I put them on the bus. Four beautiful teenagers. They were filled with life, they were filled with joy, they were filled with hope. Their lives stretched out before them as far as the horizon. They couldn't see that, though; they were all just looking forward to visiting their good friend Shana whom they hadn't seen in almost a year.

They were so excited to go. Amanda with her golden hair and demure countenance. Angela in sandals and with her mile wide smile. Mike and Megan off to the side and engrossed in some intense conversation. They were so alive.

I had been so worried about doing the responsible Dad thing - I called the other parents, I called the bus station for schedules, I called Paul Lawler to make sure he knew when to be there to pick up the kids.

I figured that if I could just get them on the right bus, at the right time, pointed in the right direction, and another Dad was at the receiving end to get them off, well, then the worst of my worries would be over.

The next time I saw my son he had tubes sticking out of his face. And his abdomen was being held together with steel staples. I never saw the girls again. Because Angie and I had to stay with Mike at the hospital, and I had to stay with him when we got home, I never got to be at Megan's funeral, and I never got to be at Angela's funeral, and I never got to be at Amanda's funeral. But I did get to go to Shana's funeral. The Lawlers had graciously brought Shana back home to New Jersey, because she had so many friends there. Unfortunately I had never met Shana before then. The first time I got to meet her, she was wearing her blue jean overalls and was lying in her casket.

And when I lie in my bed, awake at night, I wonder how all of this could have happened. How could all of this be allowed to happen? Who could just one person, in one drunken, murderous moment, cause so much carnage??

When I see my son Mike at home with us, I thank God that somehow, He saw fit to give Mike back to his mother and me.

But when I stare into the vacant eyes of eight other parents, and their surviving children, I see their pain. When I meet with them over coffee at their houses and we talk about next week's MADD meeting, or how to plan a charity fund raiser, I know their pain. When I put my arms around their shoulders and hug them, I feel their pain. And, I feel their pain because I put their children on the bus.