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Frail

On January 2, I received word from my mother that Rod committed suicide. At the time, because it was maybe 5th-hand information there was room for question, for hope. It was recently confirmed.

Rod was a friend to the family on a few levels. He lived in the same small town as my grandparents, aunt and cousins in Australia. He was gracious, and giving. He had traveled all over the world to surf and while in Australia worked for the Post and volunteered at the fire department. I met him my last trip to Australia. Knowing his history of surf, I took full advantage of the opportunity and after showing interest with some well place questions, he offered to teach me. I took him up and, in return, offered to host him on the Grand Canyon Railway...if he ever came to the states.

Last year, he took me up. Out of the blue I got a call. He was coming to America and on his way to visit my family-who had since moved to the states (to Oregon)- he wanted to check out this Grand Canyon. So fresh off the plane from Oz, we welcomed him to the consummate American bachelor pad. My house is composed four bachelors, three are in bands and one (me) has a full-time job. Which means there is a lot of free time to do things like make a "party-switch". That is of course a light switch in the living room that when flipped immediately activates music, disco lights, and a flashing stop light.

So when I say we "welcomed him", I mean a roommate coming home and activating the switch while a jet-lagged Rod, who at best barely knew me, sat half asleep on the couch watching an apartment of American nutcases dance in the living room. It was a great start to the one week I had to know Rod. We had a fun time. He spoke often of his three beautiful daughters (all in their 20's) but was especially excited about the eldest, who he had just reunited with shortly before coming to America. After a week of frisbee golf, watching "Cops" and "Crazy Police Chases" (two shows he loved), and of course a trip on the Grand Canyon Railway, Rod continued on to Oregon where he stayed several months with my family.

And that's it. We weren't very close. I had only a pocket full of vived memories. But it was enough. Enough to call a person a friend. Enough to mourn.

It's almost hard to write. To imagine a sadness that drives a friend to take his own life... my heart is flushed with sorrow. It aches. It's a time like this when a person is drawn to pray. You hurt for the person who hurt too much. In any other situation you call. You comfort. You listen. You say you care. You walk along side and you tell him it's never bad enough. You are a friend.

But suicide is hopelessly unique. No one realizes his friend's situation is that bad. It is the act itself that sheds first light on that dark fact. And then it's too late. There is no release for the compassion that fills you. I find myself wanting to pray for him, to hurt along side him and tell him it's ok. I cannot.

I don't know what to do. How to mourn. How to approach God. I can pray for the daughters he was so proud of. For his friends. I can pray for those who were close. So much closer than myself. Whose hurt is so much more. But still it's hard to let go. It's hard to know, to accept it is over. I cannot grasp finality.

The walls have fallen
The key is turned
Coal and ashes
Intention burned

My heart is broken
No where to bleed.
My eyes now open
No thing to see.

Blank to tears
Cannot decide
Pain to static
Emotions collide.

Filled with compassion
Too late to pray
Aching for action
But too late to say

posted by Travelin' D @ 12:25 PM