Nothing has ever been this difficult.
Walking up to the winding line, students kept finding me. Their faces red from crying, sniffling, smiling to console me for something I knew I was not prepared to happen. Though I was friendly, I did not want to talk, nor listen. I came to see John, and to face his parents to tell him that he is the best young man I have ever known. I did not have the strength to do either of these, but knew that was okay.
But I am glad those graduates found me; they silenced the creeping, increasing anxiety as weeping began to well inside me, flooding, rushing upward. For those moments I rested on their stories of dorms, classes, memories from last year, games we would play and books we would read. I drew nearer and nearer. They saw the path before me that they had already trod, so they parted before I came to Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks. That dear woman, with strength I will never have, pulled me into a hug and thanked me for being there, and whispered that John loved me and talked of me with gladness. John’s best friend, though at such a young age, was a man to idolize: so powerful in grief, standing there while his greatest friend lie there, appreciating those who came to say goodbye though none of us is ready to do so. But when I hugged his father, I could not stop saying, “I’m sorry.” He thanked me for coming, told me that John loved me. It took great effort to refrain from crying, but I could not.
John’s parents thanked me?
No, Joe and Kaye: thank you for raising the best young man I have ever known.
I wish I could have been Coach Warren, standing like a bulwark, surrounded by a dozen students in case one of them needed him to lean on. I hurried out the door, but was caught by the parent of a former student, who too was smiling. “I talked to John not long ago,” she began. “He said that you gave him homework on a snow day. ‘He gave you homework on your snow day!? Well, you do like Mr. Bailey, don’t you?’ John smiled, shook his head, ‘I love Mr. Bailey.’ Those were his words. I thought you might want to know he said that not too long ago.” I thanked her and kept rushing to the door, out into the cold dark, past the parked cars, feeling the inevitable, removing my glasses.
People keep asking me if I am okay. Sisters, counselors, friends, peers, students. Over a thousand times: “Are you okay? We’re here if you need us.” The question started to gall me. After all, I thought I was doing okay, at least well enough for now. I knew things would soon enough fall apart; I could feel grief stirring. My wife has kept a kind, gracious distance, as has my mother; they know how I isolate myself when I mourn, and anger is my reaction. They know me well enough to know that I will come to them when I’m ready, but will demand me to open up if I never seem to become ready. My son keeps asking why I’m hugging him so tightly.
Am I okay? What an absurd question, yet it is the same one I keep asking these students who slip between my fingers, ungraspable, grief I cannot touch to heal. Is this a thing that people are supposed to say? Can we not come up with a better question, one that does not feel so empty?
I got back to the car, and as soon as I hit the seat I wept. I don’t think I wept that much when my father passed away. I forced myself to stop so I could drive home; that fearful weeping is still there, pressed down, ready for when I need to grieve again.
So no. No. I’m not okay. But right now, that’s okay.
I came home, snuck into my son’s room, lay down beside him, kissed his sweet face, and held him, never wanting to let go. He sleeps so soundly, never waking even to my sniffling by his little ears.
I have dozens of students who are not okay right now. People ask them if they are, but they nod or smirk or say they are doing fine, just like I do. They are not okay, but right now, that’s okay. We all know that we are not okay.
I only knew John Hendricks for 18 weeks, and these have been some of the best weeks of my life. In confidence, I have told his 4th period AP Literature class that they are the best class I have ever had the good pleasure to teach. More than last year’s 8th period AP Literature; more than my Muhlenberg County Fantasy Literature class. There is something particularly special about these brilliant, friendly, good-humored, creative, articulate, wonderful people: especially when they are together.
One of the hallmarks of an unbreakable friendship is the capacity to seamlessly switch between gravity and levity, seriously plunging the depths of life’s meaning before turning everything into jest, laughing and crafting inside jokes, weaving to and from humor and hearty truths until something beautiful is threaded. That is what 4th period is like every day; 20 of us laughing, or not quite 20. A few shake their heads, wondering when we will get back on track, and sometimes we never do, especially once Mrs. Lillard’s class Christmas Caroled us. Before they barged in my room unannounced, we were reading the heaviest of material, and John was right in the middle of a sentence. After they left, John tried to read the sentence eight times. Eight times he was interrupted by our plots and scheming. Eight times he patiently smiled, waiting for us to return to the page. Eight times he waited for me to do what I was helpless to prevent: heartily, vengefully, we marched into Mrs. Lillard’s room and sang a rousing rendition of “We Will Rock You.” Rock them we did, with the help of 20 beats of spotless percussion as I pitifully screeched Freddie Mercury.
As always, John was in the center of this, ready to read the deepest and heaviest things AP Literature could muster, but then joining in the joy of another spontaneous spoof. One of my favorite running jokes was when they were revising one another’s essays in the computer lab. Costello was having a tough time formatting his paper, and John graciously leaned over and managed every nook and cranny of the word processor, and with a sort of humble awe, Costello said, “Man, John, you really know your way around Google Docs.” I cannot count how many times that phrase was uttered, and in nearly every paper he wrote I always left that comment somewhere in the margins. With his trademark discipline, John managed to revise two or three papers that day while crying from laughter as Costello and I relentlessly commented on his expertise with Google Docs.
Sean Simpson and I waste a good 10 minutes each day riffing off one another, and never once have I lamented the fact that 4th period is a day or two behind their counterparts. One of the greatest hallmarks of our absurdities was John’s laugh. It was an unspoken rule between Sean and I that if we got John to begin laughing, which was not hard, then it was a class worth having. While he could be more fiercely serious than anyone, John could so easily burst into a laughter; like the sun peeking over the horizon, filling earth with a thousand bright hues of countless colors. Sean and I could not help ourselves; we kept joking, and John kept laughing: bent doubly, squealing, convulsing uncontrollably, rubbing tears from his eyes, trying to hold it in which only made odder sounds shoot forth as we all stared amicably at him, in awe of one of humanity’s most unique and legendary laughs. Minutes later, we would finally get to discussion and instruction: then here came John’s laugh again, remembering something that the rest of us had already forgotten. Sarah Beth and Nate laughed more at John than at Sean and I. Austin Edwards looked almost disappointed at Sean and my constant distraction, but smirks would inevitably emerge.
That seat, at Nate’s right hand, will always be empty. I promised them that we would still laugh, and still have a good time in the months to come. But if these 42 minutes will never be the same again, what about our lives? What about those who have known John for more than 18 weeks?
John was frustrated that high schools, even ours, offered so little opportunities to serve the downtrodden, needy, and helpless. A couple of years ago he won an essay contest (which he was in the habit of doing) for Optimist, a worldwide volunteer and service-oriented organization. He reached out to Russellville’s Optimist coordinator, Marie Gamble, and, after already having done the research, John pitched the idea of chartering an Optimist club at LCHS. He needed a sponsor, and so asked me. I told him that I am busy, but will put my name by it if that is all he needed. John smiled, because he already had a myriad of ideas, and said that my name was all he needed. John wrote the bylaws himself; not wanting to reinvent the wheel, he researched the organizations already present in Logan County that needed assistance. Last Saturday he and a fellow student put over 70 boxes of items in a trailer to send to the needy in our region. I remember watching him at the first meeting. I sat down, like a fool of a student, and cracked a couple of jokes when an awkward moment arose. With a smile on his face and excited energy coursing through him, John gave an immaculate presentation, propelled by the idea of serving those who need to receive the love of one’s neighbor. The room was a third full in the first meeting; half full during the second. John thought they all came because they wanted to serve. That may be partially true; the reason reason they came was because John was leading them, and they all know following John would lead to places worth going (today, at least two people signed up to volunteer, in memory of John). His voice was gentle, kind, full of promise. He stood in front of the room, slightly to the side, pointing out all the important details we needed to know, letting the club and service projects be the focus instead of him. But all of us knew better, even if he didn’t. We all looked up at him. We all looked up to him. He stood there with his hands on his waist, exactly like Superman. If anyone had ever watched him run, John could move almost as quickly as Superman. But the stance those two shared: erect from head to toe, hands on waist, face looking slightly up as though seeing into the distance while filled with hope, eyes noticing what the rest of us could not, tasting the humble fruits of what it means to live a righteous life given over to others. In that singular moment, I knew that I was watching unfold before me the life of the best young man I have ever known.
Friday morning I walked into a dark room and saw a tin container of cookies on my stool with a card taped to it. As usual, I was late to morning duty and could feel the pressure of Mr. Hoots’ sigh as I passed tardily by. Still, I opened the envelope, and despite the darkness, I read the fine script by the faint morning light peaking through the blinds:
“Mr. Bailey,
Thank you so much for your help with my recommendation and with Junior Optimist. I have thoroughly enjoyed having you as a teacher this year, and I’m looking forward to the rest of the semester! Thank you, and have a wonderful Christmas!
John Hendricks”
John left this gift Thursday afternoon, before heading to meet Mrs. Gamble (where they would discuss plans for Optimist, John’s short and long term goals, the happenings of Christmas break). I took my son to the doctor that Thursday afternoon, and normally would have stayed until 4:30-5:00. Would John have dropped it off by 5:00? Would he have left it in my hands? What would I have said? What would he have said? Still, on that card, John thanked me.
John thanked me?
After reading it, I smiled, shook my head, muttered to myself, “So exceptional... Thank you, John.”
I cannot talk about the rest of that day, and I never want to again.
Robie Malcomson, a dear friend and fellow teacher, has exchanged a series of emails with me. We both feel helpless; we both want to be around our students; we both want words to heal, as though we could cast some spells to heal pain that strikes chords far deeper than we have ever heard, that plunges into depths far below that which we knew were there. Mrs. Gamble, a former crisis management worker, spoke to my 4th period class and the Optimist club today. She encouraged us to “talk,” to distinguish between what we know to be true and the tumultuous thoughts and feelings that rattle us with worries, lies, and anxieties far beyond the burdens of grief we have to carry; not to mention the incessant What Ifs and If Onlys. “Talk” is one of the best ways to make these paramount distinctions. Still, I have felt that my words are so powerless, useless, scratching nothing more than the surface of some shallow surface. But echoing Mrs. Gamble’s exhortation for us to “talk,” Malcomson sent me a quote by two grief counselors. He stumbled upon this in search for meaning amidst the swirling chaos that refuses to let us find solid footing:
“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again, but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.”
I also think of the words on the card John gave me, which I noticed immediately below his writing, their meaning not lost on me:
“Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness; for they shall be filled” (Matthew 5:6).
I have known many good people of saintly stature, sanctified souls that represent the divine intimacy between Heaven and Earth, reminding me that in the most profound way the Kingdom has already Come, here on Earth as it is in Heaven. Yet when thinking of them all, I do not think I have ever known someone to hunger and thirst for righteousness as deeply as John. I do not know what John thought or felt about this insatiable hunger and thirst that drove him. But I want him to know that we were the ones being filled. Every day we knew him, his light blasted darkness into shadowy fragments, dissipating anxieties, bearing our burdens as though he were most responsible for what we have to carry. One student, who was not close to John, has still been greatly affected by his loss. She wrote to me, “John was the only person that was ever just genuinely nice to be nice. There was never anything in it for him, but he did nice, kind things just because he wanted to. John was an amazing soul.” She continued, stating that John is the one person who “impacted this school the most.” This is so true as to be a scientific axiom, on the same obvious level as the fact that gravity exists, and yet this dear student’s wording was perfectly acute. We took for granted that John was a foundation for us, the emblem and legend who represented the best of what we could become, if we dared. We had every reason to boast by having John with us. And what did he boast in? Us. He saw something in us we could not see in ourselves. Still, as another student wrote, “Perfection does not exist, but if someone was close, it was him.”
I have the same impossible questions as everyone else, but asking them may be unwise, if not harmful. We must grieve and suffer together, letting others cry on our shoulders while being strong enough to become weak so that we can cry upon theirs. There is no time nor need for speculation, because our business is to grieve with everything we have; there is nothing more important right now, even if that starts by asking questions we cannot answer.
Several people have said to me that they believe “Everything happens for a reason.” There is nothing more despicable or grating to my ears, that is, if they mean what I suspect they do. Immediately I wonder what monster they think God is to orchestrate such tragedy, and what minimal comfort comes by trusting in such a God. This statement refers to at least one of two things: 1) Every event is intended by God, and there is purposeful meaning to it; 2) There is purposeful meaning to be found in the aftermath if every event, and often in the event itself. But I hide my sentiment, and pry as to what they mean, hoping they will not say what I fear they will, which is the first interpretation. Each time so far comfort comes that I never expected, like that ray of light splitting through the blinds when I read John’s card in the corner of a dark room. “No matter what has happened, good will come out of this. We will be closer together. We will be here for one another,” one student told me. “We have to be.” Everything may not happen for a reason, but we can find a reason out of anything that happens. A tragedy may go against everything meaningful in the world, but we can find a world of meaning while crafting together the fragments and rubble from our brokenness. Later this student told me, "This was the REASON for some students to become more active in the community. The REASON that I have again grown close to my friends who I grew apart from months ago. The REASON that I now, more than ever, wish to devote my life to helping others." We cannot find reason in what happened, but there are so many reasons to move on, shouldering our grief with each step.
I have often wondered why God works this way, and in times of inexplicable hurt this question, the greatest criticism of God, resounds most loudly: why does God let such things happen in this world? Now is not the time to answer that (may I suggest C.S. Lewis' Problem of Pain and, even better, A Grief Observed, the latter of which was written immediately after his wife's tragic death?). But I envision our grief and rage and confusion and hurt stacked up as a tower scraping into the black sky; yet Divine power, greater than that of the collective seas, rises and pauses, ready whenever we are. Still, I do not know why God relents, lets things happen, and waits for us to respond or dialogues with us only if we are listening most intently. What would the world be like if God always interfered? Does He believe that our freedom worth the risk of tragedy and immense suffering? Does He believe that turning the stringed Pinnochio into a real boy was worth the calamity that followed? Perhaps He does.
For me, I want to be sad for a while, and let this tower of grief stack up as high as it will go. I want to feel everything, and not let a shard or shadow of grief have anywhere to hide. But I find great consolation in knowing that beneath all things, above them, around, through, and within them, that Power can begin cleansing these things away, crashing that Tower to rubble. It is good to know that He stands at the door, waiting, sometimes so calm as to refuse knocking. Our suffering can send us into that deep Dark, but there is a Light behind that. The smallest hole will puncture it, and flood all things with illumination. I wait for that time, but know it is not right now. I would rather sit near the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief. I cannot fondly look to Resurrection without first feeling the pangs of its predecessor.
I do not want to quit writing right now, because it feels like doing so will be the last goodbye I will say to John. Contrarily, this will be the first goodbye I will say to him, and I do not want to say it, and I never want there to be a last one.
Will I keep waking up, lying there for seconds, then seeing John’s face, his smile, hearing his laugh, envisioning that Superman stance, and then thinking that a bad dream has passed? Then reality presses upon me, and I feel this all over again. Those few seconds are sweet when everything feels normal, when John’s face is in my mind, before I recall that he is gone. I don’t know that I will ever believe that: John’s gone. I write this, but I cannot say it. It may be a long time before I can.
What are we going to do?
We have no precedent for this. Grief experts and counselors cannot feel our grief for us, cannot think our thoughts, and cannot heal us by some magic injection. Their constant words and presence only serves to remind me of the pain that I am trying to hide from, but which chases and finds me wherever I am.
But there is wisdom for us when we are ready to receive it. Though we growl at those who try to comfort us, parents and peers who did not know John, let us take their comfort with as much grace as we can, because they do not want to us to be hurt any more than we want to hurt. Let us remember to hope, for “we are saved by hope,” knowing that there is a Light that casts away darkness; that Light can rise in our hearts from depths we did not think we had, just as that Light will rise one day, long from now, to chase away the darkness for the last time.
In moments like now we find ourselves with burdens too heavy for us to bear, but not if we share them. The odds may seem incalculable, the race before us too impossible to run with obstacles that taunt us with feelings of failure and inadequacy, valleys that turn to hills, hills that turn to mountains. We begin to lose hope.
Though no matter how things seem, no matter what we feel or think, there is a “way of escape, that you may be able to bear” whatever burden weighs us down; so let us lock arms with our neighbors, practice love, the greatest art, the only path of perfection worth pursuing, the secret and hidden power that unveils the Image in which we are made, showing us the secret of who we really are. Practice hope; anticipate the rising sun. Look for it with joy, even if we do not feel like it. Remember John’s laugh and let your tears freely fall, and then sound your laugh into the world as though he were laughing with you. Miss him with all your heart, and if something dark seems to settle in you, anticipate the rising sun, for it will return before you know it and cast away the shadows.
But I’m not okay right now, and you may not be either. And that is okay. Wisdom will be there when we are ready to receive it. As a dear friend of mine told me, “Mourn well.” Let yourself grieve without restraint, but do not mourn alone, do not mourn bitterly, and do not blame others or yourself, and do not think that you are the only one who hurts, for this is a pain deeper than we have ever felt, and we will never understand it; a pain that is deep enough to send an entire community into such turmoil; so let us share the community’s pain, and let the whole bear each part of our pain. Then, we will become something more than what we were, something greater than the sum of Logan County’s parts.
John, my dear student, my encouraging friend, I will miss you more than I will ever be able to fathom. I wish you were here; but your memory will always be here, though that will never quite be enough. May your memory be eternal. May you receive peace. May we find solace. I hope you know that you are the best young man I have ever known. 18 weeks was enough to change my life, John, but 18 weeks was not enough. Though you were enough, John. You were more than enough. I hope you see us now, and I hope you feel our love. I hope it baffles you so much that you laugh that outstanding, resounding laugh of yours. But more than anything, if you do, I hope to hear that laugh again. Just one more time. For you are a guy who really knows his way around our hearts, John. And there you will always stay.