Grandma Phyllis… patios & picnics (part 3)


…From that time on, Jamie seemed to carry a sadness with him.
Our loving and happy little boy slid into a state of discouragement. Some young people do not have specific dreams or goals, but Jamie did. Yet, they all seemed to unravel one after the other when he entered high school.

He did not lose his sense of humor entirely, but he was much more serious more of the time. I remember the last time he visited our home, Thanksgiving 1991. I had some photos for Kathy, so I took them to Jamie. When I asked him to slide them into his suitcase, he looked at me with his half-smile and said, “I don’t have room, Grandma!” We giggled, and he packed the photos neatly into his duffel bag.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”

Psalm 23:6 KJV

On that same visit, we noticed Jamie’s maturity. As he wanted to talk with Grandpa and me about his troubles living with an elder family member living in the mountains. We went downstairs, and he calmly shared his concerns. Basically, three teenagers living together under one roof with different rules seemed unfair to him. If I would have been in the place he described, I would have been unhappy, too. One example, he had to make his bed daily; the others did not. The others had permission to drive while Jamie did not. If there had been a reason maybe he could have understood, but no reason had been given. Inconsistency is tough for anyone to swallow, but I think this is especially tough on teenagers.
Jamie had gone to live up there because of an unsettling situation at his local public high school. Going to a smaller community might help. He originally looked forward to the change. However, I do remember him saying something about the one year old little girl Kathy babysat at the time he moved out, “Rachel isn’t going to remember me.” He loved children, and he had often helped in the church nursery. We knew he was going to make a great Daddy someday.
On the evening of January 18, 1992, I was playing a game of Aggravation with Michael and Holly. When the phone rang, I answered. The party on the line said, “Is Ken there? I answered, “Yes, one minute.” As I walked back to the bedroom to hand him the phone, as I am a curious person, I wondered who was calling. I didn’t even recognized the voice of my own son-in-law, Carlton.
When Ken hung up the phone, I went back to see who had called. He said simply, “Its Jamie. He’s gone!” Instantly, I collapsed on the bed and started screaming. Kathy responded in turn, and Michael and Holly, too. My emotions controlled my body; however, I do remember seeing Kathy sitting on the edge of the bed shaking terribly.
In the days and weeks ahead, we hurt some for ourselves, but more so for Kathy and Carlton. This kind of loss is so devastating! I felt plagued by the unanswered question, “When someone close to you passes away, regardless of how, it hurts, but then especially in this way— what could have been so bad for him? Something horrible must have happened!?! Why couldn’t Jamie have told someone? What couldn’t we have had the chance to help?”
As I flew with Kathy and the children to Colorado, I felt we must hurry because Carlton was still alone. No family was present with him. I remember feeling so concerned about Carlton being alone. I remember seeing him so drained as he tried to explain what he knew and field our many questions.
We spent the week preparing for the funeral with many people coming and going with meals, snacks, and supplies as well as plants, flowers, and cards. Young people from the church Jamie and Michael’s age lingered in the home for many hours. As I cried through much of this, I kept thinking, “Look at this…look at this …look at this…how could Jamie not have known how much he was loved?”

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