Your Suicide Broke My Heart
Dear Ryan,
I'm sitting here in my car in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I'm at an overlook above the park where they found you a week ago. Ryan, why did you do it? Why did you disappear? Why did you turn off your phone? Why did your family have to worry and search for a day until they found you? You ran a load of laundry, you left a note, you left home. You didn't leave your gun. Why would you do that?
I left home at 5:50 this morning. You know that it takes more than two hours to get to you. You know that drive because you came to see me just two weeks ago. Do you remember how pretty it is—at least once you get into the country? You drive for miles along the Susquehanna before you head into the mountains.
Your funeral wasn't till 10:00, but I wanted to get there early so I could meet up with Paul at the waffle shop. Paul—he's that pastor that I tried for a month to connect you with. I didn't know until after you were gone that you had actually met with him. And he didn't know (how could he?) that you would leave us two days after you met him. He told me how you sat with him and talked about your struggles and bad decisions in your recent past. He was encouraged by his time with you. He felt that you were just beginning to move in the right direction, and that he was happy that he could help you. Ryan, why? Why did I have to text him two days after he talked to you to tell him you were missing?
I enjoyed my time with Paul, but had barely an hour before I needed to get to the church. Funerals, especially of a friend, are never easy, but this would be my first time at a Roman Catholic funeral mass, and I was especially unsettled. You were the only one there that I knew, but I couldn’t speak to you. I sat alone. Sunlight through stained glass brought unexpected beauty, belying the reason I’d come. I didn’t know most songs, but was glad to add my voice as we sang Amazing Grace.
Ryan, two weeks ago you came to church with me. You heard me teach about God's sovereignty over the nations. You told me it had made you think and you wondered where such teaching left room for man's free will. You sang with us. You told me it had been a long time since you had been in a church like mine but that you liked it. Now I was in your church and had questions of my own. But my heart was happy when they read words from Romans chapter 5, words that tell of Christ dying for the ungodly. That's it! I had told you before that it was all we needed. Christ died for the ungodly— people like you and me. My dear friend, I had explained the truth to you, and I think you understood. I truly hope you did, and that your trust was in the Savior and in nothing else.
I joined the others as they followed you to the cemetery, and I noticed the mountains as we stood by a tent and a hole in the ground. One more time I heard words spoken over you as you lay there in that wooden box. I stood in line to say goodbye. I wanted to touch that wooden box of yours. It was the closest I could get to you. But I didn't. I didn't want others to think that I was praying for your soul. My voice was silent but my heart told you farewell. The roots from those tall pines planted too near the blacktop turned my struts into jackhammers. I've never driven on pavement that was so incredibly bumpy. You would have laughed at that.
Strange people we are. We can't have funerals without food. So back to church I went, to remember you one more time. You were well-loved, if just half the comments were true. Someone said that he'd never seen so many people at a funeral for someone so young. You were special. "Anyone who met Ryan never forgot the experience"—that's what they said. A bit awkward, sure, but I think that's why people loved you. You didn't hide anything—just said what was on your heart. And that heart had room for everyone.
I was one of the last to leave, and with nothing else to do, I started driving. I wanted to see where they found you and what your final drive was like. It proved to be so beautiful. I didn't know the area, but I saw it was mostly open country. I loved driving in that narrow valley, divided by a road that splits it in two. I loved how on both sides of the road the farms reach back to the nearby mountains. Mountains in the distance, fields of corn nearby. Happy barns and houses, set back from the road. And signs of Amish. Stoltzfus Sheds, a harness shop, roadside produce stands, buggies, girls on scooters. In nearly 30 miles, I saw only two small towns, neither of which had gas for sale. As I got closer to the park, the walls started to close in. The open country became lost to trees that neared the road on both sides. Just after the county line, I saw the brown sign whose yellow letters told me that I had arrived.
Once inside the park, the walls closed even tighter. It's not an open oak forest, more of a dark and dense spruce, pine, and hemlock one. The kind that made me feel like I had gone back in history and might meet a Mohican at any time. Where they found your car, I do not know, and do not wish to know. For me it is enough that this is where you chose to stop your car and stop your life. Surrounded by such beauty, your final drive was one that filled my senses. But for you, it was not enough to breathe life and hope into your heart.
I've come here to say farewell, somehow hoping that I could communicate with you just one more time. Death, especially in this way, leaves me feeling like I've breathed in but cannot let it out. I'm bursting inside to ask you why, to know what happened in a matter of days to bring you to this point. But there is nothing I can do. The answers will have to wait. I'm thankful, though, that there are answers, and that Someone knows what they are. With Christ, this life is not hopeless nor is it in vain. Apart from Him, there are no answers, only questions. With Him, the answers are long in coming, but they will come in time.
Ryan, you broke my heart. I saw you needed help and I cared for you. I tried to help. Two years ago, God spared your life and healed you from a broken neck. Do you remember how I sent you that box of chocolates and that book with the strange name, the one that tells you Don't Waste Your Life? You told me then that you had started to read it. But now it feels like you've wasted it anyway.
For months I hadn't heard from you, then suddenly last month you texted me. You told me you had messed up and that the consequences could be severe. I sent you the words of Hebrews 4 about our compassionate high priest. You told me, "I definitely need some grace and mercy. Even trying to come back to Jesus I'm still messing up!"
I also encouraged you with the story of King David. I told how he wrote Psalm 23 but also took a man's wife and killed him. "He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake." "Set Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, and retreat from him, that he may be struck down and die." How could those words come from the same mouth? I told you that it shows us how great God's grace is. Do you remember what I said? I said, "It's never an excuse to sin purposefully, but a great reminder of how messy our lives can be and God's grace and forgiveness can still triumph." I was so encouraged by your response. You said, "That's crazy that he was a homewrecker yet an example at the same time. It's funny how we manage to do wrong even if we know God. Common sense says that you don't mess with something that's bigger and more powerful than you! Where we get the gumption to go against His plan for us is beyond me."
Those texts just weeks ago encouraged me. I remember our phone calls too. I told you how it all hangs on us trusting in Christ. That we need Him to make us new on the inside. Then I was so excited when you said you were coming to see me at the end of the month. I looked forward to a weekend with you. As it turned out, we didn't see much of each other. Along the way, you'd also run into a pastor friend of mine and he spent two hours with you in the book of Romans. He sensed that you truly grasped the gospel and had believed. So I didn't mind in the least that you had less time to spend with me. Our time was brief, but I was so excited to take this new foundation and build on it. My last memory of you is watching you walk across our church parking lot to your car. You told me it was the best weekend you had had in a long time.
A week went by. I didn't hear much from you. This concerned me. Were you drifting again? Was the alcohol calling? I texted you on Sunday, and again on Monday. On Monday especially Sharon and I prayed that God would protect you. I was getting worried. You never answered me. Did you read those last two texts? What happened? Ryan, I'm sad and I'm angry, but I forgive you. I saw a little bit of myself in you. I wanted to see you have a happy ending. Perhaps you did. Perhaps in spite of the clouds and fog of mental and doctrinal confusion, you did have what really mattered. I prayed for you for a long time, including the day before and the morning of the day you took your life. On what proved to be your last morning, I asked God to keep you from harm. Did He? If death by your own hand has turned out to be your entrance to glory, then He has granted my request in a way that I did not want. Now I am the one who wonders how your free will to sin fits with His sovereign plan for good.
My own life is probably more than half done. Your story is over, your destiny has been determined. Your life was complex, and your actions were confusing. Were you a troubled saint or a pretender? I can't have confidence, but I do have hope. I hope that when my race is done I will see you waiting on the other side. By God's grace, may we spend a happy eternity together. Farewell, my friend.
Note: some names changed to preserve privacy
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