The sun has risen 7,304 times since I answered a wee small hours of the morning call, waking me to tell me, "Jim's gone."
20 years. What does that even mean?
I was 3 months away from turning 40. OMG, 40!
My sons were boys.
I was neck-deep in my endless (futile) pursuit of church/theological relevance, married for 15 years, and relatively happy (I think?).
Who could ever tell?
I was so repressed. So contained.
On this side of things, I can see that it’s not so much that I didn’t want people to really know me. Hell, I didn’t really know me.
Now, understand that awareness comes after a cascade of personal, relational, professional, mental, and spiritual crises and the significant and difficult work it takes to move through them.
The days of believing I’m irreparably broken are gone (thank God).
Although I did live long considering the implications of the CPT Code a former therapist used for my years of treatment under his care - the old F.34.1, Dysthymia, which at the time was defined to me as “incapable of being happy.” Live with that one for a while, why don’t ya? Or at least try to. Tens of thousands of dollars later…
Like I said, former therapist.
I’m grateful for so much of the work done. I don’t want to come off as ungrateful. And yet, “for everything there is a season.” Clarity was never going to come caught in the dysthymic trap.
Current therapist…clearer understanding of self. Glory be.
Jimmy’s death was an inflection point for everyone who knew him.
It was for my family.
It was for me.
The curve changed.
Missing Jimmy during Dad’s long goodbye rose differently than before. In the initial years after his death, just grappling with the reality of his absence was its own mindfuck. How is it possible that he’s not here?
But I needed him as we cared for Dad. It was demanding in every conceivable way. My sister was able to do only so much. My brother-in-law and nephew stepped up huge, but I needed my brother to help me and us.
I’ve wondered how he would have handled it. He tended to avoid the illness of others. When dad had emergency gall bladder surgery in 1987 (back when that was a major surgery and his gall bladder was gangrenous), and I was in my first days at my first appointment, Associate Pastor at the Old Hickory United Methodist Church in Old Hickory (not Nashville), Tennessee, thank you very much, rather than staying at the hospital waiting, Jimmy drove around I-240 all day long.
But he was a kid then. I’m guessing he would have risen to the occasion, as we all did, or at least tried to.
Jimmy went through more than a few personal, relational, professional, mental, and spiritual crises of his own in his 34 years, sometimes dramatically so.
Mostly dramatically so.
So, Jimmy was dramatic.
I was looked upon as the one who had it together (my God if he only knew).
And my patience for him when he didn’t was not very graceful at times.
I regret that. Still.
I suspect my inability to be patient and graceful with him had little to do with him and everything to do with my inability to be patient and graceful with me.
I was 54 when my dam broke, 20 years older than he was when he died - the age he’d be now. Only recently, on this side of the curve, I’ve wondered how he would have been with me through my meltdowns. Ask anyone who knew him or who was loved by him - he was fiercely loyal and protective (a Jeffords trait).
Hearing his assuring “I got you” during some of the darkest times would have been comforting, I’m certain.
What would it mean for him to know his son and fiance asked me to preside their wedding? I wonder if he’d be able to keep it together through the service.
I know. He wouldn’t.
As it is, and as I’ve done now, every April 17 since 2004, I write something about him/us/me.
It’s possible that 20 is enough. We’ll see.
This year holds a different resonant peace, though.
Jimmy left us suddenly. Dad left after a long struggle.
The thought of them being together, however it is you imagine that, brings comfort.
No, more than that.
Happiness.
See? I can do it!
