the knowledge that, all of a sudden, all that we know is brought into question and irreconcilable change. It’s the awful reality of knowing that we’re just as vulnerable. We’re just as close. We’re just as uncertain.
And then comes the issue of eternity - and eventually the subject of God. I won’t spend this time asserting a certain position concerning my own belief in God. That wouldn’t be right. However, what is right is this: we all better be sure of what we believe concerning this whole God thing. Because if this dark tragedy has taught us anything, it has taught us that life is not guaranteed. There is no promise. Plans can be (and often are) broken.
Thus, to return right back to our lives as before with no more of an enlightened sense of purpose or duty or God would be even more tragic. Because then, Taylor’s death meant nothing. We honor him by learning from his story and his end. We honor him by living life to its fullest - having no regrets. And by this, I don’t mean engaging in some meaningless, reckless activity that does nothing more than dull the inevitable pain that each of us will continue to feel. What I mean is doing the hard work of searching out Truth and finding meaning in life - a venture that finds its end in a life devoted to loving, serving, and enriching the lives of other people, finding oneself to be in the very will and intention and pleasure of God Almighty.
My prayers and active support rest with the family and friends of Taylor Roark
SRay
