Pall of Silence

By Eleanor Bertin

Some lives speak volumes
Some are silent as the grave
Dearly beloved — that’s what the obituaries say — never hinting at the conflict, shame or sin that lie behind the veil. In October 2012, Paul, the author’s 18-year-old son was killed by a hit-and-run driver while walking home from an evening performing with his punk rock band. Amid the grief of loss, she is burdened over his life that seemed to be headed in the wrong direction and their strained relationship. Dogged by grief, guilt, blame and shame, she relives every memory searching for that conclusive evidence that he did after all, belong to Christ. Clinging to the Biblical doctrines of grace, the truth she knows wrestles with the longing of her heart. Can she trust God, with even this?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Discern Products
• Release date: Nov 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781988422138

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Police at the Door

October 6, 2012

It wasn’t the kind of thing you longed for – emergency vehicle lights flashing blue and red through your front window and reflecting against the kitchen appliances in the early dark of an autumn morning. What you longed for, without even realizing it, was the bland, the familiar, the blessed boring.

Like leaves falling from the trees, I expected to count off the three days of the Thanksgiving weekend of 2012 in the usual renovation work, housework and of course, preparation for a big family meal after church on Sunday. The most excitement I longed for was the anticipation of being joined for turkey dinner by our family.

So, when we stood owl-eyed at the front door, me in my worn green housecoat, my husband in his hastily donned T-shirt and jeans, trying to take in the brutal facts the officer was stating, I resisted change with everything in me. I couldn’t begin to fathom the depths to which my soul would ultimately plummet. As it was, the force of such an impact kept me falling, falling – dangling in a dense fog of unreality for many months.

I had been awakened that morning by the fax ring and drowsily thought I should probably discontinue the service. Our high school son, Paul, had graduated and wouldn’t be using it to contact his teachers anymore. I got up to go to the bathroom and noticed the time – 4:55 a.m. It was when I opened the door of our room that I saw the flashing lights. Their garish swirling from outside streaked around the dining room and kitchen. At that hour I didn’t want to be answering the door alone so I shook my husband awake. Grumpily, Mike pulled on some pants, disgusted at being awakened too early on a weekend. Both our dogs were barking and now there was banging on the dining room French doors at the side of the house. We opened the front door to find two women and an RCMP officer standing below our steps, keeping their distance from the dogs. Living half an hour from town, we rarely see police, so the sight of the uniform immediately set me trembling. Settling the animals, we motioned to the visitors to come up.

We’re investigating a hit and run pedestrian fatality… the officer began.

At that, my heart plunged into a bottomless void. Oh no! One of my boys has done something! My mind flashed back to a message one of them had sent me months earlier, stating he had been drunk and driving for quite some time on the wrong side of the road. And I thought of his younger brother Paul, a relatively new driver with an insistently heavy foot. I’d constantly had to remind him to slow down. My boys! What have you done? Mike told me later the same thoughts had gone through his mind.

Then the word fatality got through to me. Fatality means someone died! Oh no, OH NO! This means they’ve killed someone! My boys will live with that guilt for the rest of their lives!

Is your son home? the officer continued.

Which one? Mike asked.

I, too, was confused by the question. We have six sons, Ben, Dan, Tommy, Jonny, Paul and Timothy. The oldest, Ben, was married to Christy and lived in Tallahassee where he was pursuing a doctorate in piano at Florida State University. Dan was next, newly married to Courtney and living in town just half an hour away but at the time, working for an oilfield transport company up north in Peace River, Alberta. Number three, Tommy, roomed with his brother Jonny in Red Deer, Alberta, and both worked for a fencing company. It was with these two that 18-year-old Paul had been staying since mid-August, working in the fencing industry as well. Our youngest son, Timothy, has Down syndrome and was then safe in our home. In the midst of all these boys, three brothers older, three younger, we also have a daughter. Becky, married to John and living in Texas, was the busy mother of our precious twin granddaughters, Abby and Victoria, then two years old.

But the officer had asked if our son was home.

Can you describe your son? he asked.

Too much was racing through my mind to answer. Mike managed to stammer something but the officer continued, Green mohawk, dog collar, skinny?

He must mean Paul. How embarrassing to have him known for green hair. Dog collar? That must be yet another new punk accessory. I wish he’d quit wasting his money on such trash. And skinny? Paul isn’t skinny. Just a normal slim, masculine eighteen-year-old build. Wait! Somewhere in there the officer had used the word deceased.

From a great distance, it seemed, I began to hear what the police officer was trying to tell us. The fatality was our son, Paul. Relief immediately washed over me. At least none of our sons had been the perpetrator of this hit-and-run crime. Better to be a victim than a criminal, I thought.

Of all things, relief? What kind of a mother feels relief upon learning of the death of her son? My husband told me later he, too, felt that way at first.

Numbly, we asked the officer and the two women who introduced themselves as representing Victim Services, to come in and sit down. The enormity of their words was far too much to take in. I sat there on the couch, a polite observer of the scene in our living room – a bath-robed statue. My thoughts slammed back and forth from the devastating to the inconsequential.

Paul was not ready to die!

Should I offer these folks coffee?

He had begun to openly resist going to church or reading the Bible!

What do these folks think of us as they look around our home? Does it look to them as though we raised our son to be a punk?

IS MY BOY IN HELL?

The officer recounted the facts. At 2:05 a.m., a passing motorist had found Paul lying in the northbound lane of the Taylor Drive Bridge in Red Deer, a city of about 90,000. She reported it to police. EMS had pronounced him dead at the scene. The Victim Services lady talked about what would happen to the body next. The body! It would go to Calgary to the Medical Examiner. There might or might not be an autopsy…

I struggled to absorb what they were saying, the syllables echoing from far, far away. We must have seemed utterly stupid as the officer and the women reiterated their information several times over. Were we alright, they wanted to know. Was there anyone they could call for us? Finally, leaving a Victim Services card and assuring us they would be in touch, the three of them left.

We sat silent in the dim circle of our lamp-lit living room. Enveloped by the early morning stillness we were stunned beyond anything we had ever known. It was still far too early to call our children with this news.

Mechanically, we prayed together, asking God’s help in this terrible tragedy, to be with our other children, to give us understanding for the many ways people might express their grief. I even prayed retroactively, remembering that God says, before you call, I will answer. God would consider the source, wouldn’t he, a heartbroken, terrified mother? Even as I prayed, I hoped he would remember I am but dust and overlook my theological incorrectness.

Oh God, please let Paul have had some moments to repent before he died!

The anguish of not knowing his eternal destiny tore at me. I believe what the Bible teaches about hell. God would not be just if he didn’t punish evil. And if he punishes great evils like torture and murder, he assuredly must punish all evil, even the little sins we so readily excuse in ourselves. But if ever there were a time I wanted to alter the message of the Bible, that was it.

In the pre-dawn darkness, my husband and I talked about how it only takes a moment, a twinkling, a fleeting thought to say, I’m sorry God! I’ve been wrong! Please forgive me!

And my husband said, What we have to remember is that if Paul was elect, God will not have failed to save him. I knew he spoke the truth, but at the time, all I heard in that statement was a very big, very conditional, utterly terrifying if.

Chapter 2 – Living the Dream

There is a time to be born and a time to die, wise King Solomon once wrote.

I own a vintage 1945 Life magazine found during one of our house renovations. In it, ads for everything from shoes and soap to kitchen appliances promise hope of a peaceful life after Victory. In your Victory kitchen, you need a Kelvinator refrigerator! Lovers in the throes of World War II kept hope alive dreaming about the normal life they’d live after the war. He would go to his nice secure job. She would keep house in their safe, picket-fenced home. They would have children – the fruit of their trust in a safe future. A life of constancy was their promise.

Through the 80s and early 90s, we were living that dream. I had always longed for six children, although the family of my dreams would have had a more balanced mix of boys and girls. Paul was our sixth child and fifth son. On a warm spring night in May 1994, to the sound of frogs chirruping loudly outside our bedroom window, I gave birth to that nine-pound, one-ounce baby boy. The cord had been around his neck in the birth process, making him alarmingly blue. At least it seemed so to me. But the midwife was calm and confident.

He’ll pink up pretty soon, she said as she applied oxygen. And he did. It was the time to be born, not the time to die. Only looking back on that event years later, do I see the providence of God in sparing Paul’s life at birth. His time had not yet come.

When she laid him on my chest, a chubby, slippery, wide-eyed scrap of humanity, he held up his head craning it to look around. None of our other children had ever done such a thing at birth. In fact, we never did have to support his head. I remember other mothers in the church nursery laughing when they noticed me laying Paul down to change his diaper. It was my routine to gently press on his forehead so that he would relax his head. Otherwise he held it erect, always on alert.

To my husband and me, that strength of his from such an early age carried import. Surely this child was destined for some sacred purpose. We didn’t know what it might be, but we felt a solemn weight of responsibility for training him and teaching him in a way that would prepare him for whatever it was.

We named him Paul, meaning small, with the idea of humility, and Gabriel, man of God, something we prayed he would become.

I just love Paul Gabriel’s name, read one congratulatory baby card from a friend, another treasure from heaven for you and Mike to mold and guide.

How we rejoice with you at the birth of Paul Gabriel! my sister wrote. The Lord has assigned your portion and your cup, and made your lot secure (five strong sons and a daughter!). The lines have fallen for you in pleasant places; surely you have a delightful inheritance! Psalm 15: 5, 6.

God has given Paul Gabriel to you to raise for His glory. As Paul in the New Testament was a special messenger, may your Paul be too, a light and a witness, another friend jotted in her card.

When I mentioned the meaning of Paul’s names at his funeral, it was with a sense of bitter futility mingled with a guilty despair. What had been the point of all our teaching and training? Worse than that, where had we failed him that we were left with no clear evidence of his trusting in Jesus?

It’s been my observation that highly intelligent babies can also be intense and demanding. It was through Paul, my sixth baby, that God began to slough away some of my selfishness and replace it with true patience and submission to his will. I began to learn to curb my urge to complain inwardly at the frequent night waking. When the baby still cried after I’d done all I knew to do – feeding, changing, burping, rocking, singing – I resisted the urge to lay him, screaming, beside my husband to let him take his turn. I learned to trust Jesus to give me, whom he calls his beloved, sleep in exactly the right measure, at exactly the right time as He promises in Psalm 127. If I was awake, I reasoned, it was by God’s choice. So, I learned to rejoice in night feedings, if a bit groggily. I began to see the time as an opportunity to be alone with the Lord in prayer.

I suppose all parents are amazed by their children, but I remember once when Paul was about a year old, looking into his dark blue eyes as he was nursing. He stopped and gazed up at me with a look so knowing, so intense, so fathomless, I felt he was considering my very soul. What was he thinking? What did he see or know? For me, it was one of those throat-swelling, heart-tripping moments of love for my child. Could I ever convey my love for him in return? Would he ever know the intensity of that love?

But there were also stresses in each of our lives at that time that drew Mike and me to greater dependence on a sovereign God. Job loss, financial strain, starting a new business and home educating our five older growing children all served to stretch us both to our limits. I had never before felt so out of my depth or beyond my ability.

I feel like I’m on roller-skates, I told my husband in bed one night, after rocking baby Paul to sleep, racing from one crisis to the next all day long.

So do I, he answered with sleep-slurred words, perhaps thinking of his business and sales pressures.

Paul was constant motion and sound in one wiry little body. A group baking or craft session with the children quickly became a frantic fiasco of flour or glue. I learned to pair the kids, older with younger, or work with them one-on-one. Paul’s curiosity, continual movement and constant chatter kept me nervously on edge. When he was just past two, a simple incident revealed to me how that edginess had begun to skew my view of him.

One day in late August 1996, I’d taken all the kids to a park and put the older ones in charge of the littles. I stayed behind in our van parked on a rise overlooking the path to where the kids were playing. I spread out my notes on the dash and began planning our upcoming home school year. As I made progress I started to relax, finding a rhythm in defining the educational goals for each child, planning curriculum and drawing up a schedule.

When I looked out the windshield from my parking space, I spotted a tiny figure meandering back toward me. Sunlight gleamed off the shining blond head. The child flitted from one side of the path to the other, bending to look at something in the rough-mown grass edging the path, twirling to trace the flight of a butterfly, tossing a handful of sand in the air. What a sweet little child! I reminded myself that our decision to home educate had been born out of the desire to foster exactly that kind of child-like wonder. We wanted to keep our children from the unnecessary rigid confinement of institutional school, and free them to explore and interact with the world around them. Had we lost some of that wonder, creativity and freedom in the urgent press of life? Had the looming demand to prepare the older ones for higher learning dulled my enjoyment of the little ones? I looked down at my school plans wondering if I were creating a cage of rigid institutionalism of my own.

The next time I looked up, the child was nearer – a little golden-haired boy in overalls and purple-striped T-shirt. It was Paul. He was unattended; what if he couldn’t find me and wandered off? The strain of responsibility immediately returned, elbowing out my earlier feelings of distant enjoyment of his quaintness. And it was then I realized I had lost some of the wonder of motherhood myself. Frazzled had replaced fun-loving, pressured had undermined precious. I determined to set aside the feelings of stress and enjoy my fascinating little boy.

Chapter 3 – Breaking the News

October 6

Phoning each of our children with the news was our next dreadful duty. Sunrise had never taken so long. We started with the ones who lived two hours ahead of our time zone. How painful it was to hear their cheerful answer to the ring knowing the terrible news we would have to give them. How cruel it felt to hold the power to ruin their day, change their life forever. Their disbelief, their anguish, the unanswerable question – Why Paul? – each response gripped our hearts tighter in a vice of pain.

Did God experience this pain as he watched the police drive up that morning while we slept, knowing our lives were about to be changed forever?

When our youngest, Timothy, 15, got up that morning, we had to explain to him the death of his brother. Timo’s disability keeps him focused on the immediate. He loves simple pleasures and routine. We were uncertain how much he would understand. But we knew he loved and missed his siblings who’d left home. In tears, Mike described the early morning visit from the police and the news that Paul was now gone. Timothy broke into silent tears in his dad’s arms. It is a rare thing for Timo to cry. He fights tears even when he’s seriously provoked or injured. Was this weeping now a response to the even rarer sight of seeing his father in tears?

There were others to call too. I was surprised when my brother-in-law set up a conference call with my out-of-town sister rather than simply passing on the message to her. I was surprised too, when our pastor said he would come to be with us as soon as he could. Like a mountain climber in a mist, groping for a foothold and unaware of how far the summit is, the magnitude of what had happened had yet to dawn on me. Somehow, I had the uncomfortable idea that the more people who knew, the more certain was the truth. None of my reactions made sense but shock plays odd tricks with the mind.