I Remember the First Time
— Paula Stanley

I remember the first time:
I saw a grownup cry,
I had a pain my parents couldn’t make go away,
I realized that children die,
I found out some things can’t be fixed when they break,
I had a sad, sinking feeling that things would never be the same.
I felt the fear of losing love,
When there was something no one could explain,
When being true to myself was rejected, cold,
I felt the sadness of losing a friend,
I felt the fear of being alone,
I realized some day my life would end,
I knew that I had strength within.

That poem by Paula Stanley was written on the program for her memorial service on Tuesday. She had died, at 57, the week before.

I pondered writing this column that you’re reading between Paula’s memorial service and attending an anti-death penalty vigil on Tuesday night, which is ironic in a few ways.

I liked Paula a lot but our social paths didn’t often cross. We attended the same church. We were former co-workers, though we never worked in the same area. The last thing we “did” together was attend an anti-death penalty vigil. Besides my own family, Paula was the only person to attend. My daughter, now 10, remembers Paula exclusively from that evening.

With life comes death. Call it a byproduct of living. And death has been on my mind a lot lately. Tuesday’s anti-death penalty vigil was the second in a week. An execution certainly resurrects the memories of crime victims and the senseless loss of innocent people. But in my mind, every life is sacred, and I don’t believe we accomplish much by killing . . . anyone.

Some people disagree, vehemently. They argue for the death penalty, passionately. Maybe humans are hardwired for such thoughts. I’ve had them.

This December will mark the 10th anniversary of the murder of my cousin. Larry Lee was a journalist living in Guatemala. He was killed. Stabbed to death. Brutally. In his small apartment in Guatemala City.

The title of this column references the classic book On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross that describes five stages in which people deal with grief and tragedy, especially when diagnosed with a terminal illness or after experiencing catastrophic loss.

With Paula, I think I’m stuck in denial. With Larry, after 10 years, I still haven’t reached acceptance. And for a while, a long while, I had a lot of anger. The Guatemalan authorities botched every possible aspect in the investigation of Larry’s murder, which still has not been solved. It probably never will be. There was a time when I personally would have injected the needle or flipped the switch or otherwise been party to the execution of Larry’s murderer. But what would it have achieved?

It would not have brought Larry back. And I’m not sure I would have felt much relief or sense of justice or anything else. Maybe I would’ve. Probably not.

Just before Paula’s death, a friend told me about the death of a former RU student, a guy I knew slightly a few years ago. He was 26. Death seems to be ever lurking, never too far away.

What’s the lesson here, you ask? What ties these events together? Death is always near, but I offer a couple points for the living.

The first idea stems from something read at Paula’s memorial by a colleague, Theresa Burriss. She talked about reading the folk legend of John Henry to her son on the night of Paula’s death.

“Although John Henry tunnels through the mountain faster than the steam drill, demonstrating his superior strength, his victory leads to his untimely death,” Theresa said. “But just as everyone succumbs to grief, crying and moaning, a rainbow stretched across the West Virginia sky whispers, ‘Dying ain’t important. Everybody does that. What matters is how well you do your living.’”

Being human naturally entails pain and conflict. But it’s how we deal with those things that matter. Paula Stanley and my cousin, Larry Lee, understood that. Both were optimistic, giving, supportive, resilient, creative, independent, honest, loving, and strong. Mahatma Gandhi said, “The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” In doing your living well, and this is my second point, I think the ability to forgive is essential. A quote attributed to Paul Boese says, “Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future.”

Forgiveness isn’t easy, at least not for me. And we all have our faults and foibles. But when contemplating the fragility of life—how a friend, relative, anyone—can simply be gone in a moment, I know that I want to do my living well. How to do that? I always hearken the words of Walt Whitman in his Preface to Leaves of Grass. In it, Whitman said:

“This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men . . .  re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem.”

Tim W. Jackson is Editor of the New River Voice.