A Father Writes

It was 3 am . I found myself sitting in the garage in the low-to-the-ground seat of my David's go-cart, sobbing from depths of my being  I never knew existed. Yesterday was the funeral-four days ago we discovered his beautiful body in the bottom of the pool on a church retreat. Why?

I, who was a proclaimer of truth (Methodist minister) and a bearer of light, had suddenly discovered my own light extinguished. Hundreds of times I had stood behind the casket dispensing words of hope and comfort to the "survivors." Yesterday, for the that time, my beautiful wife, my two living sons and ourselves seated in front of the casket of our oldest son David. We were now to be known as the 'survivors." Believe me, the view is quite different from the front! Now, all the proclaiming I had spent a Iifetime in doing must stand the test of my own tragedy. Could it stand such a  devastating test?

I didn't spend much time questioning, 'Why me, Lord?" I've known for many years that it "rains on the just and the unjust.' Why me? Why not! After all, I am a member of the human race with no special privileges because of  my Christian lifestyle. I must be honest and tell you, however, that this concept didn't just tumble neatly into place in dealing with the death of my son. But I really have accepted the loss.

My greater struggle was not in why the loss, but where is the gain in the loss? The most atrocious and destructive type of suffering is pain without purpose, misery without meaning. Weeks turned into months. I wandered in a fog. Oh, I were my "happy face," but how I agonized in trying to find sense in the senseless. God, I missed my boy so terribly! I was at a fork in the road. Out of my loss I would become either a bitter person or a better person. The choice was mine. But I wasn't ready to make that decision--I missed my David so much. I had to have time to grieve.

Would my turning point ever come? Could I ever find purpose and meaning in my loss? Oh, how I missed him. Then, the turning point came. I believe there is a turning point for every bereaved parent--if you desire a turning point. It comes in different ways for each of us if we are to be me "survivors" in the fullest sense of the word. It may come in a sunrise; it may come through another child who needs you; it may come at an altar of prayer.  Thousands of ways it may come - BUT IT MUST COME! Mine came in a dream.

There he was !  Walking toward me as if coming out of a mist.  There he was - that lanky 17-year-old whose life I loved better than my own.  He looked deeply into my eyes with a grin on his face - the way he used to do when he was "buttering me up."  Not a word was spoken by either of us.  All of the sudden, he threw his arms about me and gave me one of those bear hugs he was good at doing.  He let go, smiled again and walked away.  Though not a word was spoken, everything was said that needed to be said for my turning point to come.

It was time to resume life.  I would not be bitter, but in his loving memory, I would be better.  I would live again, because I knew that my boy lived again, because I knew that my boy lived again.  My own Christian faith was to be retrofitted.  It offered meaning and purpose within the shadow of my loss.  It asserted that though God does not intend my sufferings, He involves Himself in them.  My pain and loss was not to be the end of life.  Rather, it was to be a beginning - a beginning to a more compassionate life of quality and caring.

His bear hug told me, "It's okay.  Go ahead and live life in its fullness as a tribute to me."  Thank you, David; that's the greatest gift a son could ever give to his dad.

Rev. Ken Kulp, Atlanta, GA
~reprinted from Bereaved Parents Central Savannah River Area Newsletter