Too often we see people choosing a permanent solution for a temporary problem. I have seen it in my life. I see this in some of the school claims that I manage. We have all been touched by this.
Pain passes if you are patient.
My son's friend, Stephen, killed himself a week ago Friday. His funeral was yesterday. I hadn't spoken to the parents since I'd
heard the news. They were neighbors of mine for 18 years.
I was never close to the parents.
My ex husband got them in the divorce 15 years ago, and although we were
always friendly, we were not bonded neighbors.
Our political and spiritual differences were stark and divisive. When I
approached them, their child lying with folded hands in a coffin two feet away,
my heart broke in half for them. I
clutched the mother to me, tears streaming down my face, saying the only words
I knew to say. "I'm so sorry this
happened. I can't imagine your
pain."
I hugged all of my son's friends, hugged Stephen's brothers,
hugged a few of the parents who came to be supportive. When it came time to listen to the
memorialization of Stephen, the tears continued. Vague references were made to how Stephen
died, but mostly, the stories were about his helpfulness, his industriousness,
his intelligence and problem solving abilities.
I know his parents were proud. I
was proud.
The congregation in the church was mostly divided, with the pews
on the left side occupied by Stephen's friends and the pews on the right by
people his parents' age. I debated
whether or not I should step to the podium.
Public speaking has never frightened me. But this was different. This was not about Betty, this was about
those kids on the left side of the church, the young ones who I knew struggled,
some with the very issues Stephen struggled with. I pulled out my spiral notebook, always kept
in my purse in case of inspiration. I
decided that if I jotted down notes and could mentally put them into a form
that might be useful, I would speak.
I remembered a poem I had written when I was in the depths of
despair 12 years ago, my heart broken, my spirit crushed. That poem might work. I made a list of the things I remembered
about Stephen, things that fit with the tragedy lying in state three pews
away. This is what I said, speaking
almost entirely to the left side of the room:
"My life is an ocean
with waves of tears
and spaces of glassy calm.
My happiness radiates
evaporates
and fuels the cloudy storms.
The salty sorrow of my tears
rains down with deep delight
replenishing, renewing
the ocean of my life.
The pain is stark, searing my heart.
I stumble on my path;
Eviscerates,
capitulates,
and then, in time, does pass.
Pain passes.
Stephen chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Pain passes, if you can just be patient. When you are young, everything feels so permanent. You feel lonely and it feels like you will be lonely forever.
You won't be.
You fail a test and you feel like you will fail at everything forever, but you won't.
You will find success.
You drink too much and do something you regret and you feel like you will never learn, but you will.
You will learn.
You get your heart broken and feel like you will be alone forever, and the pain will never leave.
But it will.
Pain passes.
If you can just be patient.
Stephen spent 18 of his twenty years a block away from our house. The Quigleys had three boys of the same age as my three sons. Their phone number was 1 on our speed dial because if I couldn't find my sons, chances are they were at the Quigleys, and vice versa. Saturday mornings involved wading through half a dozen little boys draped all over my family room furniture, with one, two, and sometimes three Quigley boys. My sons often stayed at their house, too, accompanying them to this very church on Sunday mornings.
Stephen was industrious and polite. I think he shoveled the snow in my driveway more often than my own sons, because he would actually do it and not whine about it.
When I moved from Wyoming 6 months ago, his brother was one of my helpers. Stephen had broken his foot, and Facebook messaged his apologies. He stopped by with a bunch of Kevin's friends to say goodbye to the Waite estate after the last of the boxes were loaded onto the truck. I hadn't seen him in over a year. He had grown so tall, towering over me. His hair was blonde, his face had filled out to the face of a young man. A beautiful young man. I almost didn't recognize him. I hugged him when it was time for them to go, told him I was proud of him.
Stephen has now tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge. He knows now what we can all only wonder about. Stephen never shared his troubles with me. I hope that the fruit of that tree has finally brought him peace."
Afterwards, I was throwing my plate away after sampling all of Stephen's favorite foods, lovingly prepared by the ladies of the church, Stephen's mom pulled me aside and hugged me. Her speech had been a thank you to all of the other women of the church who had been a mom to Stephen.
"Betty, thank you for sharing today. You know, you were one of Stephen's mom's, too. I didn't say it earlier, but I should have. You were there, all these years."
I hugged her, fighting back the tears again, nodding. "And you were another mom to mine. It takes a village. Thanks for being part of mine. And my children's."
And now, life goes on. That's the hardest part to figure out how to do. Life goes on. And there but for the grace of God, go I.
