A Series of Goodbyes, Part 3 - The Close Cousin

On Saturday, September 18, Tiffany and I got in the car and began our drive down to Columbia, MO.  We had been planning this trip for several months, having set up several meetings to share with people down there about the ministry we are preparing for.  We were excited, looking forward to what promised to be a busy and rewarding weekend.  Our emotions were rocked, however, when the phone rang about an hour and a half into our drive.  My mom was calling, so I answered.

"Hello"

"Luke!  It's Ma."

"Hey, Ma."

"Hey, I've got some bad news coming down from Chicago."

pause

"K..."

"Your cousin Michael was hit by a train and killed last night.  We don't know any details, but he was not in a car."

It is only by the grace of God that I managed to keep the car on the road.  My mind was racing.  What do you do with this information?  Did this really happen?  People getting hit by trains only happens in movies, right?  This can't be real.

But, it is real.  So very, very real.

Michael James Rauen was born in mid-July, 1987.  Being about a year and a half younger than my younger brother Andrew, Mike was the first cousin born on my mom's side of the family.  In all, there are now 16 of us... he was number 5.  The thing about our family, though, is that all of the cousins are like siblings.  We may not talk all the time, but we know that we are always there for each other.  Whenever we get together, it's as though we never really left.  So, when people ask if I was close to Mike, all I want to say is, "He's family."  For us, that's all that matters.

Mike walked with us for 23 years.  His life wasn't always easy, but life never is.  He didn't always make the best choices, but nobody ever does.  Through it all, he was a good kid.

He was passionate, smart, and kind.

His faith was real, and his love was deep.

We hear stories of people dying and only a handful of people making it to the funeral.  We hear stories of people who lived in obscurity and died without anybody knowing.  Mike is not one of them.  The line at the visitation went out the door and down the street for 6 hours, and only stopped when the funeral director stopped allowing people to get in line.  The sanctuary was packed during the service.  The funeral procession to the cemetery was at least 40 cars long... we don't know the exact number, as it was too long to see all of and count.

Mike's impact on those who got to know him is undeniable.  But knowing all this does not make the loss any less painful.

All I want to do is be able to see him one more time.

To laugh with him again.

To give him a hug and tell him I love him.

Goodbye, Mike.  I'm sorry I never got to tell you how excited (and scared) I was for you when you joined the Marines.  I'm sorry I never got to tell you how proud of you I am.  There are so many conversations I've wanted to have with you, but now I won't get that chance.  There were times when I saw or heard something about you and shook my head, or laughed, or said, "That's Mike."  There were times when I came across a joke, or a poem, or something Irish, and said, "Mike would love this."  I'm glad I got to be a part of your ceremony, though I wish you could have been there with us.  It was beautiful.  You were a good man, Mike, and I miss you so much.