Thirty-six years and six months ago last Tuesday, the best friend I had in the world leaned over a thirty-thirty deer rifle and blew himself away. It wasn't until seven hours later that his body was discovered (unfortunately by his younger sister), while the family was at the dinner table discussing events which would take place the following day. At first, no one considered his absence from supper as anything unusual--it wasn't the first time. But then, as the hour approached for clearing the table, conversations finished, and he still wasn't there. . .well, the subject was broached that MAYBE someone should go up to his room and check to make sure that he wasn't just taking a nap (a habit of his, at that time).
So, his sister sprang nimbly up the steps to the second landing, produced a hair pin from her locks, and commenced working the latch at her brother's door. Not surprisingly, she succeeded in releasing the catch--and met the results of death head-on. There, on the floor, lay her brother, covered with blood, the killing machine at his side, a gaping wound in his left chest region, and a three quarter inch hole in the ceiling seventy-two degrees upward from where he lay. She screamed, and the rest is ancient history. He was laid to rest three days later. After an autopsy, of course (I have a copy of his death certificate).
I have no recollection of what happened in my life after the funeral (about six months). I have flashes of doing drugs, drinking, and I recall a certain incident of peeing on the side of a white aluminum-sided house in Ohio (I had a urinary infection, and the medicine made me pee orange). My cousin thought it hilarious at the time, but then, when his own son contracted the same condition, he didn't think it all that funny. But then again, at seventeen, EVERYTHING is relatively funny.
Anyway (and I aplogize if I am rambling), my point is, had it not been for my BEST FREIND EVER killing himself, I probably would not be boring you all today with my tirade. I may very well have never been vomited out of my body to see the wonders of God's world, the marvels of His or Her creation, nor the relative mild miracles of everyone's daily dealings with life in general.
God doth have a sense of humor. Me, the most vile creature of creation, a priest. Thanks, Kev. I love you, bro.
In loving memory of Kevin McRea Adams. April 19, 1956-October 19, 1973
