Because Some People Care

I sat down to write the angriest diatribe I've ever pounded out, filled with the kind of obscenity and invective usually reserved for my prayers. Actually, this was going to be a prayer. I was going to yell and scream and curse and rail at the skies, daring God to throw lightning bolts at me. But when I opened my notepad and took up the pen, I realized I just don't have it in me. I'll be mad again later, but I'm not at this particular moment. Just sad. Really, really sad.

Liam Lowe is seven. He's got his mom's smile, the kind that lights up a room. The last time I saw him, we played a role-playing game, the gist of which was, I knocked on his door and talked in funny voices and said silly things until he was amused enough to let me inside. That big, beaming grin welcomed me every time.

Liam has leukemia. He's been battling it for a long time. His parents just checked him out of the hospital so he can spend his last few days at home. He's seven.

I'm sitting in a park as I write this. Twenty feet from me, four kids are monkeying around on an epic jungle gym. New Zealand has awesome playgrounds. They make a lot of children smile. I wish Liam could play on a New Zealand playground.

Earlier, I stood on a bridge, watching as a man walked along with his young son. The boy's attention was occupied by one of the million things that distract little boys, until his father pointed out the ducks. The lad's eyes grew as he broke into laughter, moving towards those crazy floating birds with outstretched arms. Liam's dad's name is Matt. Matt is my friend. During the darkest time of my life, lunch with Matt every Thursday helped me stay sane. Matt won't get to point out the ducks to Liam anymore. Liam won't get to marvel at the feeding frenzy that ensues when he lobs a crust of bread into the fray.

I passed a mom with two daughters. One of them, upon seeing a huge cluster of lily pads in the stream, exclaimed, "Look, Mum! Lily pads! Lily pads!" To this little girl, plants on the water's surface may as well have been the eighth wonder of the world. I never knew Liam to be so animated, but he approached the world with the same sort of curiosity and amazement. Liam's mom's name is Amy. Amy is my friend. Amy once gave Liam---a toddler at the time---some empty milk cartons and plastic coke bottles to keep himself entertained while we sat on the church stage and shared our mutual struggle with the church's outreach project. More than once, Amy would instinctively whirl around and snatch Liam away from the precipice, sparing him a headlong tumble off the stage---something he obviously didn't fear. Amy should be able to keep protecting Liam from the hazards of life, from speeding cars and knives to internet scams and mean girls...but mostly his own curiosity. But she can't protect him from bone marrow cancer.

I saw a family of four on the sidewalk. Mom and dad pushed the stroller bearing the baby girl while big brother ran ahead. He looked to be about seven. Liam's sister's name is Mary. I don't really know her because she was a baby last time I saw her. Mary should have a big brother to run ahead and absorb some of life's punches so she doesn't have to. But now she won't.

Liam heard that a lot of kids around the world don't have good water to drink, and he wanted to do something about it. So on the website set up so others could track his medical progress, a link was posted to take donations for digging fresh water wells. Because of Liam, two communities in Africa will have clean water for ten years. Liam is seven.

Nobody should have to die young. It's especially cruel when you're talking about a kid who finances well-digging in Africa. With his mixture of intelligence and compassion, what could he have become? How much healing could he have brought to humanity? We can only wonder. One thing I do know: When Liam's last smile goes out, the world will be a darker place.

I've got no exhortation to offer, no inspiring words about loving your friends and family while they're here. I don't have any metaphysical musings; this tragedy makes me feel even more theologically bankrupt. Back when this was going to be my public imprecatory prayer to and against God, the title was, "On the Off Chance You Care." But now it is what it is because...well, because this whole thing really sucks, but there are people who care. I'm one of them.

I want to be with my friends. Instead, I'm stuck on the other side of the world where I can't hug them or cry with them or do anything else that actually matters. All I can do is write a blog post. I can offer a gift that makes me tear up all over again...it just feels so pathetic and stupid compared to everything I can't give. But it's all I've got.

To Liam---smiling, inquisitive, caring, brave Liam---I present this blog's last ever Rockstar Award. Only like two dozen people in the history of history have ever landed one of these, so you're in pretty select company there, buddy. That's just how awesome you are. From now on, the highest honor "To Insanity and Beyond" bestows upon worthy individuals will be known as the Liam Lowe Rockstar Award. For as long as I'm trying to make sense of the world on the internet, Liam's memory will live on in my blog.

Go in peace, Liam. Enjoy these last few days with the people who love you so much. If there's a heaven, I want your smile to greet me when I go knocking on the gates.