When A Child Is Taken

SANDRA SNYDER EDITOR TIMES LEADER MOUNTAINTOPI
Tuesday, February 08, 2000     Page: 2

When a child is taken“What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who
died?” Erich Segal made that opening line almost legendary in his 1970 best
seller-turned-motion picture “Love Story.” The first time I opened the
short novel that has now become one of my all-time favorites many years ago,
the line caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. Oliver Barrett
IV’s emotionally charged encounter with an unscrupulous death – that purloined
Jenny Cavilleri’s still very tender life – captivated me, and I might have
read the book cover to cover in one sitting. As many have done for various
purposes since the book came out, we borrowed the title for this week’s
special section: “Love Stories.” When we planned the section a couple of
weeks ago, we envisioned a tribute of sorts, to a rather randomly selected
collection of ordinary couples with a good story to tell, humorous or
inspirational, about life and love. As we finished up the package last week,
though, something weighed heavily on my mind. It was nearly a week before
Valentine’s Day, so the timing should have been about right for a happy
tribute to love. But then something very sad happened. Christopher Robinson
died. At first, it seemed a terribly unfortunate juxtaposition. All these
happy love stories would come out just a day after this community buried one
of its children. Then I noticed something about the couples: Many of them
spoke of the sadnesses that have shadowed their lives yet fortified their
bonds. That’s life, as they say; that’s love. Even though I never met
Christopher Robinson, I feel as if I’ve known him for several years. Through
our daily newspaper, he bared his soul and shared his anguish with the world,
or at least our part of the world. In the beginning, he told the community he
had AIDS, then progressed to tell it so much more, including that, yes, one
day, maybe in the not-too-distant-future, he would die. Each time I read
about him, it seemed I thought a few of the same things over and over. What
must it be like to live with the certain knowledge that your days are
extremely numbered? To study for a test knowing full well you are probably the
only child in school who can honestly say, “I’ll never use this stuff
again?” What must it have been like to be Christopher Robinson? I have
heard people ask, “If you could know the year, the day, the hour or even the
very minute your life on earth will end, would you want to?” I usually
answer, “Of course not,” but sometimes I think twice. I wonder how
Christopher would have answered. No, he did not know his day or hour, but he
had a better idea than most of us ever will. And he lived accordingly,
authentically. We all know we’re going to die “someday,” but why do we so
often live as if we’re invincible? I remember putting Christopher’s picture
in this paper back in the fall. He was the tiny figure on the end of the
lined-up Crestwood High School homecoming court. With his sunglasses on, he
looked like any other kid, small and suave, not sick. I hope he felt like
royalty that day because it might have been one of his last crowning moments.
Today, as you read the collection of Valentine’s Day stories about laughter
and love, I hope you find something to make you smile or something to make you
want to hug your husband, wife, child, friend, whomever. Because today your
thoughts also might turn, inexorably, toward death. You might have been at
St. Jude’s Church yesterday, saying goodbye to Christopher, or you might have
said goodbye the day or two before that. Maybe you just said goodbye in your
heart because you didn’t know him personally. Whatever the case, remember
what Christopher said to all of us, whether he knew us or not. This
Valentine’s Day, remember what he said about hope, about courage and, of
course, about love. What can you say about an 18-year-old boy who died? Oh,
so very much.