“First it takes your money.
Then it takes your freedom.
Then it takes your life.”
The words were, raw, bare, and gritty with feeling. Behind him, pale, still, tattooed, and in a brown wooden casket, lay his son, Andy. Dead at 24 from a two-year dance with heroin.
The mourners–snuffling, sobbing, shifting– listened, devastated but rapt. The man’s wife and four daughters huddled an arm’s length away, propping each other up with trembling shoulders.
The father pointed to the young people facing him, his son’s childhood friends, newly-minted adults squirming in unfamiliar suits and ties, sitting puffy-eyed and shock-stunned on hard folding chairs. “I left this casket open so you could see for yourself what drug addiction can do.”
“Don’t let Andy die in vain!” He said. “Don’t let him die in vain! Take a stand in his memory! It’s up to you, it’s up to all of us, every member of this community, to stop the drug dealers from killing our kids.”
Choking on a sob, he stopped, laid bare in front of us. Then he walked, unsteadily, to the casket, and, for a long, heartbreaking moment, laid a hand on his son’s unlined forehead.
Then, he pivoted and faced us, his eyes fierce: “Tomorrow morning, the sun will come up again. And you will be there to see it.” He was silent for a moment, the unspoken statement filling the room: “But Andy will not.”
His voice now rose, took hold, half plea, half command, like a preacher, or a general, calling us to action: “As you move forward in your lives, let Andy’s death be a signpost, a turning point, a symbol for the moment you decided to take charge of your life and make yourself a better person.” Vulnerable, challenging, impassioned, he was convincing and compelling beyond measure.
Afterwards, bursting through the doors to the funeral home, we blinked in the midday sun and collectively exhaled the weight of our emotions. A perfect spring day materialized around us, in all its bee-buzzing, grassgreen glory. My stepson lit a cigarette with a shaky hand, and unbuttoned the tight collar of his dress shirt. We stood largely silent: After that eulogy, there really wasn’t much more to say. But, it seemed, there was certainly a lot left to DO, in Andy’s name.
Because, like the greatest of the world’s preachers, teachers, politicians, public speakers, and commanding officers, Andy’s father had used his spoken words to touch our souls, stirring our deepest feelings and renewing our sense of purpose and commitment to take action. And he did this by being fully present with us, speaking simple words of truth, from his heart. Nothing is as memorable, powerful or persuasive.
Ferdinand Foch said “The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.” Andy’s father is a soul on fire, a fire sparked by the tragedy of his son’s death. I have no doubt that, from this moment forward, he will give new meaning to his life, and the too-brief life of his only son, by speaking out, passionately and sincerely, against drug use. And, in so doing, he will save others from Andy’s fate.
I’m grateful to Andy, and to his father, for reminding me that sometimes the greatest tragedies and circumstances can spur us into new action, new directions and a new commitment to changing our lives – and the lives of others–for the better.