My son is mourning the loss of a close friend. I can see how hard it is on him. I can see the pain he is carrying. I wish somehow I could have protected him from this. I wish I could take his pain away, but I can’t. I love him and am always there for him, but I can’t fix this. I can only guess what he is feeling, but I remember my pain.

1985 was 31 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was a high school senior and had turned 17 a couple months earlier. I had moved into a new house after moving from Nashville to Chattanooga. As the new kid in town, I only had a few friends.

It was getting dark outside when I heard Scott’s tan Subaru pull into the driveway. He came up to my room and gave me the news about Alan. I knew it must be a mistake. He had to be wrong. He asked me to ride with him to find out details. It was getting late, questions seemed inappropriate, and I told him no. Even as he left, I knew something was wrong. Alan had seemed off somehow all day. But how could this be? It was a long, lonely, sleepless night.

School the next day was worse. Confirmation came. Details began to build. How do you focus on German, Calculus, Physics, Computer Science with your mind a blur? Counselors weren’t a thing back then, so you avoided eye contact and just stared at the wall while you tried not to break down. Time crept by. I just wanted to go home. Finally, the dismissal bell rang. Just like every day, I drove past Alan’s house on my way home. His car was still there. A 1960-something Chevrolet Corvair. Such a cool car. Parked in the same spot, like nothing had happened, nothing was changed. But everything was different.

The same group of people who could talk about anything for hours suddenly had nothing to say. Talking about our daily rituals seemed wrong and we were too confused to address our feelings. Nothing made sense. How could this be happening? We had plans and so much in front of us. College. Jobs. Families. So we stared at the pain written into each other’s faces without speaking his name. How do you capture someone in a few words?

Passing through our days in silence, the memories seemed to shout out loud. Everywhere I looked, I could see the swooping hair, the slightly stooped shoulders of a shy person, his smile and easy laugh. The blue jeans and button-down shirts, always rolled up. The car. Even the funny way he held a pool cue.

Every day, the same seats sat vacant in each class. Nobody was going to sit there. The empty chairs were reminders that he was gone. In contrast, the car sat parked in the same spot in the driveway as I passed it every day. I wished it would go away. Why would his parents continue to leave it there? Didn’t they know how painful the memories were every time we saw it? Why would they do that?

One day, the car wasn’t there anymore. I don’t know where it went. Maybe they sold it. Maybe they parked it inside. But it was gone. Less than a week later I missed seeing it there. But the images remained. One day, the teachers re-assigned seats, and the chairs weren’t empty anymore. It didn’t matter. I could still see him sitting there focused on his work. Slightly hunched over, flipping his hair out of his eyes. Blue jeans. Button-down shirt, always rolled up. I looked around. I knew that Scott saw him, too. So did Kevin and George. I wished I could hear him laugh. The images weren’t enough.

31 years have passed, but the images are still clear. I see the car in the driveway, especially when I’m in town. I see him when I play pool. I see him at his desk. I think about him every time someone doesn’t get the chance in life they thought they’d have. I still miss him. And I still cry a little. The world would have been better with him. I don’t ask Scott, Kevin or George if they still think about him. I know they do. They’ve all got their own images as reminders.

I’ve spent hours and hours and hours wondering why it happened, but no answers come. The pain is mostly gone, but the scars left behind still hurt when I touch them, so I don’t much.

Tragedy’s pain is not lessened by hearing that God will use it for good, but I have learned some lessons. Love extravagantly. Live every day like it is your last. Always be there for a friend. Don’t wait until someone is gone to remember why they are special. Never underestimate the impact each person has. And if they forget, remind them.