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BRUCE HIDDLE. He was a good-looking guy in his thirties, an electrical engineer for Washington Water Power. He had a sweet wife named Annie and two cute kids, Jamie and Josh. In May of 1990 he displayed a quiet peace and faith in the Lord that became an example to the rest of us.

Bruce and his family were returning from a visit with Annie’s folks in Electric City, driving a long, monotonous two-lane late at night. Bruce was at the wheel, Annie was on the passenger side, the kids were secured in child seats in the back.

The last thing Bruce remembers was the oncoming headlights of a large vehicle, most likely a truck. There was nothing amiss. The truck was in its own lane. They passed each other, going opposite directions.

And then Bruce woke up in a daze, in the dark, his body numb, slumped against his shoulder restraint. The kids in the back seat were screaming. Blood was streaming from his forehead and dripping off his chin. Beads of shattered windshield lay like gravel on the seats, in his lap, on top of the dashboard. The car was leaning precariously, apparently in a gully beside the highway. He reached for Annie, but felt rough wood. A twelve-inch log had come through the windshield and now lay where Annie’s head and shoulders should have been. He twisted around, trying to see the kids. They were spattered with blood, flesh, and Annie’s blonde hair.

A logging truck had lost part of its load just as the two vehicles passed. A log, perfectly timed and aimed, went through the windshield of Bruce’s car, missing Bruce and killing his wife. The truck driver pulled over and became incoherent when he saw what his lost load had done. Another motorist saw the wreck and went in search of a telephone.

I was working as dispatcher for the volunteer fire department that night and took the emergency call. I sent out the dispatch telling the volunteers there’d been a fatality accident, but I had no idea the accident involved a family from my church. When the aid crew arrived and radioed back, I got the news. By that time, Bruce and the kids had been trapped in their car for over an hour. Numb with shock, I remained at my post, coordinating communications and crews until Pete Sisson burst into the station and bumped me from my chair. “I’ll handle it. Get going.”

Bruce and the kids were airlifted to a hospital in Spokane, and that was where I found them. Bruce had broken ribs and facial lacerations. The kids had minor injuries from flying glass and seat restraints. He was coherent but we didn’t talk. There were no words, only shock and an insurmountable disbelief.

Annie was gone. Instantly. Before any of us could fathom that we had lost anything, she simply wasn’t there. We could not believe it that night. We could scarcely believe it the next morning. Shock did not give way to grief until well into the next day.

And then the questions came: With miles and miles of open road, why that truck, that car, together at that time in that place? Why was the accident so ruthlessly, savagely perfect?

Like everyone else, I drew upon my faith for comfort and tried to share that comfort as best I could. But inside, I was asking the same questions as everyone else, knowing there would never be answers.

There was no funeral, only a memorial service once Bruce had healed enough to attend. All who knew and loved Annie were there, and took turns sharing their thoughts and remembrances. I spoke briefly about the need to trust God in all circumstances, for his ways are unsearchable. I reminded everyone that Annie, knowing Jesus, was in a better place and just fine, but I could feel my insides quaking and I teetered on the brink of tears with every sentence. After we sang our last song, I stole quietly into a back room, sat down with my face in my hands, and lost it completely. Oh dear Lord, why? Why Annie? What’s Bruce going to do now? What about Josh and Jamie?

I didn’t hear anyone come in. I just felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a quiet whisper, “It’s okay. . . it’s okay.”

I reached up and touched the hand touching me , then looked into the scarred, black-and-blue face of Bruce Hiddle. He sat down, put his arms around my shoulders and let me cry, not saying another word. I was supposed to be the minister bringing comfort to the grieving, but I was drained of comfort. Bruce, a quiet serenity showing through his scars and his tears, was ready to share what he had.

In the months that followed, Bruce often got tearful, at any time, in any place, usually without warning, but he didn’t seem self-conscious about it. “It’s for Annie,” he would tell people. “Don’t worry, it’s just something I have to do.” The rest of the time, he was the friend, daddy, and brother we all cherished, with a glow about him that the scars and the stitches could not extinguish. The scars eventually faded. The glow still remains.

“It’s Jesus,” he always explained. “He knows the answers. He’ll work it out.”

Two years later, the Lord brought Libby McLane into Bruce’s life, and in the summer of 1992, they were wed in our little church on Elm Street. Josh and Jamie stood with their dad and their new mom as I performed the ceremony, and once again, I teetered on the brink of tears with every sentence.

“It’s okay,” Bruce whispered to me as he held his bride’s hand. “It’s okay.”