Son Levi, left and sister Kizzie Marie in pink, right; Mom Kizzie in blue in back and Frank Billington IV in blue-striped shirt, right
“But I never know what to say.”
So often I hear from people who truly ache for those who have lost loved ones and desire to reach out, but are paralyzed by the fear they will say the wrong thing or not be able to say anything at all.
True, some well-meaning comments can be hurtful. Like someone telling me — “at least he is in a better place”; or “at least you have another child at home”; or “you’re young, you will marry again”; or “he must have been so special for God to have taken him so young”; or “I know exactly how you feel”— eventually, I learned to hear the care and love in people’s voices and let go of the unhelpful words.
Was there ever anything that was especially helpful? For me, I found that the stories—even tiny snippets—of memories of my loved one provided a comforting balm to soothe my wounded gaping hole of loss. People recounting the stories I had told them over the years or sharing their own memories—all were welcomed.
Several friends sent photos from past visits together that included my loved one with the message, "I remember …"
Recently, I re-discovered a moving account written on November 30, 1988, six months after my son Levi’s passing, by one of his youth-group friends, Frank Billington IV. Imagine a 15-year-old young man taking the time to write up his memories of their “Last Visit.”
"… It was July 9th, a Saturday. Levi, my friend Scott T, and I went to spend the day at the Tacoma Mall … As Summer weekend shoppers took lingering glances at Levi in his wheelchair, the boys asked Levi how it felt to be in a wheelchair in public. Levi’s response was, ‘Let them look—they have to walk!’ That statement reflects his general attitude as I saw it during the three months that I knew him.
"Time was short, but endless. We stopped to watch some twenty television screens flicker out a ball game, browse through hobby and electronics stores, and to check on a pair of boots Levi had ordered a few weeks earlier at a leather goods store. Only a hinting reminder of his illness came about when we stopped at a McDonalds and Levi had to order a fish sandwich due to its lower sodium and cholesterol levels. However, in the good cheer it was soon forgotten.
After making about three rounds the main hallway, we stopped and sat on the hard cement bench across from The Happiness Shop. Without a word, Levi took a pillow from his wheelchair, set it aside my leg, and laid down beside me … I gave him my leather jacket to keep him warm.
Levi wasn’t quite asleep when Scott and I decided to retrieve a helium balloon caught in the overhang of the store in front of us, so I gently got out from under Levi’s head to bring it down. Inside of a minute I had gotten onto Scott’s shoulders, grabbed the dangling ribbon, and jumped down to tie it onto the wheelchair. Looking around, we saw more, and soon had five balloons reaching skyward from the handle of the wheelchair.
We sat back down, and I put my arm around Levi. He fell asleep right there beside me, and I had to fix my jacket when he almost shook it off.
At eight-thirty I reluctantly woke Levi up, and the three of us headed out to be picked up. In the light of a fading, clear sunset we made small talk, but mostly there was silence. It had been a busy, tiring day.
As I climbed out of the gold Ford Taurus wagon and walked to the door, I looked back and waved. Levi and Scott waved back, and all too soon they were down the block and around the corner. Ah, well, I’m tired.
That was the last time I saw or heard from Levi.
Levi was buried near his father, who was killed in a 1983 military helicopter accident. Formal graveside services were held in Redding, California, on July 31st. Levi would have been fifteen on December 15th. The early morning of August 1st I was up before dawn, and watched the sun rise into the sky through my tears, on the roof of our house.
Levi may have been just a boy, but in my eyes, he faced death and died like a man. I will never, ever forget.
It was a time to learn, a time to grow.
A time for concern, a time to end.
It was a time to live …”
Frank's first driver's license with organ donation in memory of Levi. Decades after Levi’s death, Frank was scrounging through a box of mementos and came across his first driver’s license. He had checked the box to be an organ donor. At the bottom of his license he indicated that the organ donation was in honor of Levi’s memory as Levi had donated his corneas. Frank sent a photo of the license. Levi was a real little boy, and someone remembered. And someone cared enough after all these years to let me know.
Frank and Levi's sister, Kizzie Marie, had a reunion 32 years later. I am thankful that Levi was so fortunate to have such a compassionate friend in Frank, even for the few months they had together. His friendship offered companionship and fun for Levi when he was so sick and needed a friend. Even after decades have passed, what Frank shared continues to provide a healing balm for me.
When you next need to speak to a bereaved person, I hope the amazing example of Levi’s friend, Frank, will inspire you to share a story.
Thank you, Frank Billington IV.
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