Ten years ago about this time my wife Ashley and I had a lot to look forward to. It was early December and we were expecting our first child. We were having a quiet weekend at home, partly because we’d enjoyed hosting an extended family Thanksgiving the weekend before but mostly because a lazy Saturday evening bonfire seemed an ideal way to make the most of the gorgeous weather. This particular Saturday had been one of those still, luminous, late fall days when the afternoon light fades from blue through gold and pink to mauve and gray, and there’s no better place to be than on an old family farm in the middle of nowhere with a big burn pile and a box of matches. So it was still and quiet that evening as darkness fell and our fire burned high. Quiet, but not silent. Gun season had opened the weekend before and around sundown, a periodic rifle shot would roll out through the still air—a salute from the group of cousins and uncles, sons and dads from the extended family who were spending the weekend at a deer camp on the property where we live. Through the afternoon there had been plenty of activity as they puttered out to their stands. Then everything went quiet and still as the hunters settled down to wait for sundown. The first indication that something was wrong came just after dusk when a four-wheeler came flying and fishtailing out of the woods and skidded to a halt out the front of the house. Then came another. And a third. Then there was shouting.
Bennett, the son of Ashley’s cousin, Amanda, had been shot. He had made a mistake, climbing down from his stand right at dusk and setting off back towards his four-wheeler. Another hunter had seen movement across the field and fired. We sprinted for the house; dialed 911 of course. But it was clear there wasn’t time to wait for an ambulance. He died in his father’s arms before they could reach the hospital.
Bennett was fifteen. A beautiful boy with a big smile and a kind heart and boundless enthusiasm for the world around him. He grew up in Natchez with his mom, Amanda; dad, Benny; sister, Madeline; and extended family all around. He loved all the things teenaged boys love—LSU football and fishing trips to the Gulf with his dad; water-skiing on Lake St. John; and family holiday gatherings, where he would bounce between the ‘adults’ and the ‘kids’ with cheerful conversation and an easy manner that belied his fifteen years. At the time of the accident the magnitude of his parents’ bereavement was literally incomprehensible to Ashley and me and in the years that followed, their journey to a place where they could not only live with their loss, but continue to flourish as individuals and as a family, has been humbling to contemplate. In the years since—during which Ashley and I have become parents ourselves and have watched our own children grow into the people we cherish so much—I think we’ve begun to comprehend a little more. Recently we have spent a couple of weekends with Bennett’s mom and dad at the lakehouse on Lake St. John. It’s paradise for children—with a long pier for lounging on and jumping off and fishing from; and a boat for skiing and tubing. Predictably our kids adore it, and beg Benny again and again to take them out in the boat for “just one more ride.” He always takes them. He and Amanda are so tender towards our children. Sometimes, when we’re out in his boat Benny will look at them and relate some anecdote from the time when Bennett and Madeline were their age. My typical, English, emotionally stunted reaction is to feel uncomfortable—fearful that the kids’ boisterous presence will somehow be a source of pain; and guilty about being in the middle of this parental journey that was interrupted for him and Amanda too soon. This is wrong of course, because they’re so far beyond that. As parents now it’s so easy to see how something like this could destroy you. But Benny and Amanda have survived their loss by sharing. By keeping their family close. By not avoiding the topic. By continuing to celebrate the time they had with Bennett with joy rather than grief. And perhaps, also by seeing in the excitement of a little boy thrilled to be taking a boat ride, an echo of their son.
In a couple of months Bennett’s family will mark ten years since his passing. But the fact that his mom and dad and sister keep him a presence in their lives means that he continues to be part of ours too, and the lives of everyone who knows them, and knew him. That’s an inspiration, and a gift we’re grateful for the opportunity to share.
