I submitted the following to our local news on the second anniversary of Jonas’s death.
I just started a Bible study on moving “from fear to faith.” Our first assignment was to identify our fears. Turns out I have more than a few. And they no longer have to do with my kids missing the bus, inevitable bad hair days or the speeding tickets I’ve deserved. No, my fears have upped their game quite a bit.
My biggest fear EVER came true exactly two years ago when my son, Jonas, died by suicide just after his 17th birthday.
The school sent a message Feb. 11, 2021 to inform us that someone called with a concern about Jonas harming himself. He died June 11, 2021. We had four months to pour every drop of ourselves into helping him, and now live with the fact that we couldn’t.
Jonas should have graduated Thursday with his classmates, many whom he met in kindergarten at Eagle Heights. He should be preparing for college to study wildlife biology. He should be attempting new wakeboarding tricks while I cover my eyes. He should be returning to Guatemala to dance again with severely disabled children at an orphanage. He should be joking around with family and friends, giggling at his own jokes. He had so many passions, so many dreams.
Instead of celebrating his achievements and future plans, however, I’m facing fears that I had never imagined. On the two-year anniversary of Jonas’ death, I feel compelled (and more than a little nervous) to share them.
I’m afraid that Jonas will be forgotten by our community.
That people won’t remember Jonas or how he lived. He wasn’t a star athlete or popular or known for anything extraordinary. No, but he was an affectionate young man with a great sense of humor, straight As, compassion for animals, desire to perform sax solos, natural abilities in water sports, and love of Johnny Cash and classic rock. Jonas took on hard things — who starts playing hockey in Minnesota at age 12 when everyone else was skating by their third birthday? Jonas. That’s how he lived his life.
But it’s important to acknowledge how he died.
People still wonder how it is that someone like Jonas could take his life. I’ll tell you: his brain tricked him.
His brain tricked him into thinking that no one loved him, despite so many of us loving him deeply and demonstrably. That he would never find love again after his first and only girlfriend broke up with him. That God wasn’t real, despite so much evidence in our lives to the contrary. That no one would notice if he was gone, despite me tearfully listing a long list of people who would be devastated if he died.
That death was the only escape from his pain.
I’m afraid that his death will be in vain.
That there are no new conversations in the school district, places of worship, community organizations or neighborhoods. That school administrators, teachers, coaches, neighbors, parents and other students haven’t paused to reflect for a moment on the death of my son or students like him — nor see themselves individually or collectively playing a role in helping others who suffer like Jonas did. I’m afraid that people still mention mental illness and suicide in whispered tones, not wanting to stir up feelings of sadness or embarrassment. That we’ll allow the stigma to persist, to stay in a position of power that stifles conversations and impedes progress.
I’m afraid that I’m not doing enough to prevent this from happening to other families.
That other parents still believe it couldn’t happen to them or their children. That’s exactly what I thought. But it did happen to me, and now I face the rest of my life without my son. I don’t want anyone to go through what I have. More importantly, I don’t want anyone to go through what Jonas did. My agony is surpassed only by his.
These are the fears I’m facing, and now comes the faith. My faith in God is strong, and I haven’t asked Him why this happened to Jonas and to all of us who loved him. But I’ve continually, desperately asked, “What now? What should I do so this doesn’t happen to someone else? Am I even equipped or strong enough to make a difference?”
No, I am not strong enough to make a difference – on my own. Addressing mental health awareness and suicide prevention is most definitely not a one-person job, especially if that one person is me.
So I ask my community: what now?
I’m forever thankful that the boys’ volleyball coaches and team attended his funeral, gathered to talk about mental health, remembered Jonas by retiring his number, wore that number to the state tournament and now host a mental health night each season. I was thrilled that DECA raised money at its Powderpuff football fundraiser that funded part of a scholarship in Jonas’s name; a generous parent matched that donation. I was encouraged when my church, Pax Christi, invited me to discuss how they could support mental wellness. I was heartened again when Eden Prairie Local News asked me to contribute to a series of articles on mental health and suicide prevention initiatives in our community. And I still have a group of EP moms that stand ready to support me in any attempt to effect change.
But it’s still hard to know where to start. I’m hoping someone – or perhaps many people – smarter than I am will surface to identify ways to address mental health concerns in our community. Until then, I’m taking uncomfortable baby steps to make a difference by sharing my story.
If you knew it would make a difference in someone’s life, would you be willing to share yours?