Remembering James

When my son James was born we considered him our miracle baby. While I had three successful pregnancies with his two older sisters and brother, my second husband and I had struggled with two miscarriages before he was born. We were delighted that our newborn was healthy and surprisingly had a full head of thick, long, black hair. He would be the only child my husband and I could have together as we suffered four more miscarriages after his birth.

One New Year’s Eve when his older siblings were still at home James took his first consistent steps. We counted his steps out loud as he laughed and smiled. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!” we said and clapped. Eventually after the ball had dropped in Times Square on our television screen he had gotten up to twenty-three steps. From that point on he walked.

His Dad and I went to his preschool Christmas play where our young son was one of the shepherds. He looked angelic to us as he walked by, and his father said, “All he needs is a pair of wings.”

Later, there were open houses at school, carnivals, book and science fairs, and concerts to attend. I remember buying him tickets and following him room to room in his elementary school so he could do the fish pond, cake walk, ring toss, and other assorted games. I recall how happy he was to turn in his tickets and collect such prizes as little, plastic toys, and a whoopee cushion that he enjoyed putting fully inflated under the couch cushions for a laugh.

We did a lot of reading to try and get the most points in his class. Parents were encouraged to read to their children, so we enjoyed hours of reading the illustrated classics, such as H.G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds,” “The Time Machine,” and Jules Verne’s “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” He never tired of having them read to him and I never tired of sharing them with him.

James was my travel companion as we went to various Indigenous Ministry gatherings for The Episcopal Church. He went to WinterTalk 2008 in Buffalo, Minn. Along with me, his sister Mandy and her daughter Alyssa. The Native elders teased about how Minnesota put winter into “WinterTalk,” an international gathering of Indigenous clergy and lay ministry leaders and Native youth. When our plane had landed in Minneapolis, the temperature was at four degrees. The kids and I bundled up during a break and went to the nearby lake to walk on the ice. Being from Seattle, a place of generally mild winters and temperatures, we had never been able to do that before and it was magical to us. We joked about being like Jesus and walking on water, albeit frozen.

James also accompanied me to the Vancouver School of Theology’s summer session of the Native Ministries Consortium (NMC) in Vancouver, B.C. While I was at classes he was participating with the Native youth group there. He was a reserved child, and usually held himself back from interacting with new people. His last time at NMC in 2011, I remember him walking with me for registration. I saw a couple of my friends from classes and stopped to chat with them. I turned to look at James, and he had disappeared. He was outside already with his youth group friends having a great time visiting with them.

James was an acolyte at our home parish. He was hesitant at first when he was asked to be crucifer, the acolyte who carries the cross in and out of the sanctuary. He felt he wasn’t strong enough, but he was and became skilled with his duties. We routinely would serve together with him as the crucifer and I as a chalice bearer.

On his last day of his senior year he treated me to breakfast at a fast food restaurant near his high school. The day before he had brought home his cap and gown, and we had sat working in the family room on scholarship applications together. He had decided to become a welder, and was registered for fall classes at a local community college.

A week later instead of him attending his senior class breakfast, having his senior class group photo taken, and going to graduation rehearsal, we were holding funeral and burial services for him. James died by suicide that last day of school. I remember him grabbing his backpack from the backseat as I dropped him off, and reminded him again that I was meeting friends for Bible study, but would be home later. He said patiently for me not to worry because he had his own plans to go over to a friend’s house. He didn’t go to his friend’s house.

I won’t go into the details of how he died or that afternoon and evening with the street near our house full of parked police cars.

September is Suicide Prevention Month. According to the Centers for Disease Control statistics, suicide is the second leading cause of death for ages 10-24, and more teenagers and young adults die from suicide than from birth defects, cancer, heart disease, AIDS, stroke, pneumonia, influenza, and chronic lung disease, combined.

My doctor told me that James had loved me so much that he did not want to share how sad on a daily basis he really was feeling. I am speculating that the stigma of having a brain disorder/mental illness holds many back from sharing about their deep, ongoing depression.

Faith communities must be open and supportive to dismantling the shame and stigma surrounding mental illness and suicide. James was my child; he lived a life worth celebrating and honoring. To never talk of him again or how he died by suicide does not alleviate my pain or mourning, or the grief and pain of his father, brother and sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephew, his friends, and community. Don’t be afraid to say his name: James.

For more information on suicide prevention, please visit: The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) at http://www.afsp.org/ and Suicide Awareness Voices of Education (SAVE) at http://www.save.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=home.viewPage&page_id=705D5DF4-055B-F1EC-3F66462866FCB4E6.