The Secret "Field Trip"

Friday, May 28, 2010

When I made the May calendar for my RTC boys, I put "field trip" for my last day with them. I heard all sorts of rumors over where I was taking them - none of which were the least bit accurate. They all thought we were going to do something fun and exciting. Most of the boys were pretty good about following my posted instructions of, "Do not ask me. I will not tell you. I will ignore you." Others couldn't help themselves and pestered me over the weeks to come. But I would not budge. And I was so glad the secret didn't get out.

Karl (the other Rec. Therapist who I had been covering for), a handful of mentors and I blindfolded all the boys (about 30 of them) and guided them to the vans. Then we drove silently to the Provo Cemetery. We unloaded them at the west entrance. One by one, we spread them throughout a portion of the cemetery. Before we left them alone, we said, "Count to 60, then remove your blindfold. There is an envelope with your name on it. Open it and follow the instructions."

The letter instructed them to remain quiet in respect for where they were. They were to imagine they had just passed away and to write down their eulogy. Who would remember them? What have they accomplished? Who would attend their funeral?

After twenty minutes we gathered the boys together. Karl facilitated a discussion on life and the changes that can take place over a number of years. We discussed the short life span of most of the pioneers and other people who were buried around us. Some of the boys shared their eulogies, and I was impressed by how many of them took the task seriously. None of them had any idea they were being taken to a cemetery and were quite surprised when they sat up to find tombstones surrounding them. A couple were angry and wanted to leave. Some were nervous and scared, and sad because they did not believe they had accomplished anything in life. Most of them found peace sitting there.

I took the boys for a walk around the cemetery. We stopped at an acquaintance of mine. He was a couple years older than I, and was well liked by his peers. He was very academically smart and had so much potential. However, he became drawn into the wrong type of crowd and made poor choices that continued to pull him down a bad path. Despite these problems, he was so loved by his family who all adored him. His family never stopped believing that he had a good heart and a good spirit.

I was living in Provo when I received the news that this young man (who only lived to reach his early twenties) had died of a drug overdose. His family was devastated. As I spoke to my RTC boys, we talked about how you can choose your actions but not your consequences. I asked them to think about why I put three "Now and Later" candies in their envelope. Of course, they understood that the decisions they make now will impact them later, as well as everyone around them. I told them there were other ways for them to be "dead" to their families - that it didn't have to be a drug overdose. Running away, unresolved conflict... there are plenty of ways that they can become lost to their families.

I had one more place to show them. We walked across the cemetery, closer to the south-east portion. I lead them to a plot of grass in the Angel Garden that was still missing its headstone. But on top of a small rectangle of grass sat a framed 5x7 picture of a little baby, propped next to two pots of yellow flowers. The mood of the group immediately became somber again.

"This is my son," I said to them. Most of the boys had met Ty. But there were some new faces who did not know the story. So I told them about losing my son to SIDS. My voice broke as I said, "I can't help but think of your mothers...and your families." And then, barely able to contain myself, I cried, "They love you. They want to help you. That's why you are here. To get healthy and be with them again. You have such good hearts, and I don't even think you realize it." At this point, I was completely sobbing as I continued, "You have the ability to do so much good. I don't know why, but working with you...serving you... has healed me in a way I can't even describe! To be able to share my life with you, and accept yours into mine... You have a choice. What you do affects other people."

I took a minute to talk about the police officer who came to my home that morning. Officer Chambers - the man I will always remember as one of the few positive things from that awful day. I recently wrote him a thank you note, expressing as sincerely as I could how much I appreciated the way he responded to me. When nothing more could be done and I had time to hold my son in my arms and cry, this officer returned. He embraced me with a strong, comforting hug and with tears in his eyes, told me how sorry he was. I will never forget him because it wasn't "all in a day's work" to him. It was real and it was personal. It was my life, and he showed compassion. In my letter to him, I told him, "People will remember how you respond to them. And I will always remember."

As these boys listened to me, tears continued to fall down my cheeks as I shared everything in my heart to them. I emphasized over and over, "People will remember how you treat them. What you do affects other people. And they will remember."

I closed by thanking them for the privilege to work with them and asked them to remember their families.

One by one, almost all of them stood by, waiting for their turn to embrace me. They thanked me and said they will miss me. I will never forget these boys, and maybe they'll remember this day. I hope I made a difference in even just one of them.

I will remember one other thing about this day: How devastated I was to wake up and see snow on the mountains, and a bleary, grey sky completely covered in clouds, releasing icy rain. "This is going to ruin my group", I thought, my heart falling when I read the forecast of 90% rain all day, with thunderstorms at 3pm: exactly when I would be at the cemetery with my boys. I didn't want the therapeutic group to be cold and depressing.

So I got down on my knees. And I prayed with all my heart that God might grant me just two hours of sunshine - or even just no rain, so my group would have the desired affect. I was worried all day, even though I was trying to have faith. Dan kept saying, "I feel like it's going to be OK." I agreed. But as I driving up to work, the rain was steadily falling and it the air was so chilly. But I could see some blue skies up ahead, and a little bit of sunshine.

An hour later, as we pulled into the cemetery, the sun broke through the clouds, engulfing the entire cemetery in light. The green grass quickly dried in the heat of the sun. Birds were chirping through the trees. And the cemetery looked as beautiful and peaceful as I hoped. It was even warm enough that we were stripping our layers as the boys comfortably shared their eulogies with each other.

It began to darken again as we walked over to Ty's resting place. When I began to cry, the clouds released lightly drizzling rain. My heart was pounding, like it does in church when you know you have to bear your testimony. And I knew I was not alone there. That besides myself and the boys, a special little someone was perhaps holding my hand through it all.