I lost two friends from home in a car accident over the weekend. I played baseball with one and graduated with the other. They were a part of my childhood. They were a part of my memories growing up in a small town in Missouri.
My first reaction to the news was one of anger and confusion. Here I am, a long way from the cornfields and ball fields of my youth, and for the second time in three years I receive news that home won’t be the same the next time I visit. “This isn’t part of the deal,” I thought, “I can go away, I can change, but my small town, my home can’t.”
I was wrong. My town has changed. It’s now missing two people who made it what it was.
In a certain way, however, I know that my town today isn’t any different than the one I grew up in. I’m sure that its citizens had their share of heartbreak and tragedy when I was a kid. I was simply too young and too innocent to realize it.
Paul says that we are one bread, one body. As a child, I thought that simply meant we all rejoice together, we all succeed together. Now I see we all suffer, we all mourn together, as well. This week, Plattsburg, Missouri, that town I hold so dear, is doing just that.
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