DEAR GOD,
The trip was August. Two adult women, I and nine teen-agers traveled to England, through Canterbury and then toward Edinburgh, Scotland. As we got closer to Iona, our destination, I began to have occasional flashbacks about Billy.

Billy was the adopted son of friends and parishioners of our church. Dick and Sheila had adopted Billy when he was 6 or 7 years old. He’d been horribly abused as a child. His mother had committed suicide, and his father had grievously maltreated him.

Billy was a real pain. I didn’t like him much at all early on in our relationship, and I’m sure Billy knew it. But we had a defining moment one evening at church that involved Billy squirting me in the face with the hose from the kitchen sink, and me, within 30 seconds,  letting Billy know he was never going to do that again.

After I calmed down, I looked at this scrawny 7-year-old who had no reason to expect anything from me but the same grievous mistreatment that he had received from most other adult males, and I saw his need. Billy needed my attention so badly that he was willing to take the fantastic risk of provoking my anger.

From that point on, Billy and I became good friends. We went out of our way to talk when we saw each other at church. Billy eventually joined the youth group of which I was the main leader for over 10 years. We became quite close.

Sadly, Billy’s home life did not go so well. He couldn’t seem to believe that he was worthy of being loved and tried his best to misbehave and get Dick and Sheila to reject him. They persevered, trying everything to let him know that he was loved.
One day, when Billy was 15 and we sat after church talking, he asked me if I thought that God would keep people out of heaven if they had killed themselves. Assuming that he was trying to reconcile how God viewed his mother, I told him that the God I worshiped was a kind and loving God who, I was sure, wouldn’t keep someone out of heaven for ending a life so painful that person couldn’t bear to live it any longer. That seemed to satisfy Billy, and we parted.

Two weeks later, our curate with whom I ran the youth group showed up at my door distraught. She said simply, “Billy killed himself.”

I’ll never forget that night. I knew right then, like a being struck by a bolt of lightning, that I had given Billy permission to kill himself. My soul was forever burned.
At Billy’s funeral, I read Corinthians 13 and was a pallbearer. Shortly after that, I stopped doing youth ministry.

That was about 15 years ago. I thought I had healed and moved on. I hadn’t thought about Billy for a long time.  So when asked to help lead this youth pilgrimage, I was nervous. In Canterbury, I started getting flashbacks of Billy. By the time we reached the Iona community, I was stricken.

The first time I entered the abbey, I began to have terrible visions of my last conversation with Billy. At worship services, I couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked me and the tears that flowed down my cheeks. I hadn’t healed at all. I had only painted over the scarring that was on my soul. I held myself responsible for Billy’s death. I was responsible for Billy’s death.

I spent my free time alone thinking and meditating and talking to you, God. I can only assume that you heard me. By midweek, I was in really tough shape. At the evening healing service, I went forward and knelt in the darkened abbey. Many people gathered around and placed their hands on me as the priest said prayers. I felt a great weight lifted from me.

The next day, I met with the priests and told them my story. I was able to realize with their help that I was still very angry with Billy for having killed himself and that he needed to be forgiven as much as I needed it. 

On Friday, up very early, I went out behind the abbey to talk to you. The sun struggled to rise that day, as the clouds were thick and the wind strong. I faced east across the Ross of Mull, a strait of wind-whipped water. In the cold and dark, I told you that I forgave Billy. I also told you that you certainly had my attention and that if you wanted to tell me something that this would be a good time.

As I sat looking out over the Ross, the clouds parted just enough to let a few shafts of light beam down onto the white-capped water. As the light grew stronger, a white gull that I hadn’t noticed lifted off from its perch on the top of a ruined stone wall to my left and flew screeching over my head and away to the east. The increasing light lit up a flock of sheep that were in the meadow in front of me, and they began softly calling. A small boat left the far shore and started out into the channel, and everything seemed so peaceful and right.

I trust that what you wanted to tell me was: “Be at peace.” That was the message I took away with me as the breakfast bell began to ring.

I now feel so much better. I think that my soul will always have a scorched place, but that’s OK. Looking back at the years that I was away from ministry -- and I guess away even from you -- I was not a whole person. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your gift of grace.

-- Greg Macdonald

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