How do you explain death to a little child?

Using words, which parents think their children will understand, they often describe death as a journey or trip where a person just doesn’t come back. The death of a house pet often provides teachable moments for children as they try to process the difference between life and death, animate and inanimate, and the here and hereafter. The meaning of death through old age or an accident is already somewhat difficult to explain; death from murder or suicide pushes the limits of grace in a teachable moment. Of all the events played out on the human stage, the death of someone close to you is cited to be the most stressful episode anyone can experience.

In the fourth grade, I had a good friend name Brendan Silly. Brendan was a shy, quiet kid. He never spoke out in class. He never did much to bring attention to himself. He did confide in me that he hated his last name. That was attention enough. He was teased unmercifully. Still water runs deep. What Brendan may have lacked in extrovert qualities, he made up for with intelligence. He was the kind of kid who always knew the right answers. During recess, we would hang out and talk, kick a soccer ball, or just walk around the schoolyard property. Looking back it seemed to me that Brendan was a troubled soul. Decades have passed and I am often reminded that you can see someone every day, at work, at school, and never really know what goes on in their life. Such was the case with Brendan.

One day I came to school and noticed that Brendan wasn’t sitting at his desk. He didn’t come the next day either. On the third day, the teacher made an announcement. She said that Brendan wouldn’t be in class anymore. She never mentioned his name again. I was a little confused, but thought perhaps he had moved away. It would be like Brendan not to say much about this. Getting him to talk about much of anything was like pulling teeth.

I remember shuffling home that day, sad that I had lost a friend. I walked into the house to overhear my mother on the phone. Her voice conveyed a sense of shock. I heard her mention Brendan’s last name and the words murder and suicide. At that point she saw me enter the kitchen, said she had to go, and hung up the phone. I stood there with a blank look on my face.

That afternoon I received my first lesson about death. I don’t remember the exact words my mother used, but as delicately as she could, she explained to me that Brendan’s father had taken his life, but not before killing his wife and two children. I would never see or hear
from Brendan again, she said.

I have thought of Brendan many times over the years, particularly when similar events make the headlines. The act of violence makes as little sense to me now as it did years ago. Not long ago, in preparing a presentation on the healing power of humor, I learned this: the word silly comes from the Latin word ‘selig.’ It means blessed or holy. I took a moment to reflect back on my friendship with Brendan. I wish I could have told him then what I learned about being silly. I think he would have liked its meaning. From this experience I have also
learned much about tolerance, for one never truly knows another person’s experiences, which can greatly affect mood and personality.

Perhaps the greatest lesson is that there are many circumstances and catastrophes, which make absolutely no sense. Try as we might, we can find little or no meaning. Some may say “it is God’s will,” but this leaves us with little consolation. There is still a void where there was once life, pain where there was joy. Devastation such as plane crashes and earthquakes or even that of a murdered child deepens the sense of loss. In time, the wounds will heal, but they lend very little to our understanding of “why.” It is fair to say that we will never have the answers to all of life’s questions, such as these. Yet the void is never filled by staying still. We must move on.

-from Stressed is Desserts Spelled Backward, by Brian Luke Seward.