Remembering today the tragic and sudden loss of Bee, son of Suradet and Yupa, and big brother to Bell, struck by a truck while on his motorcycle on the way home from school, August 31, 2016.
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It was four years ago, but the images are vivid.
The first wretched phone call. The disorientation of deciding to go. The extra-long, and appropriately turbulent plane ride. Arriving to a monstrous grief, and the strangeness of eastern death rituals. Surreal on so many levels.
Bee was dead. And it didn't matter that we didn't believe this could be true; it was. Beloved son of Suradet and Yupa, just 20, did not survive the collision between a tractor-trailer rig and the motorcycle he was driving.
A Thai funeral lasts all week. Bee was lying in the covered yard of his grandparents, a decision made purposely so, even in the rawness, the folks immediately available in that village would have the chance to see how followers of Jesus grieved. Even in their grief, thinking of others always.
About forty people stayed together in the house, most of whom were from the mountain, Suradet's side of the family. His parents, sisters, spouses, children, and some friends who had come along. There was visitation every day. The village women made the food. Mostly sticky rice and dishes of varying spice-intensities in which to dip and scoop with the sticky rice. I didn't use anything but my hands for eating the entire week. Every night there was a service; music and a message, as a gift from other churches nearby. I spoke at one of them. I still have the notes, which is good, because otherwise I wouldn't know what I said.
It was hot.
At first I was given a room to myself upstairs, complete with mosquito netting around the bed. But it soon became impossible for this farang to be there, and I moved down to sleep, mat-to-mat, with the rest of the family.
In between the visitation and the food and the service and the sleeping we did nothing. And quite literally nothing. Sitting in silence, inside away from the sun, a fan blowing. All of us, just around the walls of the room, or lying down on mats. I wasn't sure, but it seemed this was part of what we were supposed to do. Just sit and be in the midst of the loss.
Suradet's mother and I had met before. I'd been up to the village and we'd formed a tentative connection made more delicate because of the lack of language (my stumbling Thai wasn't all that helpful in a Karen village), and by her later-confessed utter intimidation in having this farang woman in her home. That last part is complicated, and may seem ridiculous, except when you understand the layers of it, some of which date back many centuries to an old, old story told by the Karen in which the 'white brother' (or sister) is the long awaited hero.
Sitting numb and silent against the wall together, however, we were simply two women trying to get our heads around the excruciating loss of a grandson.
It was a bit of a cultural risk, what I did that one afternoon. A calculated cultural risk, in that my understanding of the importance of the head in Thai culture, and having had women of the church come lay their heads down on my lap when my own mother died (while I was in Thailand). And actually, now that I'm describing it as a risk, I don't think I really gave it too much thought. It just seemed a way to communicate our shared pain.
I laid my head down on her lap.
She didn't seem surprised. And quite naturally started to stroke back my hair, which was comforting. And I lay there like that for some time. No words. The language thing didn't matter in that moment.
That was four years ago. And the image is vivid.
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Time and grief are not particularly good friends, I don't think.
And I'm not at all sure that time does indeed heal all wounds. Rather, time is a trickster, compressing and drawing out at the same of it, until there is no telling what the year, or what the hell.
A fine boy-almost-man, vibrant, persistent, fun, eats so much that you wonder how he stays so lean. Talented musician, enjoying his studies, loving life.
Then gone.
The force of it throws us hard against the wall, then, and now, the same.
Beautiful son.
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I am so impressed with the tenacity of both Suradet and Yupa, little sister Bell, and Bee's grandparents all, in their relentless pursuit of authentic grieving and faithful ministry throughout this part of their story.
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