Faith-Filled Responses to Suicide

 

Writing for the Huff Po again today!

(Click on above to read.)



 

When Our Children Die

Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of the death of Joey Johnson.  Joey died unexpectedly, in the night, of a complication of epilepsy which I think his parents didn't even know existed.  His mother Karen writes eloquently about what it's like, at five years ~ or, at least, something of what it was like yesterday.

 

Zachary Shuck died nearly a year ago of suicide.  His father John also writes eloquently of what it's like at that point ~ or, at least, something of what it was like at 3:00 this morning.

 

I generally feel both ways.  Usually at the same time. 

 

 

 

Learn Law. Live Justice.

Today's post title comes from the motto of the Cleveland-Marshall College of Law.  We heard it repeatedly yesterday as our Matt was graduated cum laude.  It gave me tremendous cause to think about my own life.  But . . .

 

For now, I'm celebrating Matt, and our family.  If you've been a reader of this blog, then you know a little about what it has taken for all of us to reach this milestone.  I suppose that this particular graduation has a little extra significance for me.  When I went to law school, it simply seemed "the next thing" to do.  High school - check.  A.B. - check.  J.D. - check.  Now that I've observed the process from the outside, I have more appreciation for what it entails. 

 

And this particular process?  Matt came home that day we learned that his twin brother died and hasn't left.  He went to work as a server at Aladdin's for two years, pulling himself together and pondering the future.  (The legal job market being what it is, he's back there a couple of nights a week while he studies for the bar exam.)

 

And then: law school on a full merit scholarship, a summer studying international law in Russia, a summer clerking for a judge in Seychelles, and externships with the offices of the U.S. Attorney  and the County Public Defender. 

 

He's soaked up every aspect of legal education he could possibly have fit into the past three years, and he's done it well.   I am one very proud mother.


 

 

Question for the Day

 

In the almost-five years since we came face-to-face with catastrophe, our family has produced a B.A., an M.Div., an M.S.S.A., another J.D., and a potter.

 

(The latter is the quiet husband, who earned his M.S. many years ago, has worked hard ever since, and now may make the best contribution of any of us, in the form of art.)

 

So I'm wondering: if we could achieve all of that under the circumstances we've endured, what else might we be able to pull off?

 

 

 

Almost J.D.

As I said on FB, it's been a long time since a robe and hood like these hung in my hallway, newly pressed and awaiting the next day's law school graduation.  1979, to be exact.

 

Tomorrow Matt joins three generations of Craig law school graduates.  In order: my uncle, me, my cousin, and my half-brother.  Matt's the one named Williams, and I'm the one who went on to something else. 

 

I haven't practiced law since 2000, but as a pastor I use those lawyer skills every day: reading, analyzing, writing writing writing and, oh yeah, talking, in one form or another.  For the past two days, I've been preparing to lead the Ohio delegation to the annual American Foundation for Suicide Prevention D.C. Advocacy Forum ~ more lawyer skills at work.

 

Sometimes I wonder whether I will be called to use both sets of skills ~ ministerial and lawyerly ~ in service to the church.  Who knows?

 

I'm feeling a bit nostalgic today for the practice of law. 

 

But mostly, I'm very proud and excited, and looking not back, but ahead.

 

Yay, Matt!  Well done!

Sorting Hat: Ministry 1.75

We all know about the sorting hat, right?  The Harry Potter hat that lingers over the heads of the students at Hogwarts, sorting them into houses, offering each of them a first taste of identity and assigning to them a place in community?

Now that I've been pastoring for all of 1.75 years, I'm beginning to sense the process of sorting in my own life.  I confess, however, that it has felt more like that illustrated in the photo above:  blinding, confusing, baffling, and altogether too big for me.

When I hopped into my little red car (ok, so it's a Corolla, not a Fiat) and sped off to seminary nearly six years ago, I felt confident and energetic and brimming with hope.  And, indeed, despite that towering and utterly un-transfigured mountain named Greek, all worked out.  I made friends, did well academically, and found what looked to be my place in student life. 

And then Josh died.  The tsunami effect of a child's death by suicide is beyond description.  My efforts to articulate the consequences raging through my life can themselves be described only as a monumental failure.  But those aftereffects do include the tumultuous destruction of self-confidence and the bulldozing of energy and hope. 

 

And yet . . . je suis ici.  And thriving, in spite of myself.  Who would have ever guessed?

 

And beginning to sort through my successes and failures of the last 1.75 years, both personal and professional.

 

We have a brilliant general presbyter at the helm of our Presbytery, and one of the things to which she has committed herself is the development of first-call pastors.  The trickle-down effect is making itself felt, which means that I am settling more comfortably into the "strength-based leadership" she emphasizes.  (I wish someone had shared this with me when I was a young attorney all those centuries ago.  My son graduates from law school day after tomorrow, and I hope he listens!) 

 

Interestingly, my successes and failures run the gamut.  Surprising moments of triumph and equally surprising moments of defeat manifest themselves across the board.  It doesn't seem to matter whether I'm operating out of a momentary strength or a dash of weakness.

 

The difference seems to come to light in terms of how I feel about what's happened. (Ignatius would identify these movements as those of consolation and desolation.)  Especially in response to situations in which I know I could have done better.    If I'm functioning in an area in which my gifts are fairly limited, I tend to feel something along the lines of "whatever ~ thank God it's over."  If I'm roaming around a venue of strength, however, I find myself perking up, energized, wondering how I might improve upon what just went down, whether I might approach it differently next time, who else I might drag invite into the conversation.

 

My sorting hat is lifting itself into place, I do believe.  I'm going to be much more cognizant of my strengths and weaknesses, and begin to focus my efforts, unapologetically, on the former.

 

In the meantime, I "see" that as I ponder these brilliant thoughts, I have misplaced my glasses again.  I think that my strengths would be greatly enhanced by moving to a one-room house.

 

Unknown Soldier

This afternoon I presided over the funeral service of a woman whose name I had never heard until after she died, when a funeral director unknown to me gave me a call. 

She was in her late eighties, and she and her husband, who died last winter without any subsequent notice to their church (that would be my church), had apparently become estranged from everyone on their lives.  No children, but a few surviving siblings, their families, and an assisted living facility filled with people, with none of whom they maintained relationships.

In addition to my own congregants, I have visited with several people who live, or lived, in various forms of institutional care here, and who have at most a tangential relationship to our church.  They come to my attention one way or another, and I go to see them.  Sometimes I simply sit with them for awhile, sometimes several times over the course of weeks or months, because I believe that the dying should have companions, even ~ or perhaps especially ~ if they have no way of knowing who, or whether anyone, is present to them.

But this elderly couple did not come to my attention, which means that neither of them was ever even mentioned in a passing conversation.

How does this happen?

How can someone live into her eighties, become widowed, and slowly slip away, without anyone at all remarking upon her existence?

 

As it turned out, about twenty people did show up for her service, including two nurses who have cared for her for the past two years.  None of them were able to shed much light on her life.  In talking to everyone before the service, I learned that she had effectively severed all family ties, and that no one knows why.

 

The others who materialized were from a military veterans' group and from the United States Navy.  The lady in question had served in the WAVES during World War II.

 

Thank God for the gift of imagination.  My homily emerged from Psalm 139 ~ the God who accompanies us everywhere, the God to whom even the darkness ~ in this case, the darkness of the human heart and mind ~ is as light ~ and from my imaginings about her life.  She had once been an adventuresome girl who joined the Navy, she had had colleagues at a number of jobs,  and she has a large extended family.

 

The general consensus of those who spoke to me afterward was, in the words of one relative through another, "That gal did a great job, especially with nothing to work with."

 

But I did have a lot to work with.  Things happen. God loves, anyway.  God heals and restores.  It's a mystery.

 

That's the story.