Some people seem to be seared on your memory bank forever. For me, the deepest memories come from the raucous fun of college days at the University of Florida, especially spur-of-the-moment, midnight road trips to Crescent Beach and the all-nighters writing term papers with bleary-eyed friends.
I also recall the shabby, dilapidated shack I happily rented in an area of Gainesville one step up from a slum. Toby was my next-door neighbor, a stunningly handsome fellow who was a loner and who had a big, crooked grin and an endearing sense of humor.
He was never a romantic interest, just a friend, and we spent hours sipping beer and pondering life’s big questions. He would give me little presents for my hefty tomcat, Funky, and sometimes leave chocolates for me, too.
One day, out of the blue, Toby came over and asked me to shave all the hair off his head. I obliged, even though I didn’t quite get it.
A month later, he covered all the mirrors in his house and began acting exceedingly strange. His friends were aware he was sampling various drugs, but we figured he’d pull out of it in short order.
Then he went away one weekend to visit his parents in Jacksonville — and we heard the horrifying news. He had committed suicide by jumping off a bridge.
His memory comes back so strongly now, ever since I read about the suicide of the 27-year-old son of evangelical pastor and author Rick Warren.
Apparently the family was doing everything possible to help Matthew, who evidently suffered from mental illness and depression, but on April 5, the young man just called the whole thing quits.
Some people have lashed out against Rick Warren, saying that despite the family’s faith and despite their efforts to help Matthew, his son will go to hell for killing himself.
This is unspeakably cruel, I think, and puts people in the place of God — whose mercy, fortunately, is much greater than that of human beings.
Often people commit suicide because of a feeling of utter helplessness and misery — and perhaps self-directed anger — that comes over in a big rush. Somehow, in that moment, death seems like the only answer.
The tragedy is that the person’s pain is over in minutes, but the family deals with the aftermath forever.
Is a mentally ill person who commits suicide fully responsible for that action? Does a severely depressed person really know what he is doing?
Only God can say what is in someone’s heart. The rest of us can hope and pray.
I still pray for Toby, who lives forever in my memory as the handsome guy in his 20s who sat in my living room, laughing and shivering as I spread cold shaving cream on his head and hoped I wouldn’t nick him.
What I hope for him — and what I pray now for Matthew, too — is that they both will dwell, forever, in that place where there is no fear and no anger and no sorrow. And may God wipe every tear away.
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