I don't have this verbatim, but it's as close as I could get it.
Knock knock.
“Can I help you?” I speak peering through the front door glass at a gray-black crew-cut, balding haired man about my age.
“I've been power washing on your street. Since I'm here, I'm knocking on doors to see if anyone else is interested. I do driveways, sidewalks, patios - whatever you need.”
Green algae rooted on my front siding and windows prompts my unlocking of the door and stepping into the world in my “What Not to Wear” fuzzy slippered feet and bleach splattered, bathroom cleaning clothes.“Siding? Do you clean green algae off siding?"
Instinctively knowing he's hooked me if his price is right, he excitedly points - I can do this - and excitedly points - I can do that, naming his prices. They were more than fair. I've gotten quotes.
"That's a good price," he tells me.
“Yes,” I say. "You can start when you're ready."
“Okay."
Then he starts speaking rapidly, "I've got to keep busy. I was in a major car wreck a while back. I've got to keep the money coming in. I've got to stay busy. Is it okay if I take breaks? I can only work for so long at a time, and then I need to take a break, so it might take me 4 or 5 hours, but if you have to go somewhere, that's okay, and you don't have to pay me anything 'til the whole job is done; I have to keep busy,” he rambles in a disjointed way. He's a talker.
"That's no problem," I say. "Take as much time as you need."
“Do you watch the news? The local news?”
“No. I don't watch any news.”
He forges ahead, “Well, did you hear about the double murder-suicide in San Marcos?"
"I think I did, but I don't know the details."
"That was my daughter. I just have to stay busy. I just have to stay busy. Do you have a pool? A patio back there?”
I'm stunned. My brain screams WAS SHE A CHRISTIAN, but I never say it out loud because what if she wasn't?
I'm stunned. My brain screams WAS SHE A CHRISTIAN, but I never say it out loud because what if she wasn't?
“Yes. We have a pool and patio.” Then he offers to power wash that for a ridiculously low price, and I say yes.
He went to work. I padded on slippered feet back to the bowels of the dirty bathroom, cleaning supplies lined up like soldiers in a row. I too have to stay busy. I have to stay busy.
He worked. I worked. He left to take his break. Finally, I showered to get ready for taking my Madison out to lunch after picking her up from Super Friday.
“So, where are we going to eat?" I ask her.
She shrugs, “I'm not hungry. We had fajitas today. I'm tired. Is it okay if we go home?”
Home we went. The Fungus Buster was back. He met me in the driveway pointing out what he'd power washed clean so far.
With elbows propped on the fence gate he says, “I hope I didn't say too much when I told you about my daughter. It's only been 3 weeks, and I wasn't trying to get pity or using it to get the job because you had already said yes.”
“I didn't take it that way at all. And, you are right. I had already said yes.” I pause, thinking, then quietly say, “My son committed suicide in 2011.”
“Oh. I'm so sorry,” he replies, shocked.
“It is what it is," I say.
“How old was he?”
“Thirteen,” I say.
“How did he do it? Did he shoot himself?”
"Yes."
“I can't imagine that.” he sighs. “I couldn't look at her, my daughter. She was shot in the back of the head. My ex-wife did. She saw her, and it crushed her; she's devastated; she collapsed. I don't know what she saw. Was my daughter's head blown off? Was half her face gone? I couldn't look at her – didn't see her. Did you look at your son?”
“Yes. I found him. I don't know why God picked me, but I am the only one who saw him that way."
“Yours is so much worse - I can't imagine seeing my child like that,” he said.
“No. Mine isn't worse. It's different.”
“Why did you tell me about your son?”
“Because you opened a door when you told me about your daughter. I don't know how you feel, but I know how it feels to lose a child – although my son is not lost. I know exactly where he is. I know you knew what I meant about losing him, but I'm a word person – and it's important for me to remember he's not lost.”
“How are you making it?" he says. "It's been over 2 years for you. When I first talked to you, I never would've known.”
“I'm not making it," I say. "I have a choice. I've been a Christian for most of my life. Rubber met road. I either had to live like I really believe what I say I believe or not. It makes me kind of angry when people tell me I'm strong. These Christians who mean well should know better. They don't get it at all. I'm weak. I'm devastated. I am nothing. And that's when God is strong. If there is anything in me that looks like a survivor or like strength, make no mistake, it is Jesus Christ in me. Why would anyone think it is me? My son is dead."
He says, “I was supposed to come here today. You are saying things I need to hear.”
I smile, “God has gone before you. I've gotten quotes on power washing for months because we're having Thanksgiving here. Then we decided to do it ourselves and haven't. You came on the day I pretty much had to say yes, or my house wouldn't be clean in time. God brought you here exactly when He knew I'd say yes. He knew I needed to talk to you too.”
“Can I ask you something? Does it get better? Does it get easier? I mean, it's been 2 years for you. It's only 3 weeks for me. Does it get better?”
NO it doesn't get better I scream in my mind.
"It gets different,” my lips say.
“So it doesn't get better?” he pushes.
“Sometimes, I'm okay,” he offers, “then all of a sudden I'm howling and crying and don't think I'll ever be able to stop.”
“I did that at HEB in the parking lot yesterday and on Monday at Lowes," I confess. "A song came on KSBJ, and I couldn't move, and the tears wouldn't stop. I sat there after the song was over until I was finally able to go in.”
“And that's after 2 years? You're scaring me.”
“Don't be scared,” I say. Let God use it in your life. It changes you, and you have a choice about it. You can choose to let it change you for good or you can choose to let it destroy you. You can let God work it for good for you and for others – which is what your daughter would want. Or you can do drugs, give up on life, and do everything your daughter would be heartbroken over. It's always a choice. Let God work. Did you know that the saints go to the very throne of God and pray – it's in Revelation. Imagine your daughter going to the very face of God and praying for you. She would want you to go on.”
“I was supposed to come here today,” he says again. “It was on the news day and night for three days. All I could think about was did he kill her last? Did she die last because I thought surely he killed the boy first because another man would pose the greatest threat. I thought about my daughter living through that right before she died. The answers came 5 days after it happened, after all the neighbors had been interviewed and the timeline figured out. The neighbors heard a gunshot. Then they heard her screams. Then another gunshot. He killed her second. Made her get facedown on the floor and shot her execution style in the back of the head. A friend told me to be thankful it was quick. He's right, I guess. But this is nothing compared to finding, to seeing your son that way."
"No," I tell him. It's just different. Your nightmares are different than mine. I can't imagine living through what you are living through. But I do know what it's like to grieve for a dead child.”
“I was supposed to come here today.”
“Yes. You were supposed to come today. Today I can talk about all of this. Another day I wouldn’t have come to the door. God goes before both of us.”
He asked me more questions. He talked about how it is all so surreal. He told me about the funeral. He talked about visiting her graveside. He shared about his other daughters. Heartbreak. Heartbreaking. I thought about what their heart holes must be like. Different. Just different, I thought. No better. No worse. Different.
So much more was said, but as our conversation wound down, I told him about the butterflies and to look for God's signs. I told Him God would SHOW Himself, so pay attention. I told him about how a suicide brought butterflies which put gospel words into my mouth. Let God use you, I told him.
“I was supposed to come here today."
“Yes,” I agreed. “You were supposed to come here today because I needed to hear from you too.”
He needed a break. He went home with plans to come back the next day. Michael would be home then. He could talk to Michael. He could ask Michael questions. He might hear words he needed to hear, and maybe Michael would too. Yes. He was supposed to come.
Strange how God works.
Strange how God works.
