They kept his body on the floor of his room. The EMTs did everything they could to revive him, but it was an impossible task.
Jackson (16), took his own life.
He used a belt.
I received the call while mowing the yard. It was a sunny afternoon. I crumbled in the driveway.
Our best friends just lost their son. I couldn’t accept it as reality. He was a great kid, full of life, lots of friends, awesome Christian family. Why?
On the drive to their house, I cried, prayed for wisdom and shook my head in disbelief over and over.
I pulled up to their house, surrounded by police, emergency medical vehicles, crying family members—and stepped out of my car and into a dimension of suffering and loss I will never understand.
They walked me back to his room.
On bended knees, I reached out to touch his body, alongside his mother, father and little sister. Weeping. Soul deep tears. Tears that come from a place so remote we don’t even know it exists until we face a level of loss and suffering like this.
“Come back,” his little sister keeps saying, “Come back, Jackson!”
We cried out to God. We wailed. We prayed.
His little sister wouldn’t leave his body. We finally coaxed her into the other room.
The medical workers took Jackson out and placed him into the ambulance. As they drove down the street, we stayed silent, knowing he would never return to this house again.
Jackson was a Christian.
