It happened again. Devastatingly again. One of us lost his son. And not just lost him but lost him in a way that didn’t have to happen. We’re still grieving the loss. We’re still wringing our hands and looking to our own kids hoping, wishing, praying that we don’t lose them. It didn’t have to happen.
The boy was a gentle soul with dark hair and a face that favored his mother’s. He was kind, and he was clever. The boy, Patrick Clemmons, had a creative flair that permeated everything about him, from the music he loved to the clothes he wore. We loved that about him. We loved that he had a sense of adventure that allowed him to reach into realms that most kids don’t even know exist.
Patrick was not a bad apple, a thug whose demise was inevitable. It wasn’t like that. He was an Eagle Scout. He was on athletic teams at his school. He was a National Merit Commended Scholar. The last time we saw him he was mowing the yard for his parents. Patrick was the anti-thug. He was a good kid.
The problem was that Patrick tiptoed along the line of good decisions versus bad decisions until he inevitably crossed it. We say inevitably because you can’t walk a tight rope forever, eventually you will fall. And fall he did. It started small, his dad said. It started with easy-to-find and alarmingly acceptable marijuana.
We don’t know what the attraction was for him. Maybe it was acceptance into a crowd. Maybe it was an escape from some secret pain that even his closest friends didn’t know about. Maybe he just had that personality where a little bit was never enough. We don’t know. All we know is that when it took, it took him hard, and he was soon moving on from marijuana into stronger drugs. Every time, it was a little more dangerous.
Patrick’s parents were aware and on top of his problem. They spared no expense, they pulled no punches, and they did not hide behind social graces. We spoke to his mother at a drug awareness and prevention seminar. His father searched for help from those of us who had been there. They both encouraged their son, told him they just wanted their boy back, and would move the heavens to make it happen. No holds barred. He was their son.
Patrick tried, too. He went to rehab, he involved himself in positive activities and stayed close to the family. But then the drugs would call to him and, inevitably, he would answer.
After returning from a more than two-month stint in rehabilitation, Patrick found a place where opiates were available, and he was defenseless against the lure. He overdosed. His life left him. And we, as fathers, almost immediately sensed that the world was less because someone’s beloved son was lost. And we, as fathers, wept.
It snowed the day before the funeral. A cleansing, whitewashing snow. We watched it in the streetlights and couldn’t help but notice that it seemed to sparkle more like glitter than ice crystals. Turning our eyes to the heavens, we allowed the snow to gently brush our faces, leaving tiny wet marks like the kiss of a child. It was gentle. It was peaceful. It reminded us of the boy who needn’t have been lost.
The church that would host the funeral put out an email asking for help clearing the sidewalks in anticipation of the ceremony. Several fathers trudged to that church to help. Mothers, too. With the sidewalks cleared, we walked home. On the way, we passed by Patrick’s house and saw his father outside, clearing his own sidewalk. As we approached, we prayed silently for the right words to say but we knew there was no such thing.
We listened to him. He was devastated. His voice shook, and he could not wrap his mind around the loss. We nodded. We shook his hand. We offered anything he needed. He had to get ready for the funeral and asked if we would help clear his sidewalk. Anything, we said.
Another father showed up with salt and a shovel. We worked silently while Patrick’s family moved about inside, slowly dressing and willing themselves to make it through the day. One dad showed up, a neighbor, who had lost his own son to drugs three years before. We quietly spoke of the sorrow.
We shoveled and scraped and pushed the snow to clear the sidewalks and the driveway, and we hoped that the exertion would exorcise the sorrow that was tickling our souls. We, as your fathers, plotted and strategized to make sure it never happened again.
One of us commented that kids have only a finite number of no’s in them. He said that every time you use up a no, you get closer to a yes. So tell the kids to avoid the near occasion of sin, he said. Don’t just prepare yourself to say no, better to avoid those situations entirely. As our children, you have to understand why we say such things to you.
You should know that we’ve had to see our friends bury their children, and there is no deeper pain in the world. You should know that the next time you tell us something is not fair, we are going to challenge you.
We are going to explain to you that it’s not fair for you to dull your senses and deny the world your true potential. We are going to tell you that it’s not fair when you make us worry. Unfair? Unfair is parents having to bury their own child.
When you want to do something that might lead you down the wrong path, we’re going to tell you “no” and we’re going to stick to it. When you ask us “Don’t you trust me?”, we are going to tell you wholly and unabashedly “no.”
But understand that our lack of trust has nothing to do with your integrity. We think you are becoming solid young men and women. Our lack of trust has nothing to do with a lack of integrity; it has to do with a lack of experience.
As adults, we struggle to get out of tough situations. As kids, you don’t have the life experiences to realize that tip toeing a dangerous line inevitably leads to suffering.
When you complain about going to church, to school, or to family activities, we’re not going to listen at all. Church gives you the opportunity to recognize a higher power at work in your life. School gives you the opportunity to expand that great mind of yours.
And family, well, family gives you the opportunity to be part of something greater than your self. Your family loves you without condition, and you need to be part of that group, a group based on genuine love, instead of any other group based on shallow definitions of belonging.
You see, we’re your parents, and that means that we want you to excel. Sure, we know you are not perfect, no more so than any of us are or were. But you have to understand that the world is a beautiful place, and it is made more beautiful by you being you. Not a dulled you. Not a you trying to fit in somewhere that is beneath your potential. Not a you that is trying to escape reality instead of meeting it head on.
We finished clearing the sidewalk and walked home to get ready for the funeral. The snow crunching under our feet reminded us of when Patrick was just a boy and went sledding with all the neighborhood kids. And we missed him. Deeply. We missed that creative boy, the Eagle Scout, the athlete, the good mind and kind heart that he was.
And then we, your fathers, let out a sigh, a silent prayer, that would comfort Patrick’s family and protect our own.
We miss that good boy.
Steve Straessle is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys.
