When I was about 14 years old tragedy struck our congregation at Rock Hill United Methodist Church, located about nine miles outside Starkville, Miss. On one of the youth church trips to Louisville, Miss., a wreck killed two boys and one of the boys' mother, left one boy critically wounded and about four others boys and the other female adult with serious injuries.
The vehicle they were riding in never made it to the youth conference. The understanding was that Billy's mother, Ella Rose, was driving but may have had some sort of blackout because of a medical problem. Most of us never learned the “real” facts, but there were plenty of rumors to go around.
(My cousins and I didn't attend the youth conference that day, and the girls riding in another vehicle returned home safely. After the wreck, parents wouldn't allow their children to make the trips anymore.)
The weekend prior to that Sunday, Leon, the other boy killed, and I were joking together after visiting the country store just down the road from the church. He was quiet, very smart, and had a good sense of humor. Leon was about 12 years old and Billy was a year or two younger.
Their deaths left the church congregation and the rest of the Rock Hill community devastated. It was so heartbreaking I was unable to go through with the reading assigned to me at the funeral of the mother and son. I became sick and walked home, unable to bear seeing them in their coffins.
(In those days, sometimes caskets were left open during the funeral service, and there was a final viewing for the family and public before burial.)
When I was an older teenager, an elderly church member lost four of her grandchildren in a single wreck. The girls ranged from toddlers to early elementary students. I don't recall the mother attending the church at the time, but the funeral and burial were at Rock Hill United Methodist.
During my first year of college, my best friend in fourth-grade was killed in a fight with another woman. I wrote a poem that helped me work through the sorrow.
After we became young adults, the critically wounded boy from my church, Darrell, was said to have committed suicide. Not having seen him in years, the grieving took less time to work through. Still, his death was tragic and affected me.
In December 1988, my 19-year-old brother was shot and killed while walking home one night. Many of my brothers and sisters felt tremendous anger for the woman who'd pulled the trigger, and my father spoke of revenge. It seemed to me she served far too few years in prison. The anger finally left me after facing his culpability in the affair gone wrong, as well as my simply forgiving her.
Many South Mississippi residents have similar stories. This is an open forum for expression of grief as well as healing. It's also a space for celebration of life -- the past for those who have died and the future for the living.
Memories Always is the place for family and friends left behind when young people die too soon.
