Only God Can Still Waters

“Are there any good people left?” the young man asked his father.

“I believe so,” the father replied. “But many good people have very bad habits.”

This was the last conversation the father would have with his son. The father would later tell me that his son had killed himself after battling with depression, anger, and alcoholism for years.

“I’ve so much guilt,” the father said. “I think now he must have been asking me if I thought he was a good person.”

The father sat before me at a small café table. His presence filled the room, not because of his stature. There was something more to this man, yet I didn’t recognize it at first.

“And if he had plainly asked you, ‘Dad, do you think I’m a good person?’ what would your response have been?” I asked.

“Yes, he’s a good person!” he replied.

“Speak it aloud as if you are speaking to your son, not me,” I said.

His eyes sparked and then swiftly regained their composure. He cleared his throat, gave a slight nod, and began.

“Yes, you’re a good person,” he said with reflective confidence. “You, in many ways, are a much better person than I’ve ever been. You see things and people at a deeper level – you feel deeper. You experience life deeper. Because of this, your cuts are also deeper.”

He clasped his hands together, forming a single fist, before continuing.

“You thought I found this to be a weakness in you,” the father continued. “I know you believe I have been disappointed in you. Many times, I have. Yes, I’ve been disappointed in you,” he said.

“Please continue,” I said.

“He… I mean, you…” he started and restarted. “I was so damn angry at you. You were throwing your life away on booze and bad decisions. You couldn’t even carry on a conversation or laugh unless you had been drinking. I don’t even think you knew how to be you without feeling a buzz. Worse, we all just accepted it because it became so normal. Normal!”

“Take a minute,” I said. “Breathe. Then ask him a question. Ask your son a question.”

“Everybody loved you. Dammit! Why couldn’t you love yourself? God, why?”

The father’s knuckles turned white as his fist grew tighter.

“Forgive me if I didn’t love you enough to make you want to stay. I would have gladly given my life for yours. You didn’t let me have any part in your decision. And your decision will torment me for the rest of my life.”

“Can you share with your son a thought that keeps returning to you – something that you have not been able to let go of since his death?”

“Yes. Yes, I can,” he said. His head remained bowed as the top of his fist became wet with tears.

“My fear is that you convinced yourself that you loved those who loved you enough to die – that you were doing me and all of us a favor by ridding the world of you,” he said.

The father then began to speak to God in a prayer birthed in sorrow. His voice tempered itself to a whisper edged in razors.

His heart bled before the Lord:

“Lord, forgive me for all the times I failed my son. A father is supposed to train up his child; clearly, I only helped tear him down. Little did he know, I often felt as helpless as he did. I was so scared for him that, at times, I hated him. Lord, I still do. Even more now. Even more. My love is equal to my hate, and they’re both destroying me. God, I loved my son. I still do. What do You want me to do with all this pain? All this love? Where can it go?”

The father looked up and stared at me, his eyes fatigued from a fight he could not reconcile. “Where can it all go?” he asked.

“What I can tell you is only from my experience, and it may not be a fit for you. There’s no script for healing. No timeline. What helps today may not help tomorrow. I feel you already know this.”

“I do, and that makes it all the harder. One minute, I’m thankful I’m not thinking about it, and the next minute, I feel scared or guilty that I’m not thinking about it. Nothing is holding form – my thoughts are everywhere and nowhere. I hardly know what to do with myself.”

“Explain,” I said.

“If I distract myself and enjoy a good meal, an unexpected laugh, or the company of my wife, I wonder if that is disrespectful to how I should be acting. And if I mourn too loudly or too obviously, then I wonder if that too is being disrespectful – that my son would have wanted me to keep living, not as one already dead. If I do not shape up, will people eventually think that I’m making my grief an idol? Or if I appear to heal too quickly, will not people think me callous to death?” he asked.

“Healing is a personal experience,” I said. “For Believers, healing is an intimate experience with a personal God. Just as no one can harness the ocean, no one can judge the ebbs and flows of sorrow and healing. Only God knows the depth of a man’s soul. And only God can still waters that we cannot settle.”

“Only God,” he repeated. “Then I’ll continue to give God my ocean of sadness, anger, and regret. And I’ll pray that one day He will calm the waters enough for me to enjoy the good memories of my son in the view of a new day.”