It was June of 1983, and my first time to go to summer camp. Sure, it was 4H camp for redneck kids like me, but still, it was exciting. I remember being scared that I wouldn't like my cabinmates (though two of them were known to me), and wondering if I would have to shower in front of everyone. And I had heard there would be a dance. Would a girl want to dance with me? Would I actually be able to kiss a girl? Very stressful issues for an 10 year old boy.The first two days of camp was wonderful, far greater than I could ever have imagined. Everyone thought I was funny. I was tall & strong enough that I was able to be really good at most of the games we played. I was able to regale kids at the pool with stories of how I was taught to swim by a real frogman from the Apollo missions.
I had grown up around guns and was a fairly good shot. I had always enjoyed hunting with shotguns, and had learned how to fire pistols on a makeshift range at home. But I had never used a bow & arrow for some reason, and I thought this would be a good skill to add to my resume if I were really going to become a Green Beret (my chosen vocation after watching the eponymous John Wayne film). So I signed up for archery.
I was walking to the archery range on the morning of the 3rd day. Probably around 10 AM. I walked through the large bonfire area, passing a small row of parking spaces, when I saw a familiar truck. My mom and her friend Ann stepped out of it and walked toward me, and I remember being so happy to see my mom. I couldn't wait to tell her how much fun I was having, and that she was right, I had no need to be worried......
I saw the tears in her eyes as she walked toward me, and she held her arms out. I immediately asked, "Daddy?" She shook her head, and said, chokingly, "It's Jenny".
My youngest sister Jenny was 7 years old. She and Lisa, the middle sister at 8, had been walking back from a neighbor's house to our grandmother's house in rural Kentucky. After crossing the main road, Jenny decided to dive back across to get the mail for our grandmother. She darted out in front of a van traveling the speed limit, and was struck.
I would later learn of how my father had held her broken body in his arms as my mother drove our truck toward the hospital, meeting the ambulance on the way. What do you do with those clothes? What can you do with the blood in the truck? How do you wash away those memories?
But that morning, I only knew that my youngest sister was gone.
I was asked if I wanted to come back home with my mom and Ann. I told them I wanted to stay at camp until the funeral. I don't know why I chose to do this. Mom and Ann said they would come get me for the funeral, but to call if I wanted to come back sooner.
They left in the truck and drove up to the admin building. I stood there between the archery range and the camp. I wandered toward the range momentarily, then turned and headed back toward the cabin.
My parents didn't go to church, but I went for Sunday School sometimes and Vacation Bible School every summer. I loved the Christmas Pageant we would put on every Christmas at that church (I remember one year my father played Santa Claus, which I loved him so much for). I had a casual relationship with God, and his son Jesus. And even though I remember somehow inserting the lyric "They drink Coors and he drinks Stroh's" into "Jesus Loves Me" along with my redneck friends, I knew that this was not an unforgivable sin, and that they would listen to my prayers in my time of great need. For after all, love and hope is what they promised us in bible school.
So I prayed. I cried openly as I walked toward my cabin and bargained with everything I had and would ever hope to obtain. I knew that there was something I could promise to God to bring my sister back. But I couldn't figure out what it was. I knelt at my little bunk bed, then crawled into it, and pleaded with someone, anyone, ANYTHING to bring my sister back.
The counselor came in and held me for a little bit as I cried. Soon my bunkmates came in and saw me. The counselor took them outside for a few minute, then they all came back in to grab their stuff for swim time. Their eyes darted toward me, afraid to make eye contact with me. I can't blame them. Later that afternoon, I asked the counselor to call someone to take me home to my family.
I prayed a few more times that week before the services. At the funeral, I remember walking up to her casket and seeing her lying there, pigtails and all, soft stuffed animal limp in her arms. I silently begged God once more for my sister to come back to me and wrestle me, to make my grandmother cry with frustration with her silly antics, to just open her eyes and smile at me once again. Then I turned away.
As a parent, I tell my children about the Tooth Fairy. My wife makes the most amazing Easter baskets for them (and for me as well). Santa Claus is coming in less than a week. We tell these stories to our children in the full knowledge that one day they will question us. But I have no problem telling them these stories. Why?
Because to a child, there is nothing so wonderful as magic. And what is love, if not magic? Nothing we as humans have ever created can do so much. Nothing can be turned to more evil purposes, or can cause so much joy in a person's life. This is our way of showing the many facets of love, and the pervasiveness of it in their lives.
But though I can equate Santa, Peter Cottontail, and the Tooth Fairy with our love for our children, I cannot bring myself to say that of God, Jesus, or any other deity. They are not love to me, and have not been for many years.
My children are learning of death. First our dog Ruf was put down after his ailments became too much. Then my maternal grandmother passed away this fall. My son speaks of missing Ruf. My daughter is frightened of dying, and of not seeing us ever again. I am so conflicted in how I speak to them about death. Do I tell them it is final? Do I give them false hope that I don't believe in myself? How do I look in my young daughter's eyes, see the fear there, and not give her some hope?
I cannot deny her. My love for her is too great to not ease her fears.
So I tell her a lie. I tell her that she will see Nonie, and her beloved Ruby, and all of us in heaven. But I tell her that these things are for Mommy and Daddy to worry about, not a sweet little angel like her. I tell her that she needs to just love life and friends and everyone she can here on earth. And I hope that it will be many many years before she has to try to make a bargain with all the love in her heart.
This post was inspired by a fantastic opinion piece by Ricky Gervais that can be found here. In it, he details why he's an atheist.
