Stations of the Cross; St. Andrew's, Roanoke
As we issue in the New Year, it is a time of renewal and fresh starts. Even as we enter early spring and the season of Lent, we know that the Easter season is soon to follow. Yet in the midst of it all, death still finds us.
I am an English professor at a local college, a job that I love with a passion. My students are family to me. I laugh with them, joke with them, listen to their stories, offer them advice, ponder their unique wisdom. Today, however, I cried with them.
One of my former students, Jason, came into my classroom this morning to tell me that his study partner, another dear student, had lost his mother this morning. I sat there for several minutes just looking at him, taking in the news. The mother hadn’t been sick. In fact, she was quite healthy just a few days ago. She wasn’t old, by any means. Fifty isn’t old enough to be considering death. No accident, no trauma. Nothing happened to her to suggest that today was the end of her life. She just…died.
I, of course, cried with those students who continued to stop by during the day, and Jason spent over an hour in my classroom just talking his way through the grief. His heart ached for his friend, and my heart ached for my students. Especially for Jason. Even though it wasn’t his mother that had passed, the news ate at his soul. It brought into focus the reality of life: we are all meant to die. It showed him that the anger he held for his own mother, while justified, was robbing him of the precious time he had left to spend with her. After listening to his silent regrets, I made him promise to call his mother and tell her that, despite the past, he still loved her. I knew I would call my own mother that afternoon to say the same.
At one point, after receiving a text message from his friend that read, “I really can’t believe she’s gone,” Jason looked at me and asked, “How do I respond to that?”
How do you respond to that?
I told him to let his friend know that we were all hurting along with him. I told him to say that we would worry about everything at home. I told him that I love you was appropriate at a time like this, even between two men.
I heard the words leaving my mouth, but I realized how hollow they must all sound. Death is a reality that is hard to grasp. We cling so desperately to this mortal life around us, all the while knowing that life cannot last forever. I knew that tonight, I would go to the parish and pray for my students, my little family. I would pray to Mary for comfort and to Jesus for peace. But as I looked at Jason, knowing that he had abandoned religion long ago, I couldn’t find the words that would comfort one who mourns without hope.
I don’t typically encourage physical contact between myself and my students, but I hugged Jason before he left class for the day. I told him that I was there to talk, to grieve, whenever he needed an ear. I told him that I would pray for him, knowing that he would smile a little at my “silly religious talk.” As he turned to leave the room, I saw the years that the past few hours had added to his features. He seemed so young yesterday. Today, life had taught him the most severe of lessons.
Death comes for us all.
Life is full of many twists and turns. Follow Melissa as she posts about birth, death, couponing, and motherhood at And Baby Makes Three…
