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Roger Rose said that when he was a boy, his family lived on a farm alongside a dirt road. Only on rare occasions would an automobile pass by. But one day as Roger’s young brother was crossing the road on his bicycle, a car came roaring down a nearby hill, struck the boy, and killed him. Roger said, "Later, when my father picked up the mangled, twisted bike, I heard him sob out loud for the first time in my life. He carried it to the barn and placed it in a spot we seldom used.

Father’s terrible sorrow eased with the passing of time, but for many years whenever he saw that bike, tears began streaming down his face." Roger continued, "Since then I have often prayed, `Lord, keep the memory of Your death as fresh as that to me!

Every time I partake of Your memorial supper, let my heart be stirred as though You died only yesterday. Never let the observing of the Lord’s Supper become a mere formality, but always a tender and touching experience.’"