It’s been about a week since our neighborhood was rocked with very sad, tragic news. One of our own took his own life. I had talked with him the day before, and I never suspected this was possible. He had everything going for him despite a bump in the road. I learned of the news as I was returning home and witnessed about six or seven emergency vehicles in front of his house. I pulled over and stood with four other neighbors on the corner as officials went about their grim tasks.
The neighborhood immediately reacted in shock. How? Why? Who is to blame? Questions that will forever go unanswered, for only he knows the exact reason, the tipping point that all was hopeless.
Why does it take someone’s death to reflect on relationships, family, neighbors and community? It always does. We say, “I’m going to try harder.” “I’m going to try to repair that relationship.” “I’m going to reach out more often.” “I’m going to be there when my neighbor needs me.” Some of us will actually do that. Some will just fade back into comfortable thinking—old habits. It’s human nature.
When the news spread through our neighborhood on that fateful day, I must have kicked into my pastoral mode. Yes. I spent time in the pulpit—eight years as a volunteer youth leader and five years as a candidate for the ministry in the United Methodist Church, four in the pulpit of a small country church in Oregon, Illinois. I understand shock and grief. I understand death and dying, and the hardest to understand is suicide.
There were a couple of impromptu gatherings of neighbors, and I made the rounds to check on individuals, especially the four who stood on the corner with me. My approach was simply that of concerned neighbor and friend, my current role. I left the pulpit in 1989—more than 20 years ago. I’ve never stopped caring for others and being a good neighbor.
I subscribe to Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac, and the other day, he wrote, on the occasion of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s birthday:
… [Emerson] wrote in his journal: “I have sometimes thought that, in order to be a good minister, it was necessary to leave the ministry….”
I understand that. I left the pulpit because I discovered lay ministry to be more powerful and more meaningful. Ministers and pastors are paid to do their job. I could watch people’s behavior change right in front me me upon learning that I was a pastor. Lay people minister from the heart. That’s where being a good neighbor comes in.
I am going to try harder to connect with neighbors through our impromptu gatherings, events and social media like Facebook. Time will tell if our neighborhood will rally in support of each other, or if we fall back into old ways.
It’s important to let others know you care, and that nothing, nothing is hopeless.
Rest in peace, my friend. You are missed.
Brent
Very moving. Quite an inspirational piece of writing too. It’s good for me to realize where my own civilities and compassion have been lacking lately. You have shook my tree branch, and now I must respond by fixing my own. Thank you, Brent.
The darkest of places are in the caves of our minds. The primordial soup that dangles death as an option to those dark places is a miscalculation for so many. They leave us here, behind in this world to ponder with few real answers..only options. Never to turn, but yes, walk on. Let’s be light and fast as the birds and share life and it’s glimmer of eternal hope to those that allow us into their lives. That is all we can do for now. Keep Growing. That’s beautiful and inspiring reading you offer us. Thanks.
You have my sympathies, Brent. Your neighbors are fortunate to have you there and willing to reach out. I hope they are wise enough to reach back.
I understand the pain this family is going through. Your words are inspiring, compassionate and helpful. Let the family members know you are there for them, it will mean a lot to them.
Thank you all for your comments. The neighborhood is doing better, not necessarily due to anything I have done. It takes time to heal, and many have their own ways of dealing with grief. Sometimes, it’s just a “ministry of being there.” That’s all it takes to show a little care and compassion. –Brent