Micah's Mom and my ramblings about love and pain

This week a young woman in our neighborhood took her own life. She was beautiful and talented and depressed. At the funeral this morning her family painted the picture of a compassionate soul, tortured by just too many complications -- depression, anxiety, abuse, adoption, race, and pain. I cried and cried and cried.

Her name was Micah, and I was her teacher at church when she was 13; She was mean to me. She was mean to the other girls in class, and when I asked the women in charge of all the girls that age what I should do about it, she talked to Micah's mother and came back to me with a beautiful other side of the story. She said that at home Micah was a peace maker. She was compassionate and giving.

At home she was kind, and she was her mom's best friend. But at church and at school ... she was somebody else.

I never forgot hearing that story. I used to look at Micah and try to see both sides. I believed that story. I knew it was true. I didn't just "get it" and become the perfect teacher who knew what to do with a young woman who was, well, "Prickly" as one of her brothers described her outside persona today at the funeral. But I did try to worry less about her behavior and look for more ways to love her. I, vaguely, remember writing Micah a nice letter just before I was moved out of Young Women's. I don't remember what it said, but I would not have written it if I had not meant it. I knew I did not do perfectly by Micah, but I did, for that time in my life, do the best I could. I never quite figured out how to find balance with my pride, my compassion and my fear. Soon after that letter, I moved on to work with the toddlers in the church nursery, and I only occasionally ran into Micah. We never had conversations, and we only sometimes smiled. Sometimes Micah obliged Quinn during church when we would sit in front of her family and Quinn would turn around to make faces with her or play peek-a-boo. And one time Micah told me after church that I had really cute kids.

I was not at church on the Sunday that Micah's father spoke in church about how they had taken Micah to either a treatment facility or a boarding school; I never got the details. I guess I thought everything would just get better, and I would never need to know.

Why was I not compelled to do more? I am not looking for comfort here. I am actually asking and wondering. I don't think I could have made much of a difference in the long run, but I could have made a difference in a day here or a day there. Looking back it seems so obvious that if I knew that she was a sweat heart at home and mean at church, that clearly she was in pain and needed love ... from me ... from everyone. Why was my heart not compelled to do more?

If I understand the teachings of Jesus, the simple, beautiful teachings of Jesus, what makes it so hard to reach out? What makes it so hard to love? The answer seems so simple to me now. I could have just shown up at Micah's house every day with cookies? Even if she hated cookies, she would have gotten the message. But the thought never crossed my mind. It wasn't that I didn't have enough time. I just never thought to do it, and that makes me sad.

But I guess the idea of turning the other cheek seems like such a great idea ... until you actually feel the hit and feel like if you show me your other cheek, you will actually get hit again. It is just not as simple as it sounds. Nothing is as simple as it sounds. What was I scared of? It seems so silly now.

Deep down we know that if we love others, turn the other cheek, walk a mile in someone's shoes, judge not, have compassion -- deep down -- we know that if we do these things, everyone will feel better. But they are the great teachings of the world because they are enlightened, they are hard, and they take practice.

I don't feel guilty, but my eyes are open. Maybe next time, I will be more aware. Maybe I will give of myself more. When I draw a picture of myself, I am the person who does things, who makes a difference. Makes me sad that sometimes I am, in fact, not that person.

My heart is so heavy with Micah's pain. It is not about me or what I did or did not do. It is about Micah and the horrible weight she bore in life. My heart continues to break.

And when I think about her mother, I start to bawl and bawl. She was the woman who knew the truth. She knew both sides and carried that weight. She was the the woman entrusted with such a sensitive soul. The woman who gave everything she had. The world changes and takes on new meaning, pain changes and takes on new meaning, when you are a mother. Who cares about balance and discipline and teaching your children? Today I just want to hug and squeeze and cry. I cry for Micah. I cry for her mom. And I cry for those darn principles of Jesus that are so simple and so beautiful and just so hard.