Dad's Here To Play
“Dad,” my five year old son said looking intently at me. “I want to go to David’s house and play with David.” The lump that had taken residence in my throat the past few days swelled up again. How does a father tell his little son something so difficult about his best friend? He understood the words, but how could I make him understand the reality? I looked gently at my son and spoke softly, careful to use words my son would understand. “Buddy, David died.” My son’s expression became angry. His body stiffened and his fists clenched as he shouted at the top of his lungs, “NO! I want to go to David’s house and play with David.” This scene had been acted out several times the last several days. Each time I tried to explain to my son that his favorite play mate was no longer there. Each time I got the same angry response, and the same refusal to believe that somehow David was no longer able to play. I glanced this time at my two daughters, ages 15 and 17, both had pained expressions on their faces, and both looked intently at me, as if anxious to hear what the proper and fatherly response was to be. I looked back to my son, reached down to him, and cradled him up in my arms. His stiffness melted and he hid his face in my shirt. He did not make a noise, but was definitely seeking comfort. I fought hard to find a voice that would not break, but it was unavailable for the moment. Finally, my son looked up from my shirt and into my face. “Son,” I said gently. “David is gone.” “David is gone?” “Yes, your mom and I just came back from saying goodbye to him.” “Goodbye?” “Yes. I said goodbye to him for you, too. Is that OK?” “Yes.” My younger daughter turned her head to hide her face, and left the room. “But buddy,” I continued. “Dad’s here to play with you now.” “Ok,” my son answered softly. I knew he did not fully understand what I meant by my last statement. Nobody knew the lesson I had really learned these last few days. Perhaps my dear wife had some idea, but I had not been able to really discuss the past few days with anyone. I had been facing decisions for a while, but this day, at the funeral of my son’s best friend, I learned a lesson from a grieving father that had re-shuffled my priorities immediately, and made my choices clear. I loved the handsome, smiling, energetic young David. He was my son’s classmate in pre-school, and my son’s best friend. I loved it when he was over to visit my son when I came home from work, or school. My son loved going to David’s house also. My son has great anxiety with crowds, and has difficulty warming up to new friends. None of this mattered to David. To David, my son was a best bud. Nothing else had helped my son adjust to the new crowd in his pre-school as much as his friendship with David. No five year old boy could have ever asked for a better friend. Then came the news after the holiday weekend of David’s sudden and untimely passing. It hit me in the gut, and the pain of that blow had not subsided on this day – the day of David’s funeral. It only seemed fitting that this day was rainy and bleak. As much as I had tried to think of David in Jesus’ arms, and had tried to find something positive, my mood was still pained and dark. The news had found me in a time when I had accomplished one major life-long goal, and was considering the next step in my dream. I had not done well when I first attended college. I did not finish. I had gone to the military after failing in college, and the military proved to be what a teenage boy needed to grow up. The years in the military developed a confidence, and discipline I needed to be successful in life. It added to the hard charging drive I had developed in athletics to make me into someone who was able to support a family as a husband and dad should do. After years of waiting, I had found myself employed by a company which gave me the great opportunity to return to college and complete my degree. My daughters were both teenagers, and my son was just little more than a toddler when I got this opportunity. I wanted the college degree so much I could hardly stand it. My wife was also excited about the opportunity, and so we had decided I must take advantage of this. I had not really intended to become so busy, but the drive to achieve in my personality had caused me to load myself almost to the breaking point. I studied hard and long and my grades were such that I achieved the president’s list despite my disastrous grades from my first attempt at college. I had achieved something I thought I could really be proud of. My hard work and good grades had led to interviews about graduate school. I had no doubt I would be accepted, but I began to think of my wife, and my children. My wife had worked extra hard to allow me the time I needed to study, but graduate school would mean more extra work for her, and more understanding from my kids. Grad school was a dream, and one I really wanted, but what did my family need? Into this time of decision and contemplation came the news of David’s death. My son’s anxiety about crowds had led his mom and me to decide that we would take him to say his goodbyes to David at the funeral home the day before the funeral. However, even the few strange people there caused him to just hide his face, and never really look out to realize who was lying in the casket. Consequently, he still argued when we told him about David. He understood what it meant to die, but he argued and became so agitated when we told him about David that we concluded he was still unable to associate death with David. The day of David’s funeral was the toughest day of my life. My heart went out to his mother and father – both dear friends of our family. They had seemed to be doing OK when we visited the funeral home, but the final goodbye of the funeral always seems to be the toughest moment. I did not really know what to expect. In the funeral, David’s father stood, and spoke to all in attendance in his broken English. “This last year,” he began, “David had an event at his pre-school where the parents of all the children were invited. I really do not like such things that much, but I went with him anyway. I remember that he went to everyone in the room and introduced me. He didn’t care whether they liked it or not. He went to everyone and said ‘This is my dad’.” He choked on his tears as he continued, “I certainly never thought anything like this would happen. But today, I want to follow my son’s lead and say to all of you who came ‘This is my son.’”. His words struck me very deeply. First of all, I had not taken my son to the event he spoke of. Maybe I had class, or maybe I was studying. I could not remember exactly what I had done, but something had prevented me from taking my son to this event. My son did not have the chance to introduce his dad to his friends. We continued on to the interment. I walked the soggy ground through the “Garden of Angel”, the portion of the cemetery where only children are buried. I could not help but calculate the ages from the dates I read on the headstones: Two years, seven years, eleven months, two weeks, and the tender inscription written in Spanish below the dates that translated as “We will remember you always”. Several had only one date. I stopped to read the loving inscription on one of these: “Born at rest.” I heard David’s mother sobbing bitterly. My heart came back into my throat and my eyes watered until I could no longer read the stones. I was hung in the same state in which I had found myself so many times these last few days. I was unable to cry, and unable to swallow the suffocating lump that rose in my throat and gripped me. Somehow I had made it to middle age without ever having attended a child’s funeral, but in this garden, it seemed it was something that happened too often. In every tombstone I seemed to hear a mother crying just as I could hear David’s mother crying. In every inscription I heard the words of a bereaved father, “This is my son”. The service continued, and the sextants began lowering the casket. David’s mom spoke in her mother tongue through her tears and sobs. Her words do not translate well to English, but the basic meaning was “David, go in peace. David, go happily.” They were the same words she would say if David were coming over to our house for a visit. Her calls of farewell continued until her sobs again became so bitter and powerful that she could not speak. David’s dad held her, but his face showed that he was also barely holding himself together. Could I ever learn so much in a classroom? Would any professor there teach me anything as vital to my life as what I could learn on this day if I were to pay attention? I realized that they could not. I realized how busy I had become, and how much I was really needed by my son. I realized again that none of us are ever promised tomorrow. If I had been in David’s father’s place, I would not have been able to speak of my son’s introduction as he had done. I thought more as I read the headstones on the way back to my car. None of these parents ever thought this would happen to them. All of them thought just as I thought that they had plenty of time with their children. Perhaps many of them had allowed themselves to become as busy as I had. I questioned myself, “If God gives us the days, when my son graduates from high school, will he be more proud that his father has a masters degree, or more proud that his father came to his school activities? Would it be more important to him that his dad was well educated, or that his dad played catch with him and took him fishing? Would it be more important to him that his dad was an engineer, or that his dad talked to him about girls, and baseball, and other things that interest boys as they grow up?” I thanked God as I got back into my car. I had the answer I sought. I knew what was more important, and I knew what I had done. Grad school was a dream, but it was a dream I had only for myself. My son and my older daughters were reality, and a reality that I loved more than anything else on earth. But I had allowed myself to become too busy for them. The decision was made, and I knew in my heart that it was the right decision. I had learned more in this one afternoon than I would in all of grad school. Now, it was time to announce to my son what I had learned this afternoon, and what decisions were made. “But buddy,” I said on this day as I cradled my grieving son in my arms. “Dad’s here to play with you now.” “OK,” he answered softly. Note: The story is true. The child lost was the 5 year old son of our dear friends. Because of our love for our friends, and our respect for their wishes, all names have been changed to protect their privacy. We look forward to seeing our little friend again when we also enter into Jesus' presence.
Copyright © 2004 Steven L Howard |