To Heaven and Back (18 page)

By midnight on the twenty-first of June, thanks to God’s grace and the efforts and graciousness of a local acquaintance and philanthropist, Bill, Peter, myself, our family’s minister, and our dear friends Dave and Ellen, who “just happened” to be at a point in their careers where they were able to suddenly drop everything and leave town, were being propelled through the blackness of the night sky on a private flight to Maine. Our daughter, Betsy, who had been visiting friends in Vermont, was being driven by them to Fort Fairfield, and Eliot was staying with Hilary’s family. After a night of disbelief,
they, along with Eliot, met us at the airport when we arrived early the next morning.

Willie died instantly, so he was never taken to a hospital. We drove directly to the funeral home and spent the long hours of the morning cleaning the blood from Willie’s broken body, and anointing him with our tears and with our love. Through this time of unimaginable sorrow, God gently held us, loved us, and carried us.

We visited the site of Willie’s death and I was struck by many emotions as we slowly examined and absorbed the details of the area. My first observation was that Willie was not there. I felt no deep connection or emotional reaction to the physical place. It merely felt like the place where his spirit had left this world. Secondly, I had the sense that he had tried to make it as nice a spot for us as was possible—accessible, identifiable, and beautiful. His crumpled body had landed in an area blanketed by blossoming wild alpine roses, overlooking a valley with a meandering stream and rolling green hills.

I’m not sure why it matters to me, but the site of Willie’s death was as notable a site as one could wish for. God took our son, but there was no “grim reaper.” I believe He sent his most gentle and loving angels to collect Willie’s soul and take him to heaven.

Our days in Fort Fairfield moved quite slowly, with a decidedly altered sense of reality. Our faith, our minister, and our friends gave us the support and firm, but compassionate, guidance that allowed us to stagger through these days. Without them and the unqualified acceptance that our lives are all part of God’s larger plan, it would have been nearly impossible to endure the trip to Maine or the very emotionally-draining journey home with Willie’s ashes.

While in Maine, we had been protected and sheltered from people and telephones. As we traveled home, we became increasingly anxious about what the next days and weeks might bring. We had no desire to talk to anyone or see anyone. We really just wanted to stay in our isolated and insulated world of pain. It was, therefore, deeply emotional for us to be immediately pulled out of that world and into the thoughtful and compassionate support of our friends and neighbors the moment we arrived at our home; they had lined our front porch with a loving collection of flowering plants. Willie deeply appreciated the beauty of blossoming flowers, but he was never a big fan of cut flowers, as they serve such a transient role: cut, appreciated for a limited time, then being thrown out with the garbage. Our neighbors’ decision to bring flowering plants in pots rather than cut flowers perfectly honored Willie and visually embraced us with their love.

Along with the flowers came the promise of planting them the next week in what would become a perennial flower garden. My only job was to decide where the flowers should be planted. Our home sits on six acres of previous ranchland. Other than wild grasses, the only vegetation consists of the trees, shrubs, and patches of domestic grass that we planted when we built and landscaped our house. It is not extensively landscaped, but I have always found great pleasure in walking around the property and studying the land. Willie and I often shared this pleasure together, and we enjoyed noting the many changes in color, shape, and fullness of the various plantings as the earth moved through its seasons.

In the days after our return from Maine, walking our property was the one activity that brought a small semblance of calm to my turbulent and broken spirit. As I walked, I tried to make sense of my life, contemplated what to say at my son’s memorial service, and made detailed mental accountings of our property, trying to decide on a site for Willie’s flowering garden. One morning, as I was walking past a small grouping of willow trees, I came upon a great surprise. The area around and within every willow was overflowing with the vivid, bold, deep pink-colored blossoms of wild Alpine roses. These flowers were of the exact color, shape, and appearance as had been the ones blooming in the field in which Willie died. Prior to visiting Willie’s accident site, I had never seen one of these blossoms
and I most definitely had never seen one on our property.

Willie knew the story of the pink blossoms on the Bradford pear tree that had appeared immediately after the death of my stepfather. He knew how significant and emotional that event had been for my mother and me, and he would have seen the painting of the tree hanging in my bathroom many, many times. I know that Willie sent us a message that day through the roses; one of appreciation, love, gratitude, and a sense of apology for leaving. I believe he knew this would be one of the few ways of communication we would not question.

Completing the story of the Bradford pear tree, after beautifully blooming for five years, it was suddenly and unexpectedly struck by lightning and destroyed, serving as a message telling my mother that it was “time to move forward” in her life. It makes me wonder if the beautiful Alpine roses that we now so lovingly nurture on our property will one day disappear.

In the initial weeks following Willie’s death, there were other gestures of love and gentleness that my family and I found comforting. One day, a notebook appeared on the bookshelf. In it were several letters that Willie had written on the eve of his nineteenth birthday, which was several months before his death.

He had written letters to some of his coaches and close friends, thanking them for the memories, their long-standing friendship and support, and for the impact they had on his life. His letters were from the heart and almost seemed
like a “good-bye” letter; unusual for an eighteen year old. He also wrote letters, one to Presidentelect Obama and to Will-I-Am, a musician he admired; and one to President Lincoln in which he noted the sense of calm and deep inspiration that he felt when sitting in Lincoln’s monument in Washington, D.C. Willie wrote that he felt like he could make a difference and that he could become the next Abraham Lincoln. He wanted to make “the
whole
world a better place.”

Willie also wrote a letter to himself. In it, he talked about the great adventure his life had been. He observed that his life lacked simplicity, but guessed that was, “because there is so much to see and do in such a short time.” He also wrote about how grateful he was for his family, his friends, his God, and for his faith. This letter was such a gift to me. It reassured me that Willie had a relationship with God, understood its importance, and was “right” with God before his death.

Willie had a way of making everyone feel special and feel that they each had a special relationship with him. After Willie’s death, many people came forward to express their sadness and to express their gratitude for the life Willie led. They all mentioned ways he changed their lives for the better. Senator John Kerry called to express his condolences. He noted Willie’s influence in his office, the changes that Willie inspired, and the impact he had on the Senator’s staff. Senator Kerry also taped a video tribute for Willie’s memorial service.

Singer-songwriter Carole King, who was also inspired by Willie’s passion, sent us the following lyrics and music, which we played at his memorial service. Her song has given us a great deal of comfort, as the music is beautiful and the lyrics apt.

Community members wept and grieved with us. The skiing world was shocked and heartbroken. Hundreds of people from across the country came to Willie’s memorial service, prayed with us and for us, and did what they could to lessen the pain. We met with our minister daily and were surrounded by close friends. I taped the following daily creed to our refrigerator and grasped onto it for survival.

God continued to carry our family month after month, as we struggled to put one foot in front of the other. I do not understand how anyone can make this journey without trusting in God’s plan.

Growing up, I was taught that
Psalm 23:4
(“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. For you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me”) referred to one’s own death and the dangerous journey back to God. Now I believe it actually refers to the people who are left behind to grieve. As grieving people walk through the valley of the shadow of a loved one’s death, their sadness, confusion, anger,
and despair can inadvertently prop open the door of their hearts, allowing evil to silently enter.

I had experienced death before—of grandparents, of parents, of friends—and I have found that grief is always a lonely, isolated process, as the death of a loved one carries different meaning to each person who is grieving. In those circumstances, however, it is usually possible to look to a spouse or other family member for support. The isolation of grief after the death of a child or a sibling is exponentially magnified by the fact that close family members who might otherwise be able to offer support are equally wrought with grief.

God’s timing is always perfect and I think this may be why I was unmotivated to put my story into words before the spring of 2009. The writing of this manuscript was an emotionally intense experience for me. I had been very rigorous over the years with regard to restricting the amount of time I allowed myself to think about the events surrounding my own death and return to life. I love my life, I love my family dearly, and I know that my work on earth is not done. Despite that, recalling the alluring magnificence of God’s world too vividly would make it easy to be consumed by a deep longing to return. I have always guarded my heart by not thinking about it too vividly or for too long. I imagine that this desire is similar to the deep longing recovering addicts must feel when they fondly recall the best times of their previous substance abuse. Anyway, I always found it emotionally draining and dangerous
to spend too much time remembering not just the facts and events, but re-experiencing the actual emotions.