I saw in the newspaper this morning the obituary of a 17-year-old boy. I didn’t recognize the boy’s picture at first because I hadn’t seen that boy in several years. But after a moment or two I realized that I knew him. When he was little he’d gone to Sunday school and Bible camp with our kids. When he was little he’d been a cutie. Happy, easy-going, talkative. Reading his obituary this morning brought a hollow sadness to my day.
The newspaper account said he died of self-inflicted injuries. And an even greater wave of sadness and loss washed over me.
Self-inflicted injuries. Translated: something in this boy’s life resulted in him feeling so overwhelmed, or sad, or lost, that at a moment in time death appeared to offer the best solution. And we–his family, his friends, everyone around him–were unable to intervene in time. So he died. Of self-inflicted injuries.
My mind has been stuck on this throughout the day. Partly because in a year full of suicides this one is the most recent. Partly because it’s almost Christmas time and death this time of the year always seems to hit a little bit harder.
I’ve been thinking about the term “self-inflicted,” and I keep coming back to the realization that one way or another most of the injuries I’ve ever endured have been self-inflicted. In fact, most of the pain of any kind that I have experienced has at some level been self-inflicted.
Whether injuries from doing too much, being careless, not taking care of myself, not paying attention, reacting without thinking. Most of my injuries over the years have been through some action, or inaction, on my part. It’s funny though, no one ever says, “I sprained my ankle. It was self-inflicted.” Or, “I broke my arm ice skating. Self-inflicted.”
But I think emotional pain is not unlike physical pain. Things happen which I may not have any control over. But I do control my reaction to them. And often the greater pain comes from my reaction to things than from the original event. I get angry and say what I don’t mean. What I know better than to say. I pull away from people who love me, and whom I love. I become fearful, and without seeing it, I start letting that fear control my life. One way or another, it seems like most of my emotional pain has been self-inflicted, too.
I’ve always pictured God standing nearby ready to give me a hug and make everything feel better as soon as I’m ready to turn that way. I’ve never thought of God as somehow withholding comfort from me because, after all, my injuries were self-inflicted. I think God is actually even more nurturing when my hurts have been at my own hand. Healing not only the injury but also the guilt, shame, and embarrassment that might come with those injuries. My problem has always been more that I have to wallow in that pain, and self-pity, for a while before turning to God to comfort me.
But when it comes to life-ending self-inflicted injuries we, the Church, have often stood in judgment and rigidity instead of offering that same comfort and healing that God offers to us. We stand off by ourselves shaking our heads and pointing fingers.
“It’s too bad,” we’ll say. “If only he hadn’t died. God can forgive anything if we repent and seek forgiveness. But when it’s a suicide…” and our voices will mumble on, bemoaning this latest tragedy. Because offering legalism and doctrine is easier than offering compassion and comfort. And isn’t the shame there ours?
My heart aches this evening for that 17-year-old boy. I keep swallowing back the tears, imagining the pain that might have resulted in the conclusion he made. Imagining the fear, the loneliness, the exhaustion that leads one to finally say, “Okay, I give up.”
My heart aches too for his parents. His siblings. Those left to grieve, to struggle with comprehending the incomprehensible.
And once again I come back to what I know to be true. My gratitude and faith in a loving God. Who isn’t far away at all. Who sees and knows all. Who feels our pain. Who walks with us in our loneliness. Who desires to carry our burdens, particularly those which seem overwhelming. Who beyond all else desires a close relationship with His imperfect kids. Who has always been quick to comfort and soothe my injuries and pains over the years. And who I believe greeted this boy with open arms and a kiss on the cheeks a couple days back. Hugging him and soothing him. Wiping his tears. Shushing him and telling him over and over again, “I know. I know. It’s okay. It’s okay. I know.”
The very same God who has always been there to kiss my hurts, I believe was there to kiss that boy’s too. And to welcome him Home. Because anything else, would be incomprehensible.
penniesonmypath 