Back in the Summer of 2002, on a whim, I decided to fill a last-minute vacancy on a trip to Jamaica on what would be my first mission trip. It was on this trip that I met James.

The people at the camp where we were staying said, “You have to make sure you meet James.” If you didn’t know James or his story, you’d think he was just a normal 20-year-old guy. I met him in the local infirmary, a place that can only be described as a combination between a retirement home, a mental institution, and a hospital for the terminally sick. It was odd to me to meet James. I had met several Jamaicans who were very sick, many of whom couldn’t speak. Most of them were very old and could barely even move. I was walking through the place a whirlwind of emotion. I’d never really seen anything like this before. Walking through the halls, greeting the residents who barely acknowledged me, I rounded a corner and saw a young guy sitting on the edge of his bed. He struggled to reach out to shake my hand and said, “Hi – my name is James.”

I introduced myself, and James invited me to sit down. I sat on the floor with my back to the wall. Before I could get a word out, he said, “Let me tell you a story.”

James was 20 years old. When he was young, he had a fascination with cars. He told me that he couldn’t wait until the day he could drive. His father abused his mother, and many times he would escape outside the house and go right to the car – dreaming of the day he’d be able to drive away. When James was 7 years old, he had gone outside and the hood of his father’s car was up. He was mesmerized by the inner workings of the car. He leaned into the car to take a closer look. His father emerged from the house in a fit of rage, found him at the car, and proceeded to hit him repeatedly in the head with a hammer. James suffered permanent brain damage, and was left lying there. He was picked up by a stranger and taken to the infirmary, where he still sits today. He can’t walk, and has limited mobility in his arms.

I found myself crying profusely during James’ story, but it was what he told me next that hit me like a ton of bricks.

He said, “Don’t cry for me. A lot of people have cried for me. I wonder so many times what it would be like to not be here. But I’m here, and I deal with it. It’s hard, but once I started reading the Word of God, things started to make sense. That doesn’t mean I understand it, but it means I still have hope. I why I’m here – because God wants me here. For some reason.” It’s worth mentioning here that I was unsaved at this point. I didn’t have a relationship with Jesus. James’ words were equally confusing to me as they were profound.

We talked for a while about what it was like living there, if he’s had any communication with his parents (he hasn’t – they are both deceased), and what life is like in the United States. As we talked, someone from the group came in and told me it was time to load the bus. I told James what a privilege it was to meet him, how much his story touched me, and that I’d be praying for him. As I started to leave, he hit me with this: “Friend, the greatest tragedy in life is to be alive and not know why.”

WOW. I ask you today – why are you alive? Do you know? Have you ever really considered that question? Later this week, we’ll explore that question and the massive implications of the answer. Until then, I ask you again: Why are you alive?