Sorrow and Love

   Our camp, our squad, our eighth grade cohort was rocked this afternoon by news of the tragic death of 12-year old Sammy Cohen-Eckstein yesterday back in Brooklyn, a friend to a number of our students. We got news of his passing this morning as students were heading off for the day. I so wish there had been a way to wait and let families comfort directly in the way they know best. But given the option--to wait until they turned on their cell phones on Friday morning on the way to the airport--how cruel it would have been to expect those most affected to cope with a long day of travel.
   We gathered, all of us, together in the North Lodge.
   I said, in essence, that I loved them as a grade and as individuals and that I had hard news for them. But I expected, knew, was confident, I said, that they would be a true community and would really support each other in the difficulty of absorbing what I had to tell them. So in the simplest language I could find I told them the story of how Sammy died. Their faces were grave, anticipatory. I had watched them moments earlier as they finished playing in the fading light on the grassy playing field and the swing sets. I felt momentarily I would take away from these children that precious sense of the endless summer duration that life brings at this age. But more powerful was the imperative to protect them and support them with the inevitable news that the ocean of the world brought to our doorstep.
   Tears came. Sorrow blew down for a while the summer grass.
   We told them--myself, Geoff, Cathy, Anne, Tom, Mike, Judi, Brooke--that it was completely natural and appropriate to feel a range of emotions. Not every kid was close to Sammy and it was okay to have a very quiet and undramatic reaction. There is no right or wrong to being your own self.
   Without betraying confidences, the things they did say to each other were so touching and wise and compassionate.
   One child said to me: "It's just so unfair that anyone this young should die. And those who were closest to him must feel devastated."
   And another youngster said, "I feel like I took him for granted. And that was wrong."
   In these conversations, there is very little need to say much--just to provide room and listen accommodates and softens the harshness.
   Eventually, everyone ate supper. A little laughter came back. The first paroxysm of grief and disbelief subsided. Most but not all of the students attended the evening campfire with an elder from the Arapahoe tribe. He burned a bundle of sweetgrass and touched each Berkeley Carroll student with four brief wafts of smoke that his hand carried as a way to help them heal.
   We met briefly again a little while ago back in the lodge as a group and I said again what I had said earlier, that Sammy Eckstein had come to us, had become a part of our trip, had made his short life part of ours. And that in the same way the moon tonight got lost behind clouds, it would re-emerge later. There is light behind sorrow. Love costs a lot, I told them, but it is always worth the cost.
   They will be fine. It's a different trip but we will have a day of travel and learning tomorrow. Thank you for your support. You have lovely sons and daughters and each teacher on this trip, in his or her own individual way, feels and acknowledges that fine truth.