I didn’t sleep much last night. I was thinking about a little girl whose parents will be burying her. Her name is Maddie. I did a fundraiser show for her before I started doing my dribble. Her cancer was eventually in remission. Then it wasn’t.
I had a friend in high school. He went into his attic and blew his brains out. One day he was sitting next to me in American History, the next day he was dead.
He wasn’t my best friend, just a guy I knew who would talk to me so much we’d get in trouble in class. He was a good guy.
His funeral was the typical high school stuff – everyone was his best friend, everyone was sad, everyone had a story. I sat in the back, alone, not wanting to be part of that, just wanting something that might help it make sense, knowing it simply wouldn’t.
The minister talked a lot about how my friend’s death would ultimately glorify God. That was the beginning of the end of my relationship with god. For a few more years I still went through the motions of church out of some sense of obligation and, well, because my girlfriend was there.
What kind of god needs a sixteen year old to blow his brains out to bring himself glory? I thought.
I left the funeral early.
I drove up to the top of Mt. Baldy and stared out at the valley below.
I thought the same things I find myself thinking today and anytime a parent buries a child: there is no god. There is no grand design of the universe. There is only two parents getting the worst news any human can get: your child is dead. Any being who would seek to find glory through a tragedy like that is not worthy of praise.
I’m rambling because I feel helpless to help my friends. I am angry. I am heartbroken. I am really fucking angry.
In lieu of flowers the family has asked that donations be made in Maddie’s name to Coastal Kids Home Care.
