In Memoriam: Kenny Handley, April 13, 1960-December 16, 1982

Today is the 30th anniversary of the death of my wonderful brother, Kenny, who tragically took his own life at the young age of 22. The most difficult writing I have ever done was for the chapter in Home Waters that provides an account of his death and its impact on my family. I won’t revisit those details here, but I do wish to pay him special tribute and to reflect for a moment about what his death has meant.

Kenny was a brilliant young man. I don’t say that lightly. He was exceptionally gifted. He read widely and at a young age exposed himself to many of the world’s greatest writers. He listened to classical music with intensity and seemed moved and compelled by its great complexity and mystery. He loved philosophy and debate. He was a peacemaker. He admired great genius in every field of human accomplishment. He excelled in his college courses in math, physics, and chemistry. He was fascinated by human physiology. But Kenny struggled to understand his own intense depression, which hit him at the young age of 18. Little was known in those days about mental illness and many of the medications that are now available were only in development at the time.

He died by his own hand using a gun he had borrowed from a friend. This week we have witnessed a horrible massacre in a town not far from where we lived. I don’t mean to make a grandiose claim, but I have always lamented the ease with which he gained access to a gun. I do not believe he would have taken his life without it. The rates of suicide in young men using guns suggests as much.

We know more but still not enough about mental illness. I am grateful for my belief in continuing revelation. A generation or two ago in the LDS church, it was assumed that any suicide was a terrible sin, so much so it was deemed inappropriate to do temple work for anyone who had taken his own life. We don’t know what leads people to such tragic ends, and in the LDS church we have been taught more recently to not judge, to be compassionate, and to trust in Christ’s atoning powers and in God’s mercy. I have since come to understand that Christ not only atones for our sins but for our illnesses. In Alma 7:12, it reads:

“And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.”

One reason this doctrine matters is because when confronted with our infirmities—whether they be emotional, physical, spiritual, or mental—it is tempting to want to assign blame. That is easier than absorbing the insult of having inherited them. But the hope of Christ is to be able to come to him, heavy laden as we are, and experience a lifting of our burden. President Monson has taught that God will be gentle with those who have fallen into such despair. I don’t pretend to know what kind of clarity of judgment my brother had when he decided to take his life. I think it is best that I don’t try to know. I say this because when we judge, we close the story, we piece together only fragments, and we believe—falsely—that we have come to a complete understanding. In a way, it is our lack of faith in Christ that accounts for our impatient rush to assign blame. We don’t trust that his accounting is more generous and can absorb life’s great trials that appear to have little to do with who sinned against whom.

Thirty years in retrospect, I know that Kenny’s story and his life continue. And his story and his life are related concepts. When we pronounce judgment, we end a life. We say that it cannot continue and evolve into a different meaning. We say we know the meaning of actions and words. And that person can no longer speak to us in our memories or even make any new sense to us in the present. But in a more theological sense it is also true that our judgments of others deny that life continues in the spirit. This is a paradox, of course, because for most believers, the idea of a life after death is deeply connected to a final judgment. We don’t remind ourselves enough, however, that this judgment is God’s, not ours, and, at least in LDS theology, there is still plenty of reason to believe that our story and our life will not end there either, that there will still be chances for learning, for change, and for progress even after we have assessed our own mortal experience.

Shortly after my brother died, I was given what is called in the LDS church a patriarchal blessing. This is a blessing pronounced upon your head that provides you guidance and counsel for your future and reassurances about the Lord’s plan for you. In my blessing, I was told that there were many things I could yet do to be of service to my brother. At the time, I couldn’t imagine what this would mean. But a few years later, as I was preparing to serve a mission, I attended the temple to become endowed. This is an opportunity to receive additional ordinances that, as the word implies, endows us with blessings and strength as we make deeper promises to the Lord. I knew immediately that my brother needed me to do his endowment ordinance for him. I did so.

In LDS belief, this vicarious work for the dead is the sacred linking of the living and the dead, the great bond of universal love that will eventually unite the entire human family. I know it is not always a well understood practice, and not everyone in my own family feels quite the same way as I do about it. I see it as the opportunity to unleash the potential within every human soul to progress eternally, to grow and become more like God. And when I think about the short life that Kenny lived and how little of the person he was or could become the rest of us could see, I like to believe that he continues to experience and learn. And this makes me wonder if I haven’t been paying enough attention to what he has become.

President Joseph F. Smith, a prophet well acquainted with tragic and early death, said:

I believe we move and have our being in the presence of heavenly messengers and of heavenly beings. We are not separate from them. … We are closely related to our kindred, to our ancestors … who have preceded us into the spirit world. We can not forget them; we do not cease to love them; we always hold them in our hearts, in memory, and thus we are associated and united to them by ties that we can not break. … If this is the case with us in our finite condition, surrounded by our mortal weaknesses, … how much more certain it is … to believe that those who have been faithful, who have gone beyond … can see us better than we can see them; that they know us better than we know them. … We live in their presence, they see us, they are solicitous for our welfare, they love us now more than ever. For now they see the dangers that beset us; … their love for us and their desire for our well being must be greater than that which we feel for ourselves.”

I am speaking very personally here but in ways and contexts that are too personal to relate, I believe he has spoken to me, on two occasions. And on more occasions than that I believe I have felt an unmistakable presence holding me, strengthening me, and rejoicing with me that is undeniably my brother’s. I don’t understand why these experiences have happened to me. I know that not long after Kenny died, my mother reported feeling that he was helping her perform the piano more powerfully than she ever had. I like to imagine that he has had a continual influence in my life since he died and in the life of his entire family. I even imagine that he attends to my own children whom he never knew. I continue to believe he watches over us, as he said he would, and that he has magnified us, protected us, and taught us something of what he has learned in the presence of far greater light than we enjoy here. I believe he has helped us to stay unified as a family despite our differences, especially in our deep attachment to great musical performances. I love ideas, I love music, and I love thinking about the cosmos more because of him. I think he helps me understand science. And when I see an individual sorrowing beyond their own comprehension, I think maybe I see his young face again and I want to offer my love.

It should go without saying that I would take him back today and that I would welcome the chance to get to know him all over again, in the context of this mortal life where we struggle so hard to know and understand and love each other. But I am so profoundly grateful for what he has meant to me ever since, for what I have learned from a brother who suffered more than I have ever suffered and who wanted more from life than I have wanted. And I am comforted by the thought that he has found mercy, light, and growth and by the hope that, because of the atonement of Christ, the small frame of time that Kenny and all of us will live in these bodies and on this earth will not suffice to summarize who we are and what we can become.

 

 

  • http://www.byu.edu A Handley fan

    I have a son somewhere on the Autism/Asperger’s spectrum, who can become so enraged that I see the light in his eyes ignite into something dangerous and blind. There are holes in several of my walls from his fists; slits in the dry wall from the knives he threw. I have seen him lose control. I have watched helplessly as he played computer games rather than going to high school. Whenever he thought I might comment, he’d give me a daring look. I have had the horrible thought that he could kill himself or someone else–either in that uncontrolled rage or that bottomless depression. Newscasters have been quick to tell us that no Austic person could have planned so meticulously to carry out the murder of those school children and teachers in Connecticut. As a mother of one who has bouts of anger/depression, I found myself facing two fears on Dec. 14: That one of my own could be a victim, or that one of my own could be a killer.
    Thank you for this post, George.

    • georgehandley

      Everyone who knows you, knows you are honest, loving, and brave. Thanks! So glad we are friends.

  • http://www.danwoog06880.com Dan Woog

    A beautiful post, George. I am thinking of you, and Kenny, and all the Handleys. Love, Dan

    • georgehandley

      Dan, I was remembering to my mother today how I saw you on our front lawn that terrible night and how quick you were to be a comfort to our family. Thank you.

  • Posy

    This article is sad and poignant. I felt like I knew Kenny. But the hope and faith are wonderful.

    Thank you.

    • georgehandley

      Thank you!

  • amy holdsworth

    What a beautifully written remembrance of a beloved brother. Anyone who struggles while loving someone fighting depression, or one who has left the world seemingly too soon, would find the hope of peace and understanding in your words. Thank you for sharing such a personal story. What a privilege to have known your family, even for a short while.

    • georgehandley

      Thank you, Amy! We hope you are enjoying Utah!

  • Jane Taylor

    Thank you, George, for this beautifully written glimpse into your heart and your past. I was talking with a friend tonight about these very same thoughts in light of recent tragedies. How can we begin to comprehend the true and just understanding and mercy that only Christ can extend. The circumstances that make up our earthly experience can only be judged by Him who knows the depth of our soul. I think all of us in need of His immense compassion will be overwhelmed by its far-reaching effect.

    I have been doing a lot of reflecting and reading lately on life after this mortal experience. I appreciate your sharing your experiences with your brother, Kenny, and his active presence in your life today. Yours will be a sweet reunion.

    • georgehandley

      Thanks, Jane. Lots of love!!

  • Paul Edwards

    Thank you for sharing George. You were so gracious to help Margo and her family in their time of need this year as they dealt with suicide. But as you are well aware, for the family suicide isn’t an event to get over but something that shapes and reshapes a family over time. Your reflections after three decades provides needed perspective and spiritual insight.

    • georgehandley

      Thanks, Paul. Love to you and Margo and her family.

  • http://www.rulonbrown.com Rulon Brown

    Brave work, George. I think much more of this sort of candid and personal expression could help us all heal from the tragic stigmas about mental illness. Thank you!

    • georgehandley

      Thank you. It is always hard to talk about it openly, even after all these years.

  • Robert C.

    Thanks, George. This is personally meaningful to me in ways perhaps we can share over an orange soda one of these years….

  • Paul Justham

    Bless your tender heart, George. Love you.

    • georgehandley

      Thanks, Paul. Right back at you.


CLOSE | X

HIDE | X