I once met and became a friend to a young man named Marc Eagan. He was actually my younger sister’ boyfriend. They lived together in an apartment in my triple decker home for approximately, six months.
Marc entered my sister’s life after he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, at that time he was 26 years old. He had been living alone for many months after the diagnosis and fell off his alcoholic wagon several times. His relationship with my sister brought some discipline to his life and moving in with her changed his attitude and behavior enough to make his disease go into remission.
He was a tall and handsome young gentleman, a musician and song writer who preferred Country music, one who considered Elvis a music mentor. When he learned that his condition would take his breath, he put his life in order and arranged for his burial. A private service was planned at which he requested Elvis’ favorite flower, the purple iris, to be present during those proceedings.
One day, Marc and I sat at a picnic table in my back yard and discussed his thoughts concerning his condition. He knew that he had caused his own demise, though he was angry with God for allowing it to happen. There was a Baptist church nearby and I pointed it out to him and asked if me might want to accompany me there someday. It was primarily an African American congregation, I noted, but the music that flowed there was spiritually uplifting, and I believed that if nothing, the spirituals would help him to understand that it was not God who was allowing this condition to take his life, he created his own condition and continued to live in bitterness rather than right the wrong. I had seldom attended any Sunday service at any church where the sermon did not personally relate somehow to me, and I had faith that his presence there would somehow relieve his pain.
But we never had the opportunity to spend a Sunday morning together at St. James Baptist Church. A few weeks after out discussion, he registered himself into a local motel and, using a pistol, ended his pain and sorrow. We were all shocked by his tragic end.
On the day he died, two purple Irises bloomed in my front yard where they never had bloomed before. We purchased apartment building two years before and during that time no flowers grew in the yard. Since his death, the purple Iris returns every year on the anniversary of his suicide, just as though he planned it that way so that we could remember him always. When the buds open in splendor for us to enjoy, we gather around them and pray for his soul.
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JUST THINKING 