Christmas Part Two

My mom called me to confirm the flight I was taking home for Christmas. I missed the call because I was in our Missio staff meeting (which, by the way, always begin with clips from YouTube of cheesy Christian culture). Kyle once asked Rick what the early days of Imago were like and Rick answered, “A lot of YouTube videos.” So we're trying to do the same. Josh had never seen some of the classic videos of “interesting” Christian Culture.” Kyle told him it was because he had never been part of a cynical church before. Not that we’re that cynical though, we’re trying, some of us have a harder time with it than others.

I get out of the staff meeting and called my mom on the way home.

“Levi?”
“Yeah, it’s me mom.” I hear sniffles.
“I need to call you back.” Exasperated voice. “I’ve…I’ve got some bad news.”
“K, I—”
She hangs up.

I drive home exhausted. I don’t want to hear anymore bad news. I’ve heard enough bad news in the last six months. I’ve given enough bad news in the last six months. I am trying to enter into the season of Advent. I am trying to believe that Jesus still comes today like he did two thousand years ago. I am trying to believe that Christ is with us. I am trying to believe that light has come into the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.

When I get home I make dinner. Lately I’ve been making pasta. Because it’s cheap and I have no money, and because it’s better for you than Little Ceasar’s, which Lucas however, is not above. My mom calls me as soon as I’m finished eating.

“Hey mom,” I say, with a slight façade of Christmas spirit.
“Hey Levi,”
“Is everything all right?”
“Well, no. No it’s not. Do you know the Phillips?
“Yeah.”
“Their son Adrian, who went to Uganda with us last summer?”
“Yeah”
“Well he committed suicide today. About two hours ago. He hung himself.”

I spent the rest of the night drinking a couple IPA’s, smoking a couple cigarettes. Not sure what else to do. I wished that no one had told me, I think. Not today at least. I don’t even know the kid that well. How old was he, fifteen? Yeah, I think so. Toby’s age (my brother.) Then I feel selfish for the thought even crossing my mind that somehow another kid’s suicide would ruin my day. I am a selfish prick.
When I get to airport the next day, the Utah Utes basketball team is in front of me in the security line. They are tall and wearing red jumpsuits. This is perhaps the most black people you will catch glimpse of in the Salt lake City Airport. They are stars though, celebrities. Dads and older men in business suites lean over the movie theater barricades to shake their hands. Teenage girls whisper and giggle. Little kids stare.