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Written by Mark Adam Crow
Recently, my family was notified of a death. Still, this specific story begins a year ago. And that story starts many years before that. Let me say a few words about my Aunt. At a very young age, my Aunt was run over by a car while my mother looked on helplessly. They were both traumatized for life by this event. My mother suffered from ulcers and nightmares for years after, but the accident robbed my Aunt of her ability to bare children. In an obscure twist of fate, my Aunt loved nothing more than to care for children, and desperately wanted children of her own. In the eyes of many, she seemed a saint, genuinely caring for nearly everyone. Alas, she never loved herself. She suffered from sad sickness her entire life, which manifest itself through a series of eating disorders and therapy sessions. In turn, she was never allowed to adopt, due to her unstable mental history, though it was all rooted in her loneliness.
She eventually found herself a family, when her and my uncle took two severely handicapped men into their home. Mark and Thomas both suffered from cerebral palsy, and were unable to speak or feed themselves. Communicating with only small movements and grunts, these guys really needed some very special care. They found that care in my Aunt.
They were a family for ten years. She cared for them, fed them, bathed them, and loved them for ten years, and then she shot herself. It was devastating for the entire family, yet, somehow I wasn't shocked when I heard the news. It was almost like I had expected it. I remember being more disappointed than anything.
A year has passed since the funeral, and we have just been informed that one of those men that she has previously cared for had died. His name was Mark, same as myself and my father. His death was no surprise. I never really knew him, not really, but still I was going to the funeral. The day before we were leaving, my father randomly shows up at my house, for a visit.
I never knew my father growing up, and really, in many ways, I still don’t. I wasn't too happy to see him at the moment and neither was anyone else, but he hadn't had any idea of a death as so it was not his fault. He's notorious for just showing up randomly and this time, happened to be a bit inconvenient. Still, we were polite and had him in for dinner and soon it was decided that my father would drive me to the funeral, as it was going to be in the town he lives in anyhow.
That night, I stayed the night at my father’s house, for what I think was the second time ever. We had a few drinks, and soon he began to ask me about my childhood. My father is, by far, the last person I want to discuss this topic with, but he was persistent. He made a few snide comments about having to pay child support, and how my mother was just using him for the money. I did my best to avoid the coming fury, but eventually his persistence paid off and I proceeded to unleash a flood of pent up emotion. Rage and hatred, of which I had tried so hard to forget, came bubbling to the surface and, nurtured by liquor, years of repressed aggression came spewing forth.
I cannot recollect what exactly was said, but I know that I had relinquished my steady, composed nature. I had been swallowed by my own rage and meant only to belittle the so called man whom sat before me. My words struck deep with calculated precision, with malevolent intent. With willful hatred and justified vengeance. I wanted to cause pain. I wanted him to rise against me. I wanted to fight him. I wanted him to meet the son that he had raised, by never being there, and that night he did. He never rose to stand against me, but soon turned his head towards the ground, shoulders sunk, and before me a broken man was revealed. My onslaught continued well into the night, before we both decided to finally go to bed.
That next morning was very quite. Me and my father got ourselves ready, headed out to breakfast, and he then dropped me off at the funeral. All without hardly a word being spoken. I did apologize to him. Though much of what I had said may have been true, I had crossed the line and I knew it. I told him I was sorry, and in return he told me that I never need to apologize to him. Still, I did and I had done it more for myself and my own integrity than anything else. I did not know it at the time, but that day a metamorphosis had begun and my eyes were soon to be peeled open, for this was the day the first bell was to ring. This day would change me forever.
The service held for Mark was held at the same church as my Aunt's service. I had never wanted to return to this accursed place, and yet here I was almost exactly one year later. The church may have been the same, but the service was very different. Not many people came to this one. Not many at all, but the words that I was to hear that day would be life changing.
The people, who knew Mark well, spoke of his love for Elvis, and the company of children. His great sense of humor and his kind heart. All parts of Mark that I never knew. Truth be told, I had never cared to know. I was intimidated by this poor mans inability to speak or move. I was frightened by his malady, so much so, that I honestly didn't ever try to care about this man. I did not feel as though I understood how.
After hearing a few people talk about this poor, crippled man in such a high regard, I felt like I had lost a chance at knowing someone very special. I was also feeling a bit awkward, never really knowing the man, and still being one of maybe thirty attendants. I began to understand how brave and truly inspiring this man really was. His body had been a prison, but his mind had always remained very much intact. To have lost all control of his body and any ability to speak, yet still laugh and smile and enjoy life. How truly phenomenal?
Then the pastor spoke. There have been a few times in my life which I believe to be examples of divine intervention. This was to become one of the highest on that list. The pastor’s name was Dallas Schaeffer. As he approached the podium, an aura surrounded him, and the room became strangely silent. He moved and spoke with an invisible authority, and you knew that his words were that of truth and deep understanding and he was to deliver me a message of utmost importance that day.
He spoke of what we could have all learned from Mark. A key to being a better person, and a better people. He spoke bluntly about the obvious problems with people and how we treat each other. That this world would be so much better if we simply learned to shut up, and learned to not only speak, but to listen through the eyes and through touch. We could then see one another’s pain, joy, anger, and love. We would feel each others compassion and remorse. As he spoke, his words quickly began to ring true within my own life. It was like my life and his words were working in tandem, with pin point synchronicity.
The previous night had been but only one single example in my life, when if I had simply learned to listen with my eyes and touch, much pain could have been avoided.
Upon returning home, with the pastors words still ringing in my ears, I called up my children's mother so that they may go and spend some time with her. When she arrived, she told me that her and her boyfriend had broken up. This would've been a great chance for me to say I told you so, but instead, I gazed into her eyes and saw loneliness, sadness, and loss. I truly felt bad for her, for the first time since our separation, I felt compassion for her.
As I saw her, once again, as a person, I could feel her pain radiating. It ran so much deeper than this recent separation. I saw a hole in her, a void that ran clean through her soul. I saw my reflection.
I saw a loss far greater than any break up, or any death. She had lost a piece of herself and was incomplete. She was in a desperate search to find it, but somehow, I do not think that she is even aware of it missing. I felt like I wanted to save her, to help her.
How long had she been like this? Never had I seen her in such a light. Her repeated betrayal of my trust and my children had blinded me. For so long, I only felt rage for her, but now, I was suddenly being overcome with feelings of remorse, pity even. All of the sudden, the pastors words struck true once again.
I had taken a moment to open my eyes, to truly open my eyes. To look beyond first glance, and in that moment, I changed. My rage and disdain left me. My bitter hatred had given way to compassion and acceptance, and forgiveness. In that moment, I had grown.
When the pastor was giving his speech, he would often fix his eyes directly with mine as he spoke. I know that this is common for speakers, and many others would tell me that they also fixed eyes with him, and felt his words very powerfully, but that day, in that church, at that very moment, he was telling me something. I knew it. So much so, that I felt guilty when he spoke. The way he gazed at me and said what he said, when he said it, I felt sure that he was saying it directly to me. As if the message was being delivered through him, by some greater force. For a thousand different reasons, not a one did I know at the time, Dallas had been chosen to deliver me this message. This man knew next to nothing about me, and yet somehow, we had shared an incredibly relevant moment, whether either of us knew it at the time. Why him, why then? There was no choice. God made that moment occur. Putting us together at that moment, for that very reason. To plant a seed. A seed that would soon grow and blossom. Nothing more than a few phrases, accompanied by a few piercing gazes, was to be the beginning of a huge chain reaction in my life, eventually leading to a life changing decision, and a compete change in perception.
It is as it always has been, a matter of perspective. Still, perspective is always limited to what is being perceived. I have chosen to open my eyes wider. In turn, I can see more than I ever had before, and now there is much more within my limited perception. It is amazing how quickly the darkness disappears if we can manage to open our eyes.