Good Friday and a Sword Through the Soul

"Miss Phillips, someone put a penis in my textbook."

I stood stock still, knowing that my response could either diffuse the situation or launch the classroom into chaos.

I walked quietly over to Chris's desk and asked softly, "What did you say?"

"Someone put a penis in my textbook," he replied in a genial, mater-of-fact way, as though he might be speaking of a coin or a half-used pencil.

I looked down at his book, and sure enough, someone had left a hand-drawn obscene bookmark in Chris's text.

"I'll take that," I said, removing the image, folding it up, and discretely putting it in the trash. I then resumed the lesson, pretending I wasn't inwardly both amused at the antics that a high school teacher faces and relieved that Chris's discovery hadn't led to anything more than a brief interruption.

This short episode with Chris took place about six years ago. I hadn't thought of it much until last month, when I was scrolling through Facebook and noticed a few posts from former students, mourning Chris's passing.

"Oh, no!" I murmured and clicked on Chris's page. Yes, he had just died. But details of his passing were not published.

"I hope he wasn't shot," I remarked to my husband. Chris was a fun kid to have in class. He often called me Dr. Phil, and although he wasn't always the perfect example of good behavior, he was easy to love. And many, many people loved him.

A day or two later, the news broke that Chris was the shooter in a murder-homicide. I learned that a few years after graduation, Chris began accumulating a criminal record, marked with charges of drug possession and theft. Several months ago, he attempted to rob a lady. A trial date was set and Chris was released on bail. The day the trial was to be held, he shot and killed the woman he had earlier attempted to rob. Then he ran to the woods behind her house and killed himself.

There is a double sorrow in the ending to Chris's life. Many people knew him as a friend. In high school, he was kind and funny. But he eventually took a path that hurt both himself and others. Those who knew him weep for the end of his life, but also that his feet found a road we had not expected him to take.

After learning the details of Chris's death, I found my thoughts turning to his mother. What an aching her heart must feel! I wonder if she is remembering the little baby she rocked in her arms, or the toddler taking his first awkward steps, or the small boy crying when he scraped his knees. The local news only covered the unhappy end of his life, but she was there for all of it, for every giggle and smile, for every football game and report card. The pain of losing her son must be acute. The pain of knowing how his life concluded must be nearly unbearable. A mother does not want to watch her child suffer, even if the child himself is, in some ways, the author of his own anguish.

I have not known the death of a child--and nothing can compare to such a loss. But even if I or other mothers have never known that grief, we have probably all felt the ache of watching our children suffer.

My daughter has a rare brain malformation called rhombencephalosynapsis. When we realized that Monica's physical development stalled after six months, we took her to physical therapy. The first few sessions she screamed almost non-stop. On the way home, I gave her pep talks while pushing her stroller to the metro station:

"Monica, I know this is hard, but you'll be better for it. You will be stronger because you've had to work so much at this, unlike other children who reach these milestones without difficulty. This fight will make you an extraordinary person."

I knew the logical truth of my words. But they didn't take away the pain I felt for her. She has done nothing wrong. Her brain malformation is neither her fault nor mine. It simply exists, and she must journey through life with a fused cerebellum. She is innocent, but she will still have to struggle. And I must know the grief of sometimes watching my child in pain, despite her guiltlessness

Michelangelo's Pieta

There is a woman who bore both the pain Chris's mother must feel at losing her son and the pain I feel in watching my daughter's innocent suffering. In St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, almost immediately to the right of the entrance, stands Michelangelo's Pieta, a beautiful sculpture depicting Mary holding the body of the dead Christ, her arms open, her head bowed in grief. The longer I am a mother, the more I find solace in this image of Mary. She is the one God chose to bear his son, and yet--and yet Simeon predicted to her at the birth of Christ, "a sword will pierce your own soul too." The extraordinary anguish of watching her son die despite his innocence was the blade that pierced her.

I have found that in the midst of grief, words of consolation do little. Sermonizing is even less effective, however well-intended. Companionship, though, can be a great balm in grief--particularly the companionship of one who has suffered the same sorrow. When I grapple with watching my daughter in pain, I find solace in the image of Mary holding her broken child on that first Good Friday. She is the greatest mother that ever lived, and she knew the deep sorrow of watching her blameless child executed. In meditating on her grief, I find my own ache somehow soothed. For if a mother must watch her child in pain or must, like Chris's mother, know the passing of her child from life to death, she is in the company of the lady that the angels declared to be highly favored. And the knowledge that Mary too has felt this same sword pierce her soul brings a breath of comfort to my own distress.