Apostolic Friends Forum

Little Marcos

The telephone rang, and at the other end of the line I could hear screaming and crying. The voice was that of one of our pastors. “Missionary, get here as fast as you can, our son has been hit and killed by a semi-truck. I’m calling you from the hospital, but you can come directly from the house, since it will take you four hours to get here."
I hung up the phone and fell to my knees in tearful prayers. Yes, I would go. Brother Alvear and Brother and Sister Carroll who were visiting from the States had just gone to the church near our house to begin evening service. I slowly walked over to the church to talk to Brother Alvear. He said: "Take Brother and Sister George with you, so you will not be alone." I knew that he would want me to go, for that was the couple that I had won to the Lord many years ago.
When we arrived at the church, the people of the village had already gathered in. It was around midnight. The casket was in the middle of the church, and the chairs down the sides. I put my arms around her and told her that I was sorry that this had happened. We prayed. Only God can comfort the heart in such a dark and lonely hour. In Brazil and most South American countries they do not embalm the dead. Consequently, they must be buried within twenty-four hours. That is the law. The people have a custom of sitting up with the body all night. This is called a wake.
When I put my arms around Sister Wilma, she said, "Go with me to look at Marcos again, missionary." He was cold and silent. The force of the truck hitting him, and dragging his little body would have probably meant a closed casket in the States, but not so in this case. He was bandaged and patched up as good as the doctors could do. Life is not valued much here, so really it was just one more death to the hospital. His casket was made form ply board, but the kind funeral director had put flowers around his little tore up body.
He was eight years old, and he was my son Michael's friend. When we had visited up there several months before, we had bought him and Michael little toy flutes. They had played them in church while they were there. That next week, we were having a conference and Sister Wilma and Brother Jose always helped cook at the conferences. So they were busy making plans for that, when the tragedy struck.
Sister Wilma said: "Will you come with me missionary?" As she took my hand, and we went to their little house behind the church. We went into Marcos' room where she showed me his little suitcase he had packed to come to convention. On top of his clothes was his flute. Through tears she told me that he had told her he was going to stay at the missionary's house, so he could play the flute to her. We wiped our eyes. "Sister Wilma," I said, "He can no longer play this flute, but in heaven I imagine Jesus will give him the prettiest flute there."
We returned to the church. They had made plans for the early morning to take his little body over to the church. Brother Jose and Sister Wilma Roberto worked out of our Sao Joao Church. It was a long drive. Brother Alvear and the Carroll family were waiting on us when we arrived.
When we had the funeral at he Sao Joao Church, Brother Jose got up before the crowd and said: "Weep not for my son, but weep for the souls of the lost." On and on he talked. I sat transformed and amazed by how comforted they were by God's presence. Since they knew Jesus, they had hope of seeing little Marcos again. We followed the long funeral march to the cemetery. We stood watching as they lowered the little flower-covered coffin into the grave. People began throwing handfuls of dirt into the grave. You could hear sobbing mingled with the thudding of the falling dirt as it struck the little box. For Marcos, all was over until resurrection morning, when he and a host of other blood-washed saints will rise to meet the Lord. What a glad reunion day that will be.
But, life does not stop for heartache. Brother Jose and Sister Wilma rejoice that they have the privilege of taking the Name of Jesus farther into the darkness.