The death of a boy
Today is his funeral and it’s awful to contemplate. Teenage boys shouldn’t leave us, they shouldn’t pull away in the permanence of death. The news was announced on a cloudy, rain-soaked day as if the weather mourned, too. I keep thinking about John Donne’s meditation, the one that tells us no man is an island.
I often write about my job in education and touch on the commonalities that all schools have. Working with a population of kids in a steady state of transition seems familiar to urban and rural, private and public schools. Yes, there are differences, even marked ones, but when it comes to the humanity populating the neatly organized desks, similarities remain.
Among them, the suffocating loss felt when a boy or girl leaves too soon.
Questions about how he died, why he died, will enter the narrative and linger like mist above a cold stream. Those conversations will continue another day. Today is his funeral.
He died on a Thursday afternoon and our campus retracted, a physical feeling that the building had become smaller and the air seemed thinner like it does on a mountaintop. As the sun rose on Friday, teachers and counselors stood ready.
Death in a school is a study in observation. There’s no wailing, no thrashing, just quiet. Sniffles and muffled sobs. A lost feeling, one of not knowing how to act. The hallways echo in their silence.
We announced the boy’s death that morning but in this day of instant communication, the kids already knew. We prayed for his soul and the strength of his family and allowed for a gathering during lunch. All who wanted to attend were invited to spend a few moments in contemplative and healing prayer.
But lunch is the lottery win of the school day. It’s those holy few minutes to relax and interact without the regimen of lessons and interaction of adults. Kids squeeze every second of that time.
I believed the boy’s friends and several of his classmates would attend the service in our little chapel. I was undone when I walked into a cafeteria totally empty and silent. Not one student. Not one. I followed the low rumble of moving feet and found them in the gymnasium.
Our chapel had been too small to handle the mourning students, and they’d been moved to the bleachers. Despite hundreds of boys, the silence was so strong I could hear the soft soles of my shoes pad across the hardwood floors.
The release of doing something, anything, had instant impact. Slowly, the volume of the day began to climb again though it didn’t reach normal, pre-spring break levels. Counselors spoke quietly. Teachers patted shoulders and moved like ghosts among knots of sniffles. Students embarked on the slow road to healing.
Today is his funeral. When I visited with his parents about this column, it was with one powerful thought that poured forth in the last few days.
No man is an island. No boy is alone.