Читать книгу Treasure of the Mind - J. Michaels - Страница 4

My son’s untimely and premature death at the tender age of seventeen left me in despair. Christopher was the youngest, the most troubled, and in some ways, the most precious of our children. He was the only kid I knew (and we raised six) who could go directly from being lectured, berated, and grounded, to the shower; where he would then proceed to sing uninhibitedly, as if he had not a care in the world. He was creative, loving, and had a great sense of humor. He was also a lousy juvenile delinquent. My wife and I love the story of the time he was chased on foot by the mall police. He wore, as was very popular at the time, the baggy jeans that so vividly allowed his boxer shorts to show above his belt, which by the way, did not serve him well in his escape attempt. Although we did not see it firsthand, the hilarious image of him running from the police and stopping every few feet to hike up his jeans was just too much to bear. After he somehow managed to elude his pursuers, he stopped at a nearby store for a soft drink, where he was then promptly taken into custody by those same people who had, by now, caught up to him.

After I learned the most important thing about having a son, I stopped spending all my time trying to fix him and spent more time loving and appreciating him. On one of our visits to the juvenile detention center where Chris was spending some time, I remember telling him that he should give up his attempts at crime not because it was wrong, but simply because he was so bad at it. It was possibly the first time in a long time he actually listened to me regarding his problems.

Chris was a great kid; he had a huge heart, a great disposition, and enormous potential. But Chris lost his biological mother when he was just five years old and he never fully recovered from that greatest of all rejections. Although my wife did her best and was a great influence on Chris, his wounds were too deep for any stepmother to heal. His pain could only be relieved by attention of a greater magnitude than any offered by anyone else or, as it turned out, by the exaggerated interest of rebellion. Chris never stole for himself; he stole for the attention of those who offered him what he so dearly needed. He stole to replace the maternal love lost. I remember the first time he was caught stealing shortly after his mother left. He took a pocket knife from a friend of the family, took it to school, and promptly gave it away. Despite our best efforts, this pattern would continue intermittently into his teenage years, where it would be fueled by the insecurity and awkwardness of that troubling phase of life. In his search for his troubled and hiding soul, my son gave his allegiance to the wrong person. That person, whom Chris once considered to be his best friend, took his life.

For several months after his death, I struggled with grief, guilt, and anger. And then I learned how to forgive. I attribute that learning to a book called A Course in Miracles. I also attribute my eventual redemption to the same tome. For some time after my son’s funeral and the ensuing trial and conviction of his killer, I felt a need to tell the story of how I survived this greatest of all tragedies; that of losing a child. This book was born of that need. But like so much of life, stories are a blend of fact and fiction. I like to call it faction. This book is not an entirely factual account. It is instead, the story that emerged from my soul in the form that it was meant to be created in. Like Chris’ life, it is a tale told not only with pain and grief, but more importantly, with joy, humor, and hope. It is a story I cherish as a tribute to my lost son. I will leave you to ponder what is fact and what is fiction. I have truly exercised my poetic license, but in the process, a story worth the telling, and I believe the reading, has been born.