(Stacy’s family, before the accident)
I tend to bash religion often on this blog, to the delight of some and the anger of others. I get both sides, obviously, but let me say that it’s not as if faith serves no purpose.
Take, for example, Siran Stacy.
Back in the mid-1990s, Stacy was a star running back at the University of Alabama. He was tabbed by the Eagles in the second round of the 1995 Draft, lasted one season, then hung in the World League for a spell. In 2000 he quit the game to take a desk job in the corporate world.
Hey, one does what he has to.
Then, everything—truly, everything—shattered.
On a nightmarish day in November 2007, the Stacy’s family van was struck by a drunk driver one mile from their home. Stacy, his wife Ellen (36), his son Bronson (10), his daughters Lequisa (18), Sydney (9), Shelly (4), and Ellie Ann-Marie (2), were all in the vehicle that night. Only Stacy and Shelly survived.
For a moment, put yourself in the shoes of Siran Stacy. What do you do? Your wife—gone. Your kids—gone. Your meaning and purpose—over. What do you do? How do you feel? Is it even remotely possible to go on? To move forward? To exist? I’ve thought about this many times with my own family. How would I react, were my wife and children to, say, die in a plane crash without me? Would I find a way through the pain, or would I lie down after downing 200 Advils?
I don’t know. I genuinely don’t.
Well, here’s what Siran Stacy did. He started his own ministry, where he travels the nation speaking to various groups about survival and tragedy and Jesus. We don’t share a faith, obviously, but it’s hard to say anything but tremendous things about such a person.
