It is dark. Early morning. I pull my airport rental car to the curb and throw the gear shift into park. I am hoping nobody will think I am a weirdo, parking in this residential area before sunrise.
I look out my windshield at the nondescript house and keep my eyes on the garage door. It has been a lifetime since I’ve been here. Many lifetimes, actually. I almost didn’t come this morning.
But I had to see this place. In fact, as soon as my plane landed it was all I could think about. I couldn’t sleep last night, I tossed and wallowed in my sheets.
So I got up early, before the hotel staff started serving the systematic hell they call “continental breakfast,” I crawled into my rental, and I followed empty highways until they led me here.
Parkville, Missouri, is a small town. There are about five thousand living in Parkville proper. There are antique shops, galleries, a little historic downtown. It’s your quintessential American hamlet.
The town was founded in 1836, and was originally called “English Landing,” it was once a port on the Missouri River for tobacco and hemp. Today, I’m told it’s the kind of place where old guys from the American Legion chew the fat and tell flagrant lies about the fish they’ve caught.
My father ended his own life in Parkville. He did the horrible deed in his brother’s house. Nobody saw it coming. They found his body in my uncle’s garage. And the sad irony is, if you’d known my father, you’d know that he probably chose the garage so he wouldn’t make a mess inside the house.
Strangely, my father talked to me on the phone only minutes before he pulled the trigger. He said he loved me. It was just a casual call, and it was a nonchalant “I love you.” The words were said the same way he might have said them after baseball practice when he’d fuzz my sweaty hair.
“Love you, Speedy,” he used to say.
That was his nickname for me. Speedy. My initials are SPD, so I was always Speedy. This nickname was sort of like calling a 350-pound man “Tiny.” I was non-athletic, chubby, with a crippling addiction to Little Debbie products. I was anything but speedy.
But on Daddy’s last phone call I was still “Speedy.” He told me he wouldn’t be seeing me for a while. I remember this phrase very clearly. Although I didn’t know what it meant.
A few hours later I was outside playing in the woods of a completely different county. I was doing kid stuff. Fun stuff. I was cheerfully ignorant of real life and all its woes. Meantime, the report of a single rifle was sounding in Parkville, shattering the stillness, and my father’s soul was leaving this earth.
Anyway, that was a long time ago. At this stage of living, I have learned that when something bad happens in your life it’s like throwing open your living room window during a hurricane. Rain and wind are going to screw up your interior.
Your open window is going to get everything wet. Your furniture is going to be ruined. Your house is going to get screwed up. Your life will never go back to the way it was.
Once that window opens all you crave is for closure. You want this window to close. You pray for it to slam shut. You yearn for this.
But closure doesn’t happen. Even after the storm is long gone, your window will stay open. And even though all you want is to experience this sense of closure, life doesn’t do things just because you want it to. Closure is a myth. And therein lies the gift of tragedy.
After many years, you finally realize that you don’t actually want to shut the window to your pain like you once thought. You slowly come to understand that covering this open hole would be a grave mistake.
Because even though this gaping window once ruined your life and made you hurt, it’s the dull hurt that keeps you human. That low-grade lingering pain is what makes love richer, and joy brighter.
It is this pain that gives you superpowers. Empathy. Thoughtfulness. Hope. Loyalty. Love. Pain can tenderize you if you let it, and it can make you feel. Really feel.
This pain is what causes you to unexpectedly cry when you hold a newborn baby. This pain helps you see lowly people who are often invisible to others. It is this pain that will make each simple sunrise seem like an event that was preordained just for you.
As it happens, I am looking at one such blessed sunrise right now. A breath stealing, arresting sunup. The large orange orb lifts itself above the roofline of this small, nondescript and faded house where my father shot himself.
And in some small way, I feel like Speedy all over again.
79 comments
johnnie943 - June 17, 2021 8:13 am
So True. Thank You, Sea n. God Bless You.
Jan Fincher - June 17, 2021 8:14 am
Dear Sean,
My dad died in 2008 and I’m still trying to close that window. My mom and I had been told he’d die within two months, but she didn’t want to tell him. I strongly disagreed and almost told him anyway. But as an only child, I was used to letting Mom have her way.
The day came all too soon and dad was back in the hospital and the doctor had to tell him. Dad was getting settled in his room and Mom had run home to pick up a few things. We were alone and he looked pretty defeated. And then he looked up at me and asked “why did you do this to me? Didn’t you think there might have been things that I’d want to do?” I didn’t know what to say. So, for some reason I covered for my mother. That was the last conversation that we had before he slipped into a coma. To this day, I feel like I got kicked in the gut. I know that I would visit him before he died and end up in the bathroom throwing up. My mom sat next to his bed those last 5 days and never tried to draw me in. I realized years later that I had played the role of the scapegoat. And it opened up that window of destruction and I’m still in counseling for it.
I had grown up his “Little Buddy” and that was stolen from me at the end. I’m just left with the guilt that I should have overridden Mom and done what I believed he would have wanted. He was strong enough to hear it. I know that all of this doesn’t matter anymore where they live now. There are no last regrets and grudges to be held. But I’m left here on earth mopping, constantly mopping. Really, really working on forgiving. It’s not as easy as it sounds and I really hope that all of that counseling work pays off one day. I need all of those hundred thousand other memories of my Big Buddy.
Deborah Lockard - June 17, 2021 2:07 pm
Jan, If you had been in your father’s place, you would forgive him. Please forgive yourself. He would want you to. Deb
Lloyd Philpo'tt - June 18, 2021 5:02 am
Sean, you’ll be in Destin the 2nd. Maybe take some time and search out houses where a hurricane not only blew out the window but blew walls with windows down. Search for the ones that were built back, with bigger, stronger windows, which open to let the breeze blow through and close to hold back the storms, those bigger storms that are coming. Search for those with stronger windows than before the storm. Search for one with a new chair to lean back and soak down into till the leather is worn to the shape of you. Down there, maybe this week, more storms are coming. Watch for real, not fake, shutters. It comforts the soul to sit back and look out at the waves through those big windows. But when you walk, walk through the door. Just never close the blinds, and keep a painting of old sorrows hanging on the wall behind the chair. You’ll see it before you sit down, but when you sit, you’ll watch the new window, the waves as they kiss the horizon of the sun, the moon and the stars. Then look for that one brightest star. I’m sure you’ll know it by name.
Deborah Blount - June 17, 2021 8:36 am
One of the most lasting and crippling things in our life are surviving the death of those we love by suicide. Suicide is extremely selfish. The one who commits it may be out of pain, but those left behind have to relive it daily for the rest of their lives. You can dwell on it or you can learn from it. If you dwell, you tend to be a ‘my glass is half empty’ person. If you are able to to see the beauty and love around you, you become a ‘my glass in half full’ person. You can’t ignore the hole in your life, but you can learn beautiful ways to fill it.
I love you SPD. By now, you must know there are many of us out here in the ether that feel that way about you. Keep on filling that hole with beauty and sharing it with us. GOD bless and keep you.
Susan Parker - June 17, 2021 8:41 am
I feel as if I should say something to you, Sean. And yet, I don’t know for the life of me what to say. All I can think of is to offer my prayer that God, Who is already near you, will make Himself and His love really obvious to you right now. And that you would find that closure you’re looking for. God bless you with that, Sean.
joan moore - June 17, 2021 10:47 am
This ability to relate your experience is one of the gifts God gave you to help people with similar pain to find understanding of how to cope with the misery they live with daily. You are doing God’s work well, my friend.
Barb Berger - June 17, 2021 8:51 am
Sean, you are truly an amazing word artist. I discovered your work a few weeks ago and have read both books to date. Your courage in baring your soul through your life story is commendable. I am sorry for the palpable pain you have carried. But so glad you can share with your audiences. I look forward to every column. Thank you for the many reminders of the goodness in the small things
Steve Scott - June 17, 2021 10:31 am
Good morning Speedy. This really hit me hard, but in a strangely good way. My father left us at his own hand when I was 9. I didn’t address it until in my 50s and it really did a number on me. I had no confidence in my self until my late 40s. But, in the long run, it has made me more forgiving, more caring and more patient. I look forward to your column every morning and wish I had found you sooner. Your friend in Columbus, Georgia.
chip plyler - June 17, 2021 10:52 am
.I Hope and pray that our Father will bring you Peace, not like earthly peace but the Peace that only He can give…
Bar - June 17, 2021 10:59 am
Dang, Sean … from my own open window, I’m sending you a hug.
Julie Moreno - June 17, 2021 11:11 am
Thank you for sharing and your kindness. God bless
Jan - June 17, 2021 11:12 am
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, your feelings, your soul in such a loving and beautiful way. So many have experienced hurt in some form and you wrap your arms around us through your words and let us know that we matter and we are loved. Thank you, Sean.
halloween44 - June 17, 2021 11:15 am
Powerful. In AA we say ”Pain is the Touchstone of all Spiritual growth”.
D. Green - June 17, 2021 11:16 am
“Closure is a myth. And therein lies the gift of tragedy.” A simple, brilliant, truth. Thank you.
Molly - June 17, 2021 11:20 am
I want to say something, but don’t know what! Just know that you are loved. By your open window you are able to do so much more for others! You do this each day in so many ways!! Keep your window open, let the sunshine in! You deserve all the sunshine you can get!! Thank you for letting us share each day with you!!
Verna Kays - June 17, 2021 11:26 am
God Sean….I “get” every word you wrote.
Having had a tragedy in my young adult life…30 years later my world still tilts….
It always will…
Blessings and thank you for putting the feelings,the pain,and ultimately the knowledge of what it gives you,on paper..
Blessings………
Lily Kerr - June 17, 2021 11:34 am
Sean – I hear you. I Was discarded at birth and it’s bee quite the ride these 73 years. I’m writing to invite you to reconsider that open window. Whatever we witness on both sides of the window has been served, a long time ago. Leaving it open may be an illusion for the reasons you shared. Those reasons are actually survival tools tattooed inside of you. They go where you go. Windows are placed to provide a view. That night, the noise blew the window open. You’ve seen through it and felt it’s earthquake. Consider the fact the windows in this house are closed… He loved (loves) you so much, he said goodbye. Most of those left behind are denied that, Love you. Truly. Lily – Retired chaplain.
Leigh Amiot - June 17, 2021 11:35 am
Closure is psychobabble in the realm of a significant loss. Anyone who believes they can put a lid on a trauma of this magnitude and be done with it isn’t fooling me.
Wish I could remember where I read this, but the author’s truth resonated, paraphrase—we assimilate these losses into our lives and move forward.
Rhoda Fountain - June 17, 2021 1:05 pm
Assimilate — that is the word I have been reaching for…
Greyn - June 17, 2021 11:37 am
There may be columnists more widely read than you (maybe), but none with a more appreciative or fervent readership. Whatever the dynamics that made you who you are, they are to be embraced, celebrated.
Karen Holderman - June 17, 2021 12:00 pm
Sean, you are us. What you wrote and share is truth for so many. I see that in the responses. My prayers are with you and those who shared their own personal losses with you and we readers.
Suzi - June 17, 2021 9:55 pm
Yes!
cengland1600 - June 17, 2021 11:38 am
This is so touching, so descriptive of the real human pain that we suffer. It really doesn’t go away when that loss happens. Your hyper-sensitivity, your superpowers, is what makes you unique in our world and what attracts similarly hurt people to you. You express it better than anyone else. Thank you for sharing: first your words, thoughts, and experiences in your columns; but also for the ability to recognize the same in others. All of us have someTHING with which we’re dealing. I tell myself that if that was the worst that happened to me, then I can make it. You are so open and honest with your hurt. Love is the answer and you share it. Thank you.
susanrenniandersongmailcom - June 17, 2021 11:40 am
My heart hurts for you Sean. You will be in my prayers all weekend.
Annie Sommers - June 17, 2021 11:48 am
God Bless You Sean. Prayers for you.
Denise Walker - June 17, 2021 11:51 am
Thank you for sharing this. I know it must be hard to be so transparent in today’s world. My heart aches for your loss, and the hurt and pain you’ve felt over the years. I can not imagine. Keep the faith.
Kenneth Mitchell MD - June 17, 2021 11:54 am
Suicide is like chemotherapy. That rifle killed the disease but took the good dad along. “A while” is but a vapor. It will be a fine reunion. Speedy, I am proud of you too….ken
BJ - June 17, 2021 11:55 am
So glad God gave you that sunrise. He knows what we need.
Kay Shelton - June 17, 2021 12:02 pm
Amazing story. I wish all those young people who believe they should grow up in a totally safe environment would read this and understand – pain happens, you’ll never live in a world without it. But it is what creates in you a beautiful soul – like SPDy.
Abbe Laboda - June 17, 2021 12:02 pm
Sean you are such a gift, just like Lewis, but in your own way.
Vicky - June 17, 2021 12:13 pm
Sean, your Dad leaving this earth did not change the fact that you will always be Speedy. The fact that your Dad called you before leaving means a lot. He had to have been in a lot of mental anguish to do what he did and leave you. I understand that kind of pain and how it is hard to keep going on. He didn’t want to leave you, he wanted to end the pain. My hope is that he has seen the wonderful, caring man that his son grew to be. And yes, his death had something to do with that. You are such a good guy-I’m happy that I found you.
Lisa - June 17, 2021 12:14 pm
I cannot even imagine….so I am just leaving a hug for you right here.
Thank you for sharing everyday, Sean. Thank you.
Linda Clayton - June 17, 2021 12:22 pm
I know you are a fan of Willie Nelson and he has a beautiful song called “It’s Not Something You Get Over, But Something You Get Through.” Listening to it has helped me in getting through losses of loved ones. God bless you in getting through yours.
Amanda - June 17, 2021 12:22 pm
Today’s essay is one of the best I’ve ever read on pain, closure, and tragedy. The half sentence ‘pain can tenderize you if you let it” is incredible word craft. Your blog posts are a template for writing tutors encouraging students. They coherently convey multi- faceted experiences through the magical realm of language! Layering one’s reflections with personal life perspective is a daunting task which you accomplish as well as anyone I’ve ever read.
Ann - June 17, 2021 12:24 pm
Not only have you come so far in your life, you have helped countless others….the sunrise is truly a Sonrise when you open your heart and mind…blessings
Nancy Crews - June 17, 2021 12:27 pm
❤your writing. I have no words of wisdom. I cannot even begin to imagine your pain.
Ellouise Pennington - June 17, 2021 12:29 pm
Your words are absolutely stunning some times. Pain can tenderize. But I didn’t know that until right now. You’ve come a very long way. Thank you for taking us with you.
M. Dale Milita - June 17, 2021 12:49 pm
Thank you Sean, for putting words to the description of the loss, the pain and sorrow that has encompassed me for the past year with the loss of my Carolyn after 45 years of marriage. It sure fits….
Wendy - June 17, 2021 12:56 pm
Beautifully written, Sean. Thank you for these wise words and though it’s a bit late, I’m so sorry for your loss❤️
Pamela Williams - June 17, 2021 1:01 pm
❤️
Rhoda Fountain - June 17, 2021 1:09 pm
As a mother who lost her son in a similar fashion 27 years ago your words resonate deeply.
peggy hayes - June 17, 2021 1:33 pm
Thank you for sharing your pain and helping us realize that some good can come of the pain that we all experience sooner or later. I’m sorry yours was so early in your life, but maybe that’s why you have been able to help so many of us. And don’t you ever think you haven’t. You’re a great writer and so of course you have fans. You are an even greater human being, and that’s why you have so many fans. ❤️
Jo - June 17, 2021 1:35 pm
I can only imagine. Hugs and prayers for you Sean.
Mary - June 17, 2021 1:41 pm
Sending you a big bear hug…..
Tawanah Fagan Bagwell - June 17, 2021 1:46 pm
My late husband, who died of cancer lived with the knowledge that his father and his father’s father both committed suicidal. My husband was bi-polar and I suspect his father and grandfather suffered with that too. He made a pledge to his son that he would not do that to him. He knew that pain.
I pray for you to have peace. You bless me every day with your writing.
Letricia Gay Luhman - June 17, 2021 2:16 pm
So very sorry for these difficult times of sorrow and grief.
C - June 17, 2021 2:18 pm
Thank you.
Truth is inviting me to love you more.
I am responding to this.
🦋
Cathy M - June 17, 2021 2:34 pm
Sean, you have really brought alot to the table this morning. I do not believe that suicide is selfish. I do believe that it is the result of a depression that is so deep that the person cannot see anyway out except to end it all. Your dad be obviously adored you. He showed it in so many ways yet he was in more pain than any of us can imagine. I think that many of us who had sadness in their childhood tend to reflect on it more often as we age. I also believe that the healthy way to approach that reflection is to use it in a positive way. I have learned that compassion and kindness toward those who are hurting is the best medicine for those of us who have had sadness in our childhoods. You have taken your pain and reached out to so many who have lived in that tilted world. Your dad would be so very proud. Keep up the good work Speedy, you have an army of people who are thankful for you everyday❤️🙏🏻
mizbeverly - June 17, 2021 2:47 pm
What an amazing wordsmith you are. Your writing makes me laugh. It makes me cry. Today I cried. I identify with your pain because I am watching a loved one deal with the scars left by a father who chose death by alchohol over fifty years ago. Rest assured, you will see your dad again. In the meantime live a life that will make him proud.
Rhonda Hooks - June 17, 2021 2:48 pm
Well Said. Every word of it
Harold - June 17, 2021 3:02 pm
KEEP TELLING YOUR STORIES, SPEEDY!!!
KEEP TELLING YOUR STORIES!!!👍👍👍
Virginia Lee Williams - June 17, 2021 3:05 pm
Sean, I was not aware of you or your powerful writing until a friend blessed me with this article today. I lost my 51 year old husband by suicide in 2014. I will be sharing your piece with other suicide loss survivors who I’ve come to know. I cried uncontrollably when I read this paragraph (and now again while I’m pasting it here) :
“This pain is what causes you to unexpectedly cry when you hold a newborn baby. This pain helps you see lowly people who are often invisible to others. It is this pain that will make each simple sunrise seem like an event that was preordained just for you.”
It’s very true and so, so hard to explain to others. I guess one doesn’t need to explain or expect others to understand. Our journeys are unique and our own. I am grateful for these superpowers, as you call them, but they came at such a great cost.
Thank you for sharing your vulnerability and enormous gift with us.
AlaRedClayGirl - June 17, 2021 3:27 pm
Even though children tend to think of their parents as invincible, they aren’t. Parents navigate through life’s problems doing the best they can, and sometimes they failed miserably. We love them and forgive them because they do (or would do) the same for us, but more importantly, because that is what we are called to do. Thank you for sharing your grief with us. What a wonderful thought to realize we don’t have to shut that window, that it can one day be a source of beautiful things.
Terry - June 17, 2021 3:28 pm
Sean,
Unfortunately I know exactly how you feel. I’ve experienced two suicides in my family. The memory isn’t as painful but it still hurts. I don’t have to ask why because I know why they both took their lives.
Marsha - June 17, 2021 4:56 pm
And now I know your suicide story. I’m so sorry you have one. They really do make or break us. My window is open.
MAM - June 17, 2021 4:58 pm
I admit I cried reading your story, but in a good way it was also uplifting. But then, I cried again while reading the comments. We all carry our pains in different ways, but you and those who comment to your wonderful storytelling help each of us deal with our pains. Thanks to SPDy and all your readers! May God bless and be with each and every one of you!
Helen De Prima - June 17, 2021 4:59 pm
Reading these comments, I’m so glad so many people let you know what a difference you make in so many lives. God bless!
Sharon Ollis - June 17, 2021 4:59 pm
I love reading your column. You seem so very…real! I also love reading the comments by other readers! These comments give me hope that good people are still with us in this great country of ours! Thank you all!
Christina - June 17, 2021 5:51 pm
“Pain can tenderize you if you let it” -SPD.
I have a strong suspicion that the ways in which you share stories with such tenderness are coming from a heart that’s been tenderized by both pain and love. Sending love and prayers to you for revisiting this open window.
BeBlue - June 17, 2021 6:23 pm
Sean, I am very sorry for your Dad’s tragic loss but it was an inspiration for one of your absolutely best columns.
Suellen - June 17, 2021 7:21 pm
In 2012 I opened up my Facebook to see a post from my nephew at 3 in the morning. “I’ve never felt so alone.” Just that. I sent message after message as did many others that were never answered. That afternoon I got a phone call that Jon had taken his own life. He served two tours in Iraq. He couldn’t live with things that he had seen (and probably done). He knew how much he was loved. He knew that he was going to blow up the lives of his parents (he was their only son) but his pain was unbearable. He was only 30. Sean, your words always seem to touch on spots inside each us where we hurt the most reminding us that places we thought were healed are really only covered over and there’s more work to be done. Thank You.
Anne - June 17, 2021 7:50 pm
Thank you, Sean, for these words. My beloved younger brother killed himself ten years ago this September, with a gun he had specially built himself to deliver two shots when he pulled the trigger. I have the feeling that, because I knew him well, (or at least parts of him well), he’d told himself he sure wasn’t going to screw up his death after having screwed up so many other things.
His suicide note was deeply miserable and apologetic. Of course, the only really horrible thing he’d done was killing himself, and I have come to forgive him for that.
Like your father, I suspect he chose the room where he shot himself (the laundry room, in my brother’s case) so it would make less of a mess.
The pain is ever-present. Your words did, however, express something I’d been unable to verbalize, but had been feeling for the last several years.
Thank you for being courageous enough to re-live your pain (you went back—To that garage—) in order to shine some light for those of us who have been traveling that hard, dark path.
Linda Moon - June 17, 2021 8:08 pm
I was in reader-suspense in anticipation of “this place” and your need to see it. As I continued to read, I understood. You see, we had a family man so very much like your father, Sean. I haven’t gone back to that place near a country road where another Daddy knew that his son-in-law’s body would be found in a barn. And it was, along with his note that said, “I love you all.” My grandmother “nickname” came from the father of my two grandsons who ended his life. And it was their granddaddy, Pops, who knew where their Daddy would be. Thank you for sharing your superpowers with us. I believe we have some of them, too.
I love you Speedy, from “Oopie”.
Lee Ann Williams - June 17, 2021 9:09 pm
Time doesn’t heal wounds. Pain lingers. Scars never go away. Time helps us exist until we can try to start to live again. I’m glad you have Jamie and Mother Mary. My heart hurts for you. For that little boy whose daddy called him Speedy. I’m glad your daddy loved you.
Terri - June 17, 2021 9:19 pm
I believe some writers have the ability to send little tendrils of their hearts out to their readers. Your heart has spread its way to thousands and thousands of regular Joes who appreciate your honesty, compassion, and love. Sending prayers or comfort and peace.
Bob Davis - June 17, 2021 9:26 pm
Sean- Your work has taken on a dreadful tone. Your very frequent discussion of your father’s suicide tells me that you need to move on! Yes, I’m sorry that he killed himself. Obsessing about it will not bring him back, but it will bring you down. It also brings me down and I don’t need that in my life.
So, I’m unsubscribing for a while. Maybe I’ll look you up next year or so to see if your work is more uplifting.
Linett Wright - June 17, 2021 10:28 pm
God bless you and keep you, Sean. Keep writing. You make us better.
Amy Elliott - June 18, 2021 12:49 am
Hi, Speedy. 🙂 I want to hug you tonight and just let you know that having an open window is always the best thing. Good and bad come and go through it and teach us life’s most important lessons. Love always wins. No matter what.❤️
Sally - June 18, 2021 1:34 am
Hey Sean, thanx for sharing your life story. The world through your eyes and words uplifts my soul. I particularly enjoy reading your answers to letters and questions.
A few years ago a former student of mine shot himself. He used to stop by and talk to me about God and Jesus and the Bible between classes-and any other chance he found. Then he moved up to high school. He was only 15 when he left this world. I saw him the day before it happened, hollered “hey (his name)” at him…but I guess he had earbuds in because he didn’t look up. I wish I’d walked over and gotten his attention and chatted with him a bit. I think about him often. When his class graduated last year they said his name in the list. I’m proud to know that lil group of young adults. This past year has been difficult regarding relationships with the students. So many developed isolating habits due to COVID restrictions. Eye contact was a rarity, and how I missed seeing their faces. (In Texas we were “in-person but masked and distanced”). We had to be ready to “go remote” at all times, so much of the work was done on computers. I sincerely hope that we’ll be able to make connections again, that we haven’t forgotten the importance of a good deep look into someone else’s eyes and listening to their hearts…and letting them hear ours as well.
thouse1001 - June 18, 2021 2:00 am
“It is this pain that gives you superpowers. Empathy. Thoughtfulness. Hope. Loyalty. Love. Pain can tenderize you if you let it, and it can make you feel. Really feel.”… True.
Patricia Gibson - June 18, 2021 2:15 pm
Perfectly said❤️🙏
Kate - June 18, 2021 3:26 pm
Amen. We all have those superpowers. We need to use them more.
Margie - June 18, 2021 5:45 pm
This one touched my very soul, Sean, for many reasons. Thank you for sharing from your heart. ❤️🙏🏻
Bill Harris - June 18, 2021 9:51 pm
Thank you Sean
Linnea Miles - June 19, 2021 10:15 am
Sean, I lost my mama to diabetic complications on February 9, 1960, a month and 3 days before I turned 3. She was 24, and I was her only child. There one day and gone the next. My foundation. I’m so blessed to have my own sweet memories of our time together, as well as family stories. She was immensely beloved. I remember her casket sitting in our small living room, full of friends and kind neighbors, and watching my dad standing by her, bent and wringing his hands, saying over and over, “What am I going to do without Edna?” She lives on in being honored by my 4 children, through carrying her name, my stories to them, even 2 beautiful songs written and recorded by my son. I’ll never live long enough to have closure- neither will you. But out of the pain comes some wisdom and the deep, deep feeling and empathy you described so well. My heart with you. They’re just home, waiting for us.
Gene - June 19, 2021 2:37 pm
Another late comment.
I too lost a loved one, a son, to suicide 6 years ago. I recently read “Life After Suicide” by Dr. Jennifer Ashton. and found it very helpful and recommend it..
Melanie - June 19, 2021 9:21 pm
Your daddy is so proud of you and he is crying too.
Bob - June 20, 2021 10:25 pm
Wow! I too have a similar pain and like you that window and the rain and the wind is what makes our souls richer in so many ways. Mine storm was the loss of a child rather than a parent. God Bless and thank you for sharing.