lament for a son: lament_for_a_son.pdf

7/30/2019 Lament for a Son: lament_for_a_son.pdf

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Preface

I wrote the following to honor our son andbrother Eric, who died in a mountain-climbingaccident in Austria in his twenty-fifth year, and

to voice my grief. Though it is intensely person-al, I have decided now to publish it, in the hopethat it will be of help to some of those whofind themselves with us in the company ofmourners.

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BORN ON A SNOWY NIGHT in New Haven, hedied twenty-five years later on a snowy slope inthe Kaiserbirger. Tenderly we laid him inwarm June earth. Willows were releasing their

seeds of puffy white, blanketing the ground.I catch myself: Was it him we laid in theearth? I had touched his cheek. Its cold stillhardness pushed me back. Death, I knew, wascold. And death was still. But nobody had men-tioned that all the softness went out. His spirithad departed and taken along the warmth andactivity and, yes, the softness. He was gone.Eric, where are you? But I am not very good atseparating person from body. Maybe that comeswith practice. The red hair, the dimples,

the chipmunky look-thatwas

Eric.

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THE CALL CAME at 3:30 on that Sunday after-noon, a bright sunny day. We had just sent ayounger brother off to the plane to be with him forthe summer.

Mr. Wolterstorff?

Yes.Is this Erics father?Yes.Mr. Wolterstorff, I must give you some

bad news.Yes.Eric has been climbing in the mountains

and has had an accident.Yes.Eric has had a serious accident.Yes.

Mr. Wolterstorff, I must tell you, Eric isdead. Mr. Wolterstorff, are you there? Youmust come at once! Mr. Wolterstorff,Eric is dead.

For three seconds I felt the peace of resig-nation: arms extended, limp son in hand, peace-fully offering him to someone-Someone. Thenthe pain-cold burning pain.

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He was, like all our children, always quickand bright. He entered college as a NationalMerit Scholar. Excellent at science and math, hespent his college summers in computer pro-gramming. Eventually, he decided to go into art

history rather than science; there, he felt, hetouched humanity. He was a fine artist himself,an accomplished potter, knowledgeable in mu-sic, good in performance.

He was a hard worker, not disposed towaste his time-perhaps too much so, too littleinclined to savor or even tolerate interruptions,too much oriented toward his goals, not in-clined enough to humor. He gave up pottingbecause it didnt fit into his plans. Still, he knewdelight. He was venturesome, traveling on his

own throughout much of the world, nevershrinking from a challenge or turning asidefrom the exploration of fresh terrain, inclinedto overestimate his physical skills and strength.At ten he almost drowned, not willing to admitthat he could barely swim. He lived intensely.

On Thanksgiving Day the pastor spoke ofacquiring a grateful eye. Erics was a gratefuleye-and ear and mind. Not just a delighting eyebut a grateful one. He was a person of faith.Once when little-six years old, perhaps-as hewas riding in the car with me somewhere heasked, Dad, how do we know theres God?He asked the question, but I dont think he ever

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seriously doubted. He loved to worship in thecompany of a genuine community. He died inthe Lord.

He put his stamp on things. I think of thepoet Gerard Manley Hopkinss notion of in-

scape: a thing had inscape for Hopkins when ithad some definite character. In one of his lettersHopkins speaks of the pain he felt when a tree inthe garden, full of inscape, was chopped down.Eric put inscape on things: the way he dressed,the way he cooked, the way he shook hands, theway he answered the phone. And I wished todie and not to see the inscapes of the worlddestroyed any more.

When I got angry with him, it was usuallyover his self-centeredness. Though he spent

much of one summer helping rebuild the housesof tornado victims, he was grumpy when I tookhim along to help build our cabin. I rememberbeing surprised when, without being asked, hecheerfully helped carry our suitcases throughthe Chicago train station when he was a youngteenager.

In his latter years there was in him a loneli-ness, an inner solitude. What gave him mostdelight was friends-close friends to whom hecould speak of what he most deeply thoughand felt and believed. He always longed forthose fleeting moments with friends when thereis no longer any gap between them. He saw his

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old friends drifting off to other places and otherinterests, getting married. His deep longing forintimacy left him lonely.

He was loyal, and principled to a fault-too severe, sometimes too stern and critical, too

little accepting of humanitys warts. That gavehim trouble in human relationships. Yet hecould be gentle and loving. His landlady inMunich told how his face lit up when he learnedthat his brother was to be with him for the sum-mer. He eagerly anticipated holidays with thefamily, telling me once how this surprised hisfriends in graduate school.

And he loved the mountains, loved thempassionately. ber alles, said his landlady.That was not quite true. He loved friends more.

But the mountains lured and beckoned him ire-sistibly. Much as he loved the art and cathedrals ofEurope, he loved the mountains more.

His love was his death.

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We took him too much for granted. Perhapswe all take each other too much for granted.The routines of life distract us; our own pur-suits make us oblivious; our anxieties and sor-rows, unmindful. The beauties of the familiar

go unremarked. We do not treasure each otherenough.He was a gift to us for twenty-five years.

When the gift was finally snatched away, I real-ized how great it was. Then I could not tell him.An outpouring of letters arrived, many express-ing appreciation for Eric. They all made meweep again: each word of praise a stab of loss.

How can I be thankful, in his gone-ness,for what he was? I find I am. But the pain of theno more outweighs the gratitude of the oncewas

. Will it always be so?I didnt know how much I loved him untilhe was gone.

Is love like that?

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lament for a son: lament_for_a_son.pdf

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