Lamentation Boy

I had my day planned. Sleep till 11:00 a.m. Run. Shower. Eat. Get to campus early to study more. Take my quantum mechanics exam. Meet with my thesis advisor. Home. Pizza and video games with the roommates. I was right on schedule.

Then I stepped off the bus.

He caught my eye. Seated on a bus bench. Hunched over with his face in his hands. Slight rocking motions. Wonder what his deal is.

I turned in the library's direction and started walking. After a few steps, the thought returned. What’s his deal? I sighed. I have more studying to do! Remember the plan? Just keep walking.

Another few steps.

His image revisited me like one of those boomerangs in a cartoon. I stopped, turned around, and retraced my steps. Why me? Why now?

“Hey, is everything alright?” What a stupid question.

He looked up. Red in his eyes, but not the stoned kind of red. Obviously a freshman. Maybe he misses home.

“Are you okay, man?” I sat on the other side of his bookbag. “Did you miss your bus or something?” What else was I to ask?

Ignoring me, he put his head back in his hands.

“Look. I don’t mean to pry, but you look like you could use someone to talk to. Did your girl break up with you?”

A muffled “No.” A sniffle, and then, “It’s not that.”

“What can be worse than that?” I said with a chuckle, trying to bring levity to the situation, then regretting it a second after.

“You really want to know?” He looked at me with a hot-iron-glow in his eyes and molten tears welling up.

I hesitated. “Yes...if it’ll help you get it out.”

“There’s no getting this…” a heaving sob quelled his last word.

The name Lamentation Boy came to mind because he reminded me of Jeremiah, the weeping prophet from the Bible.

I looked around. A girl passing by glanced at us, then just as quickly turned her head and picked up her pace.

Her furtive glance did something to me. I felt I needed to protect the kid. “Come on. Let me get you a cup of coffee, and we’ll talk about it.” I didn’t think he would accept the offer, but if he was willing, I figured a coffee and a change of scenery would help him pull himself together.

He did one of those staccato inhalation things, then, to my surprise, nodded in agreement.

We walked the short distance to the student union in silence, him trailing and me looking back every few seconds, half expecting him to not be there. A part of me wanted that. My exam is in an hour. I’m not going to get any more studying done! My back tensed, then at the next thought relaxed. I can’t just walk away. That time has already passed.

I bought two cups of coffee and sat at a table with a window overlooking an amphitheater that sloped down to a pond. After doctoring his coffee, he joined me, and we sat silently for a while. Neither of us seemed to want to trouble the waters.

Finally, he sipped his coffee, then spoke. “It’s my youth pastor.” He looked out the window.

A barrage of questions about what his youth pastor could have done to him flooded my mind. I inhaled to calm myself, then asked, “What did he do to you?”

He looked at me, surprised. “Nothing...nothing.” He stared out the window again. “He only ever did good to me.” His emotions forced their way out of his tear ducts. Through his sobs, he managed to say, “He died…in a…accident…a car accident…two weeks ago.”

I breathed in sharply, then shook my head. “Man. I’m sorry.” This time, I looked out the window. I wanted to ask more questions but restrained myself.

When he calmed down, he said, “He was like a dad to me. He was the only father I ever had.” I sensed him looking at me, so I turned toward him as he said, “My birth father left my mom when he found out she was pregnant with me. Growing up was hard for both of us.” He paused to wipe the tears that streamed down his cheeks. “The middle-school years were the toughest though, so mom decided we needed to go to church. I hated it at first. But the youth pastor was patient with me. He showed me he really cared and would take me to the ballpark and places like that. He’s the reason I’m even in college.”

At this point, I couldn’t resist. “He must have taught you about God, didn’t he?” After I asked it, I wanted to slap myself.

And, yes, that’s when the torrent let loose.

“God!...God!” He slammed his fist on the table so hard the coffee cups jumped. “Yes, he taught me about God! God, who is my Savior! God, who is my Father! God, who is my Comforter! Where the hell is God now?”

I looked around. Thankfully, no one was sitting close-by.

I had enough sense to know this was not the time for me to say anything. So I sat there, hands holding my coffee, eyes downcast, until a couple minutes later, he looked at me and asked, “Why did he take away the only thing in my life that was good?” He looked away. I took this as a cue that he didn’t want me to answer. Then he said, “You know, all my youth group friends back home have gotten over his death. My best friend there told me I need to get over it and move on with my life. Can you believe it? They actually started the youth group meetings up again—only two weeks after his death!”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

He looked at me. “And then there’s my roommate, who’s constantly quoting the Bible to me, ‘God works all things for the good of those who love him.’ Like I’ve never heard that before. Like I even care.” He looked down at the pond, his eyes welling up again.

What have I gotten myself into? These are deep and raging waters I don’t know how to navigate, I silently prayed.

Two words popped into my head. Be still.

I weighed those words carefully, then thought, That’s not for Lamentation Boy. That’s for me!

We both sat there for I’m not sure how long, just looking out the window. I wanted to say something. Anything. But I kept remembering, Be still. So I stayed still, afraid to move my gaze from the window and maybe mess things up. On his side of the table, there was only the occasional sniffle and wiping of tears.

Eventually, he turned toward me, so I turned, too. His face, blotches of damp and dry tears. His countenance, a wrung-out washrag. He spoke softly. “I miss him.” He paused. “Am I crazy for missing him?” Another tear rolled down his right cheek.

This time, I knew he wanted me to speak. The time to be still was over. “No. You’re not crazy,” I reassured him. “I can only imagine your loss.” I reached over the table and put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

A few moments later, I removed my hand, and we both looked back down at the pond. I thought about one of my aunts. She had lost her husband over ten years earlier. I recalled my mother saying, not too long ago, that she still finds my aunt crying sometimes. That thought lingered with me.

After some time, I asked him, “When your grieving is over—and I know it will never be fully over—what will you do? Will you go back home? Will you stay here?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared into his half-cold coffee, seeming to study its contents. “My mom is concerned for me. She wants me to come home for the semester. But I don’t think so. Too many memories there.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept staring out the window.

I ventured on. “What do you think your youth pastor would want you to do?”

Slowly, he answered, “He’d want me to move on with my life.”

I took another risk. “I don’t know him, but based on what you’ve said about him, I’m not sure that’s exactly what he’d say. I think he’d be honored that you’re mourning him so deeply. That he had the honor of influencing your life to this degree. My guess is that he was a wise enough man that he knew genuine grief subsides slowly but never quite goes away, never allowing the sacred memory of the loved one to vanish. But when the hurt lessens to the degree that you can get back up and finish what your pastor has set you on a track to do, then you’re right, I think he’d want you to go on with your life.”

He looked at me, wide-eyed, as if trying to believe my words.

Sensing there was nothing more for me to say, and needing to head to my exam, I reached into my bookbag, tore a sheet of notebook paper out, and wrote my name and number. I slid it over to him and said, “I’m not a grief counselor, but when you need to talk again, I’m here.” I leaned forward. “Seriously.”

He nodded.

I stood. “Gotta go take an exam.”

Looking up at me with the corners of his mouth forming a weak smile, he said, “Thanks for stopping.”

With a bubble forming in my throat, I nodded, then turned to go.