Recently, a young boy was killed just a couple of miles from our church building. He was struck by a school bus. There was no negligence on the driver’s part—just a tragic, unforeseeable accident that no one could have prevented.

When such things happen, we often find ourselves at a loss for words. Our faith can describe heaven and hell, right and wrong, sin and forgiveness—but it struggles to name what is simply awful. We try to make sense of it, to assign meaning or cause, but tragedy often refuses to teach us on command. It just stands there, unyielding.

What we can do is recognize that no two people experience such loss in the same way. Every tragedy has a circle of sightlines, and each one must find its own way to cope and heal.

1. The Family

For the family, this is not a headline—it is a wound that does not close. There are empty chairs, school clothes hanging unworn, routines suddenly hollow. Nothing will make sense for a long time. Words of comfort feel thin against the gravity of absence.

What they need most is presence, not explanation. Someone who sits, prays, brings food, or simply listens. Healing begins when they realize they are not alone. Faith here is not about quick assurance but about enduring trust—the kind that whispers, “God, hold us until we can breathe again.”

2. The Driver

Few people suffer in silence more than the one who was involved but not at fault. The driver carries a memory that cannot be undone, a question that cannot be answered: “Why did this have to happen while I was there?”

The human instinct is to assign guilt, but this is a case where guilt has no rightful place. The best way to help is to affirm that truth gently but repeatedly. The driver must be allowed to grieve without being forced to bear false blame. God understands innocent suffering—His Son endured the same world of undeserved pain.

3. The Witnesses

Those who saw the accident—children, neighbors, bystanders—will remember every sound, every instant. Their minds will replay it, trying to rearrange the sequence toward a different ending.

For them, healing comes through naming what they saw and how it felt. Communities can help by giving space to talk, to pray together, or to sit quietly before God. The mind must learn that memory and guilt are not the same thing. The heart must learn that faith is not the denial of fear but the courage to hand fear back to God.

4. The Community

For the larger community, this event becomes a mirror. We are reminded that life is fragile, that safety is never absolute, and that we live daily by mercy more than by management.

Our task is to walk beside those most affected and to resist the need to explain everything. Instead, we can make small, faithful responses—prayer gatherings, support funds, memorials, practical help for both families. These are not solutions; they are the language of love spoken in the face of silence.

Tragedy tests a town’s soul. It asks whether we still believe that compassion is stronger than despair.

5. God

Only God sees the entire field—the moment of death, the moment beyond it, and every life touched in between. We ask why, but He may only answer with who: “I am with you.”

For the believer, comfort lies not in explanation but in proximity. The child now rests in that presence perfectly. God alone can hold the sorrow of all involved—the parents’ grief, the driver’s anguish, the community’s confusion—and still promise redemption.

What Can I Do/Say?

A. Speak with care. We cannot say everything there is to say to everyone at the same time. True comfort depends on knowing who we are speaking to and what they are ready to hear.

B. Rest in what is certain. The child is with God, safely at rest. That truth may not erase pain, but it gives pain a horizon.

C. Help others live forward. Healing means learning to live again, differently but intentionally, with compassion born from sorrow.

D. Let tragedy deepen your prayer life. No matter who you are in this story—family, driver, witness, or neighbor—let this loss move you closer to God. Drawing near to Him is the only lasting good that can come from any tragedy.

On a personal note, my wife and I have twelve grandchildren. The night this happened, I prayed for each one by name. That prayer did not remove the ache, but it reminded me that every breath, every ride home from school, every ordinary day, is a mercy.