Back then, I was in seventh grade in Junior High School, although I think now they call them Middle Schools, apparently because it suddenly became demeaning to students to call them Junior I guess.  Whatever the reason, no matter what the school was called, I was a typical 7^th grader in a public school: naïve, selfish in many ways, awkward around girls, liked to play the trumpet and also play flag football at lunch time.  Certainly at that age, I was low on the pecking order of the school, that’s for sure.

It was a long time ago, but I remember that day quite vividly after all these years because it seems things changed forever after that day was over.  It was early in my first month of school, just learning the ropes of hallway locker combinations, changing teachers for each subject rather than one teacher for all subjects as in elementary school etc., but I got the hang of it and felt pretty good.  In fact, I was going to pick this new friend to be on my team for lunch football that day.

I’m not sure what class it was, perhaps social studies, whatever that was, and I do remember my teacher for that class.  He was tall and engaging, and made learning fun with various projects and competitions, frequently asking students to stand up and recite passages or solve problems on the chalkboard.  But on this day, he called up two boys to run up to the chalkboard: One was my friend who would join my team in a few hours, and another I don’t remember.  My new friend was assigned to the far left end of the chalkboard and the other boy was on the far right.

I must admit I have no recollection of what the task was, but they were both to race to see who would complete it first on their section of the board.  When they were finished, they stood in front of their work, and the teacher then asked them to each go back to their respective ends of the chalkboard and then on the count of three, they were challenged to each take an eraser and erase their work as fast as they could, rushing to meet each other in the middle.  The winner got some kind of prize, like maybe going to lunch five minutes early to be first in line for pizza burgers.

The race began and the rest of us students anxiously awaited the winner, and it looked like my friend would win, which he did by a millisecond.  We started to clap for him then the clapping stopped like a mousetrap firing.

He never would claim his prize.

He turned around, became pale and hit the floor in front of the class with a heavy thud.  I have no idea what the other kids were thinking, but I briefly thought he was faking when he was on the floor, like a game, but when I observed that he was unresponsive and pale, I knew something bad was happening.  My teacher began CPR and told us all to leave, which we did, but I didn’t want to.  I wanted to help revive him but I was helpless and watched the resuscitation attempt fail despite the frantic efforts of the medics and multiple teachers. We watched them wheel him out in a gurney after maybe an hour, or perhaps it was an eternity, covered up in a sheet.  Or at least I did, I don’t remember the others at all.

My new 12 year old friend was dead in front of the erased black chalkboard.

Most likely they said, it was a congenital heart abnormality worsened by the stress of the moment, and with my knowledge now, it was probably VFib or Torsades secondary to prolonged QT syndrome, often induced by stress. Several days later, some adults in authority, perhaps the principal, likely under suggestion by my teacher, asked if I would participate in the eulogy at the assembly for the entire school in the gymnasium. Why me? While I knew I was nervous speaking on stage in front of a crowd, I felt compelled to do what I could for my new friend’s memory, so they asked me to say a prayer for the entire school assembly.  The minister of my church gave the eulogy, and I was asked to finish it with a prayer.  I don’t remember what I said, or how long it took me to prepare the prayer, but I did, and didn’t miss a beat, or if did, I don’t remember or deleted it from memory.

I’m not sure I had time to mourn or process this event at that age, nor did any of my classmates.  We didn’t have psychologists and focus groups. We just continued on, and here I am today, the first time I have shared the story with anyone.

My life has gone on while his was cut short at the age of 12, and I have lived a lucky life, filled with adventure, accomplishments, laughter, failures, brutal pain, loss and also love, and yet, I wonder why it was him and not me that day.  What would his life had been if he had lived? He sure laughed a lot.  It seems after that day, a seed was planted and I became more aware of our fragile stay on this earth, and that life was not all fun and games.  I also learned that we reach to God when there is pain and tragedy. Admittedly, like many kids whose young minds are convinced only of invincibility, I forgot some of the lessons learned during my sometimes zig zagging travels down the road of life, often going the wrong way in dusty gravel.

But today, it all came back again.  I understand even more deeply now, especially after my near death a few years ago, that our time on earth is short, yes – the cliché,  but we must make our positive mark here on earth and make it a better place somehow.  Even if it is just to make a child smile or help someone in need or prop up a person who is feeling down. We are here on the physical earth temporarily and we must show love, grace and humility, or at least love if we can’t handle the other two, before our physical time comes to an end and we enter the paradise that is waiting.

I wonder though, would a public school today, allow a 12 year old student to say a prayer at an assembly without triggering an outcry from the ACLU? Highly unlikely.  It would offend Muslim students and therefore won’t be allowed.

And I also wonder: My friend, did you hear my prayer that day?

SRC