Three years ago today, on September 18, 2022, we received news that our 22-year old nephew had taken his own life. We were stunned, shocked, saddened. There was a myriad of other emotions that are still too difficult to describe in words.
While all death is hard, death by suicide may be the hardest of all. There is all of the usual grief when someone dies. And also the painful awkwardness that comes when people ask, "What happened?" Suicide brings grief, shame, and a whole host of unanswered questions. The biggest question of all: "Why!?"
Why did he make this choice? Why did he not understand how much he was loved? Why did he not ask for help? Why didn't we notice the signs? Why!?
Three years later, there is still no answer to those questions. It still makes no sense. We'd been at our nephew's wedding just two months before his death. It was a beautiful celebration, full of joy, as he married the girl he'd been dating since high school. They were both in university, and he was just one class away from graduating. He already had a good job, doing what he loved, and they loved him. The night before they had entertained friends at their home. Even the people who saw him last had no idea what was coming.
The shock and grief were multiplied by the circumstances. I was just three weeks into recovery from a bizarre injury that had severed all three tendons in my left ankle, unable to walk and still healing from surgical scars. Because his parents lived overseas, far from an airport, it was a full day before they would arrive back in the US. That meant we had to bear the news alone, unable to share what had happened with family until they returned.
So that they could break the news in person to the rest of the family, we had to come up with invented reasons to gather them at our house, telling them it was urgent and important, but not the reason why. All of our pain paled in comparison to the grief and trauma of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, who had just lost their oldest son. Or my other two nephews, who had just lost their big brother.
Two days later, when we gathered to share with extended family, it was awful and painful yet again. The next few weeks were a blur of tears and sadness as we prepared for and traveled to multiple memorial services. As hundreds gathered and shared stories and memories, I kept thinking: "If he had only known how many people loved him this much, things would have been different."
I had frequent dreams where I called or emailed him to let him know how much he was loved, only to wake-up to the nightmare of the reality that I could never have that conversation with him. It was too late.
In December of that year Jan and I went to see It's a Wonderful Life performed live at the Barter Theater in Abingdon, Virginia. Like many people, I'd seen the movie multiple times. But somehow I'd forgotten the scene where George Bailey is standing on the bridge, convinced his whole life has been meaningless. He's about to jump into the icy waters and end it all.
But now I remembered that scene. Every part of me wanted to escape -- to avoid the scene I knew was coming -- but I was trapped in the middle of a theater aisle, in the darkness, unable to leave.
Grief is like that. One moment you can "forget" and imagine for a moment life is normal, only to have some small, unexpected trigger bring all of the grief flooding back again in an instant.
A few days after the play I recorded these words in my journal:
When George Bailey stood alone on that dark, cold bridge
bracing himself to leap into the abyss,
the angel Clarence plunged first into the icy deep
knowing that George would save him,
and, in so doing, would save himself.
Awash with new vision,
George arose from despair,
into a wonderful life
with those who loved him,
and those he loved in return.
Quietly, amidst their carols and laughter,
a small bell sounded,
as the angel Clarence gained his wings.
When Daniel stood alone,
there was no angel who went first,
no one for him to save,
so that in so doing,
he might save himself.
Now, awash with tears,
we wrestle to rise from despair
We grieve the loss of his wonderful life.
Amidst our tears and laments,
there is no bell to sound,
no angel gaining his wings.
Only the sound of silence.
And my unspoken thoughts.
I know I should be thinking about heaven,
but in my heart I keep crying out to God:
"Where in the hell was Clarence!?"
So much of my coaching is about helping leaders become more productive. But that's never the ultimate goal. It's the bridge to being present in the life of those we love.
We forget the importance of being fully present -- mentally and emotionally present, not just physically.
Perhaps the greatest gift you could give this month -- and every month -- is the gift of your fully-attentive presence, especially to someone in pain.
In the Bible the Greek word for angel means" messenger." That messenger can either be human or divine. By being fully present, you could be a Clarence for someone who needs it now more than ever.
A mentor once told me, "Behind every face there is a story." Behind so many faces, especially people in the high-risk years of late adolescence and early adulthood, are stories. Too often, those stories are full of anxiety, depression, and pain.
The painful irony is that Daniel took his own life during National Suicide Awareness Month, which happens every September, including this month.
It's too late for Daniel. But there are many more young adults like Daniel contemplating the same terrible choice. It's not too late for them.
