I wasn't asleep but I had been napping and may not have been fully awake when a story came fully formed into my mind. It was almost as if it was from an aged Native American narrating it in the way we sometimes see on television. It was like this:"There was a young fellow in our village who was timid and weak and afraid. The other young ones made fun of him and bullied and harassed him because of it. One day two of the largest of them took the young fellow by the arms and told him they were going to throw him in the river. He was afraid they would, and they did. He drowned and the rest of the village lived happily ever after."
That evening and the next morning I wondered about the meaning of this. Then as the sun was rising through the trees, the grief of my second oldest sons death two weeks before settled hard upon me. Until that moment I had not broken and let it come.
Like most people my son had weaknesses. The biggest of these was alcoholism. He began drinking in high school and was easily addicted, most likely having some inherited factor making it so. Both of his grandfathers were alcoholics. By the time he became aware of how much effect it was having on himself and those around him, he couldn't find the way out. By then he had a wife and two children and a strong sense of responsibilty to provide for them. His wife became disabled at an early age and he worked hard to remain employed in his trade in the construction industry. Not always an easy thing to do. As lifes pressures increase so did his addiction and the two together made him and those around him miserable and it got worse. At the age of 48 he died.
Because of the drinking and the resulting problems he quit associating with members of the congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses and was eventually formally removed or disfellowshipped. He was no longer welcome at most gatherings of any one he loved and held dear. His home life deteriorated and still he struggled to overcome. He tried several times to quit drinking but failed. As time went by he gained considerable weight and his body began to fail him. At the time of his death he was on disability from work and was facing the conclusion he would likely never be able to return. In the last few months he had gone through detox, but resumed drinking soon after. His parents (my wife and I) had been the recipients of a recent get-together to celebrate their 50th anniversary and he was not invited, though when he read his wifes invitation he thought at first he had been. I know he hurt when he realized he was not. Between then and the time he died he was depressed and anxious over everything and on medication. Why did he die? Why not?
Like all survivors, I'm madder than hell and wanting to blame everybody, including myself, that he is gone. But the blame goes deeper than anyone I can reach. It isn't God's fault, he's the only one with a purpose to bring an end to these things. And it isn't the fault of the congregation, many of whom did reach out as best they could to help but couldn't. Nor is it the fault of relatives who longed for him to overcome the problem they have seen take others before him. I personally cannot blame my son. I feel he was struck with an incurable desease as bad as any that exist. I will reserve a small amount of blame for myself and even my wife. We probably couldn't have done much but with the alcoholism in both our fathers we should have been more aware and maybe worked harder to have kept it from starting.