

Blood On My Hands
My neighbor took his life a couple weeks ago. He lived across the street and spent most of his time sitting in his garage with the door open. He would sit there reading for hours whilst classical music played. By testimony of his wife and our other neighbor, he was a crotchety old man and had to always have things his way. Unknown to me he was also suffering from some illness and life was in his mind hardly worth living. His wife woke in the middle of the night and noticed he wasn’t in bed. She found he had gone into the bathroom; she was able to crack open the door just a little as his body had fallen at the door. He used a shotgun, which left a bloody mess and maybe it was his last effort to be selfish and inconsiderate. Life was all about him and apparently his death was too. He did n’t care about the horror his wife had to see; he was inconsiderate to the very end. I knew what he was like, but I should have approached him one time and told him of his need for Christ. No doubt he would have responded like he did to everything else in life. At least I convinced myself he would. Scripture says that if I warn people and they don’t respond, their blood is on their own hands. If I don’t warn them, then their soul is still required of them, but their blood is on my hands. I’m not so sure what that means. It’s just sounds like something I can’t pay.