The Mystery of Life

In his wonderful little book, Let Your Life Speak, Parker Palmer writes of his personal struggle with depression:  "Twice in my forties I spent endless months in the snake pit of the soul.  Hour by hour, day by day, I wrestled with the desire to die, sometimes so feeble in my resistance that I 'practiced' ways of doing myself in.  I could feel nothing except the burden of my own life and the exhaustion, the apparent futility of trying to sustain it.  I understand why some depressed people kill themselves:  they need the rest." 

I have thought about these words so much over the last few days.  Last Thursday, after putting my son to bed for his afternoon nap, I logged on to facebook, and saw a post from a mere eight minutes before.  It was a suicide note, written by a childhood neighbor and friend.  I read his words with shock, disbelief, and panic:  after all, he posted it only eight minutes before.  Not knowing his current address or phone number, I did all that I could do: I commented, "Please call me now," and  I was able to get in touch with his family who, as his older brother described later, "didn't make it in time."  In the period of time between my viewing of my friend's note and when someone called me to tell me that he did, indeed, take his own life, I didn't know what was happening.  The only information I had came from comments posted by other facebook friends--comments that went from "Hang in there...we're here for you" to "Rest in Peace."  And, of course, there was the note itself, which emphasized that my friend just had grown too tired to handle life. 

His funeral was this morning.  I had planned to go, along with my parents.  But my plans to head to Philadelphia were halted by a sudden and crippling episode of nausea that last the entire day.  Perhaps it was a stomach bug--perhaps it was a physical manifestation of my emotional reaction to my friend's tragic death.  I can't say for sure.  But it was so blinding that I couldn't even care for my son:  my sitter, mercifully, rescued me for most of the day, allowing me to get some rest.  But over a phone conversation this evening, my mother shared with me that the funeral was "devestatingly sad," but that she felt very comforted by the words of the priest who presided.  He emphasized that this was but a tragic moment in an otherwise good life.  For as horrible and final as his suicide was, it would not define him, for the truth of our Christian faith is that nothing--nothing--can separate us from the love of God.  How different this message is, my mother commented, from that which she heard as a child--that suicide was the "ultimate sin."  There could be no Mass for Christian Burial for those who committed it--it was that grave.  She left the church reminded of the everlastingness and fidelity of a mysterious love that Christians call "God." 

About five years ago, Tim and I both returned, as adults, to the homes of our parents.  I was broke and broken after a failed engagement, poor decisions, and a fall out with friends.  He, too, was looking for "new life."  He had done the Wall Street thing and found that it "wasn't me."  He was back in school, studying to become a nurse.  He was most passionate about health and wellness, he had said.  "Seems incongruous that one so passionate about wellness would take his own life," an acquaintance remarked.  But he was obviously in great pain, and perhaps cultivating this passion was an intentional way of combatting his inner demons--and he just got too tired of the fight.  In our walks to the bus terminal together several years ago, I remember a thoughtful, gentle, and hopeful Tim, who was doing all that he could to make his own life--and the lives of others--better.  As God gathers the whole of Tim, I hope that these moments, too, are gathered. 

After describing his own battle with depression and flirtation with death, Parker Palmer continues:  "I understand why some depressed people kill themselves...But I do not understand why others are able to find new life..."  I understand--in the sense of having a deep compassion--why some people take their own lives.  But there is a part of me that will never fully "get it," because there is, within me, a hopefulness and resilience that has carried me through some pretty dark moments.  Like Palmer, I don't understand why I am able to find new life and others aren't.  But that is part of the mystery of life--a mystery that can't be "figured out," but can simply be pondered, with reverence and humility.