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One of the most
emotionally draining columns I have written was a piece about the funeral of two
teenage brothers killed by a drunk driver near Thanksgiving of 1997. Despite
belonging to the same church, I did not know the boys. Still, I thought their
story would make for a strong lesson on drinking and driving so decided to go.
Perhaps it
wasn’t exactly a mistake, but I made a vow to never again attend a funeral in
order to write of it for any reason, regardless how noble. I was a blubbering
wreck for the rest of the evening, unable to eat dinner or carry on a coherent
conversation. My children, then 10 and 11, seemed confused, perhaps even a
little frightened by my state; it was a week before I could get it out of my
mind.
We are not
supposed to outlive our children. Where is this written? I don’t know that it
is; I do know that the notion seems to offend the natural order of things, at
least as we in late 1990s America understand it. As the century began, however,
the average life span at birth was only about 45 years. This was due largely to
a child mortality rate that we would now find horrific, but it was simply the
way it was for the people of the time.
And the way it
is today in many parts of the world. Several years ago my wife and I spent a
month in western Africa visiting her brother, then a Peace Corps volunteer. I
was struck by the fact that some tribes did not consider a child fully a person
until the age of five due to the high likelihood of their death before that
time. I know the people love their children as much as we do, and as much as
our turn of the century forebears did. The custom is but a way to cope with a
painful reality.
It is not my
intent to depress anyone, nor do I spend an inordinate amount of time fretting
about early death. I’ll admit to being something of a worrywart about my kids,
although we do not keep them in a cocoon. We have had mercifully few trips to
the emergency room and no serious illnesses. Still, as with most parents, the
prospect of either is troubling. The notion of their loss is unfathomable.
I think of
these things because of the death from leukemia of a 14 year-old boy who
attended my children’s school. My kids are new there this year and the boy had
been unable to start the semester due to declining health. Like the brothers
who inspired my 1997 column, he attended our church but we do not know the
family. My daughter knew him slightly from youth services; my son has classes
with his brother.
The boy’s
father spoke in church the day I write this, though I don’t think I’ll run it
for a while. I held my column two years ago for over a month to sort out my
feelings and to make sure I did my best to capture what the brothers were and
what they left. While some thoughts are best written fresh, they can also gain
from the tempering touch of time.
Clearly the man would not have chosen this fate for his son. But as I have
observed with other parents in his situation, he wouldn’t have missed the
experience of loving the boy he had for no matter how short a season. Nor did
he see that life as having been lost, but as one that was used wonderfully by
God in ways too many and too wonderful to be done justice by a stranger in one
short column.
There is, however, a message in this beautiful young life for all of us, friend,
family, or stranger: Love each other, live for each other, and don’t wait to
start. Of the many guarantees this life lacks, topping the list is “tomorrow.”
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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