On Sorrow

I suppose we are all on some sort of journey to discover the essence of humanity - of what it is that we are all a part of. If you haven't already done so, "I'd say it's time you've begun" (TNBC, Burton).

Having been raised a Roman Catholic, it is rote that we are "made in the image and likeness of God." Leaving the theology of this confounding idea to those much more learned than me, I am left with little more than - my perspective. So what do I know about the image of God in the picture of man? Huh, let me think on that. I will attempt to break down this complexity into a few experiences of man and examine his choices, his emotions, his society.

I see man from a somewhat interesting perspective. By the nature of my business I am dropped amidst lives so often on a cliff dive into dark, murky waters. Trouble has befallen someone's world and they just can't make sense of it all. I see heartache, tears, violence, and death. You would be amazed what lives hold hidden behind closed doors - in your own neighborhood. And I'm often left with the question, "where does it come from?" Is this man?

Perhaps one of the hardest things I've ever done happened early in my career. Before I divulge the story, let me just say this- nothing good really ever happens at 3am. Bradbury said it best, it's the "soul's midnight." So, around 3am, I needed to be a messenger. I needed to be dropped into a family for a brief time - the bearer of sorrowful tidings. A 23-year-old  had been driving his car on his way home from a local college bar, impaired by alcohol. On a winding road that parallels the mighty Raritan, he - a brother, a son - lost control of his vehicle, at which time it tumbled of its own accord, careening across the road and into a tree - trapping and killing him.

Ok, I've got this, this is easy to dissect: Should not have driven. Should have called for a ride. Or a cab. Or just plain used some self-control while imbibing, knowing he had to drive home. And the invincibility of youth is challenged, and loses - again. But here's my dilemma: How do you explain this to his parents?

How about - Life is short? You never know the time or place? No, probably not gonna cut it here. So with as much compassion as I can muster, and with a firmness that expresses the finality of death, I break it to the father. I don't remember the words I used, but the response of his cry was indelible. And then to his wife - we all know it is not fair, a mother should never lose a child. And reality sets in; then her denial, fear, sadness, and grief: Sorrow.

The brother, woken by the torment coming from downstairs, descended with a glazed look. And then the shock really sets in. "But I was just with him? How did this happen? Was this my fault?" And reality sets in, then denial, fear, sadness, and grief: Sorrow.

So I find myself not addressing death, but rather the sorrow of loss. How do we move on? We may find the answer in our body. On my right wrist, on my left knee. Scars. When we are so torn that our skin can not cover our broken flesh, the body has an answer - connective tissue. It is different, is doesn't tan on the Jersey shore, but it gets the job done. When I look at my own I remember how they got there. There cause may still be hidden under the surface, though the pain once there is long gone. So when the sorrow hits, and tears us apart - where do we find our connective tissue. Perhaps it is meant to be found in the connectivity of family, friends, and God's gracious arms. Or at least that's what I see through my window.