I turned and walked over to the counter and stood there while she finished unloading her dryers. Questions to God were pounding through my head. "Oh, God...do I say something...do I ignore this? What should I do?"
My son, "T.J." had taken his life seven years before. He was 31 years old and suffering from manic-depression. He had been fine until about 18 months before his death, and then began struggling with depression. He had been admitted for treatment in the summer and after three weeks was released without any supervision. On December 4, 1990 he drove his van out to a small lake near Kearney and took his life. We began missing him shortly after lunch when he didn't return to work. His partner in the recording studio had seen a white van at the lake near the interstate and went out to investigate, saw his body, slumped down between the seats, and called the police. He had ended his life with a shotgun.
To say this was one of the darkest hours of my life would be to minimize the situation. He was the youngest, and my only son. He was sort of the "star" of our family. I have two daughters, older than T.J. He had been a musician's musician--had his own recording studio, worked in a music store, was always involved with his music. We all loved him so very much and were so proud of him.
When we lost him, it seemed for awhile that my life turned very dark and very fragile. I felt that death was but a heartbeat away. The pain of losing a child by suicide is probably the worst tragedy a parent has to face. It isn't like a motor vehicle accident or like being killed in a war. This child, MY child chose to end his life. How can I ever think anything good can come out of that? But seven years had passed and I had, by God's grace, mercy and strength, slowly to find life worthwhile again.
You can understand how reluctant I was to get involved with the lady in the laundromat. But, imagining the pain she must be in, I thought, "Oh, well, I may as well TRY. The least she can do is tell me to mind my own business."
I walked over to her and touched her on the arm, saying "I want you to know that I have walked down the road that you are walking on now."
She looked at me. I said, "I think you have lost a child. Am I right?" The tears came to her eyes, and she said, "Yes, I lost my 16 year old daughter." I said, "I am so sorry. Was she killed in a car accident?" "NO, she took her life!" I said, "My son, also, took his life."
Then she began to tell me how she had found her daughter, dead, in the living room of their home after coming back from shopping. The daughter was an anorexic and had been in treatment. They thought she was recovering. The tears began to flow from both of us. I reached out and took her in my arms. It seemed that we were the only people in the laundromat. She talked and talked as of a dam had broken.
Many images flooded back into my mind, like "Sorrow is no longer the island, but the sea," which I had read someplace. I would hear a song on the radio that Terry used to sing and I would fall apart. I could go through days almost like normal and then it would hit me-- "He isn't coming back...he is gone," and the pain would be so intense. So, listening to this mother's story, I assured her that she would receive comfort from the God of all comfort. As she dried her tears, she said softly "I believe that God put you here for me, today."
She wrote to me often after that and I always wrote to her. I never, EVER, told her, "this is what you should do....", I just let her tell me how she was feeling. All the anger, bitterness, doubts, fears, emptiness, ALL of it. Because she knew that I knew exactly what she was telling me.
There is a price to pay for getting involved. After my encounter with her I began to cry a lot more, remember a lot more, but I knew that God would hold both of us. God's strength, indeed, is made PERFECT in weakness.
I remember one day, shortly after my son died, I was sitting in church, and it suddenly occurred to me, "I know how the family of Jesus felt when he was raised from the dead! WHAT JOY!" It was a revelation! How would I feel if someone came to me and said, "T.J. is ALIVE!" Also, I know that "we sorrow not as those who have no hope."
Polly Hanlin lives in Kearney NE. A member of First Baptist Church, she is retired and does volunteer secretarial work three days a week at "The Lighthouse", a Christian counseling center.