When Our Children Die Before We Do

It is a grief so great I can scarcely even begin to imagine it. I hope and pray I do not ever experience it with my own children or grandchildren.

I have had several friends experience such a tragedy in their lives. Again, I cannot begin to comprehend the depth of sorrow and pain that must follow when anyone has a child or a grandchild die before they do.

The thousands of children I’ve taught over the years are not my flesh and blood kin. But … love for children is not measured by genetics alone. The children I taught became, in a very real sense, like my own children. Whenever one of them dies, I grieve deeply. And I always feel a sharply strange tinge of guilt that I did not leave this world before them.

The only saving grace I’ve ever found in such a tragic happening is that I can (if I will embrace it) be taught by their youthful passing about the fragility of life — and what things are really important.

I am having a Mr. Talley/Student Reunion next Saturday at Sugar Hollow Park. In my fairly constant attempts to stay in contact with every child I ever taught (yes, I know - an impossible feat to accomplish, out of nearly 2,000 - but not an impossible feat to try) I have known about two dozen former students who have now passed on. Here are some of them:

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Megan died of childhood leukemia. “Look, Mr. Talley! Now I’m bald like you! But I’m glad I’m bald, because I always worried you felt bad about being bald. Now I know it’s not so bad. Like everybody says about dying. But I can tell them it’s not all that bad. I’m just glad I got to live. Not everybody gets to do that.”

Barry was murdered outside a bar in Johnson City. If I pause for half a second, I can still hear his loud, free, booming laughter from all the way back in my student teaching days at the old Douglass Elementary School. I heard about Barry’s murder as I was preparing to eat a steak at Fatz. It was the only steak I’ve ever left untouched.

Cassie was murdered in Knoxville. The news hit me so hard I literally fell to my knees. I taught her and her twin sister. Both were as joyful and as full of life as newborn puppies.

Josh D. died while racing a car. Occasionally I still visit the very spot where he left this world. I lay down a few wildflowers and think of him.

Ja’Quinn died behind a wheel too. Sometimes, when I’m watching fluffy cumulus clouds float by, I can see them form into his ever-present smile.