Michael Lynes
There is a Reaper – Creation…
Almost three years ago I first sat down in front of my computer in my office, driven to somehow find a way to honor the memory and life of my son Christopher Aaron. I thought I would write a few words, something to try and capture some of the memories, some of his spirit, before they became too far removed from memory and distorted by time. I sat there, really just lost, and unable to find a way to begin. Touching back into those memories was like opening a long shut door, reentering a place of fear and failure and pain that I was not sure I would be able to handle.
I typed a few words, and discarded them. And then I typed a few more, with the same result.
I realized that, in order to tell this story I would have to face my fear, and my failure. My fear of the pain that this re-exploration would dredge up. My failure to prevent or find some way to cure him of his deadly affliction. These two overarching forces combined to hold me impotent.
In all likelihood, left to my own preferences, this project would have been abandoned, stillborn…but there was a third force.
Chris…
As I sat there, blank page before me, paralyzed by my own doubt, my own fear, my selfish, craven indulgence….it was Chris, clear and sharp and powerful, who appeared in my mind’s eye. I realized that he wanted his story told, that it needed to be out there.
The feeling had grown, imperceptibly…a wish, then a whisper then a calling and now an unfulfilled duty.
When Chris had become sick, we were consumed in combating his disease. When he lost his battle we were shattered by his death. He knew that we needed time, to heal, for the wounds to knit and scar, for his memory to become a story rather than a source of heart-bursting agony… He had given us that time, but now he was calling me, back to myself and to my unfulfilled duty.
I owed him this – and my debt was due.
I nodded my head, silently signing my unspoken contract...
There were many false starts, and many, many days when I laid aside my task, exhausted by the anguish and emptied of tears. Despite all, the promise I made to Chris and to myself that day drove me onward. The story, Chris’s testimony and epitaph, the memorial of his life here and the start of his life eternal is now complete, and I fervently pray that it satisfies my debt and honors his memory.
Thank you Chris, for pushing me to complete this work…
I hope you like it.
Almost three years ago I first sat down in front of my computer in my office, driven to somehow find a way to honor the memory and life of my son Christopher Aaron. I thought I would write a few words, something to try and capture some of the memories, some of his spirit, before they became too far removed from memory and distorted by time. I sat there, really just lost, and unable to find a way to begin. Touching back into those memories was like opening a long shut door, reentering a place of fear and failure and pain that I was not sure I would be able to handle.
I typed a few words, and discarded them. And then I typed a few more, with the same result.
I realized that, in order to tell this story I would have to face my fear, and my failure. My fear of the pain that this re-exploration would dredge up. My failure to prevent or find some way to cure him of his deadly affliction. These two overarching forces combined to hold me impotent.
In all likelihood, left to my own preferences, this project would have been abandoned, stillborn…but there was a third force.
Chris…
As I sat there, blank page before me, paralyzed by my own doubt, my own fear, my selfish, craven indulgence….it was Chris, clear and sharp and powerful, who appeared in my mind’s eye. I realized that he wanted his story told, that it needed to be out there.
The feeling had grown, imperceptibly…a wish, then a whisper then a calling and now an unfulfilled duty.
When Chris had become sick, we were consumed in combating his disease. When he lost his battle we were shattered by his death. He knew that we needed time, to heal, for the wounds to knit and scar, for his memory to become a story rather than a source of heart-bursting agony… He had given us that time, but now he was calling me, back to myself and to my unfulfilled duty.
I owed him this – and my debt was due.
I nodded my head, silently signing my unspoken contract...
There were many false starts, and many, many days when I laid aside my task, exhausted by the anguish and emptied of tears. Despite all, the promise I made to Chris and to myself that day drove me onward. The story, Chris’s testimony and epitaph, the memorial of his life here and the start of his life eternal is now complete, and I fervently pray that it satisfies my debt and honors his memory.
Thank you Chris, for pushing me to complete this work…
I hope you like it.
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