My dad has played hockey since he could walk. It's always been his thing. And middle-age hasn't kept him from a sport he loves dearly. Even at the ripe old age of 55 (almost 56), he's still out on the ice with a mean slap shot every week, arriving home with menacing bruises the color of charcoal.

Over the years, my dad's made some real friends out there on the ice. And so it was a sickening call last week when my dad phoned to tell me that one of his hockey buddies had committed suicide. Tony's tale is regretfully typical, as far as suicide stories go. He felt hopeless and hanged himself... perhaps as an answer to feelings of desperation. Perhaps in the great hope that something better awaits us after death.

Tony's body was cremated and sent to his family in Canada. In the absence of a funeral ritual, the hockey guys planned a hot dog and Heineken night. They wanted to gather together and celebrate the Tony they fondly remember. My dad was asked to open the night with a word of prayer.

Dad was more than a little nervous about this role. Public speaking is a normal part of his job, but speaking about the life and death of a friend is intimidating territory for even the most accomplished of speakers. My dad wrestled with what to share. In the end, he did what only a wise few are brave enough to do... he shared all the thoughts he'd been chewing on since news of Tony's suicide.

Dad talked about how we're meant to be at peace because there is a Good Shepherd who watches over us (Psalm 23). He confessed his feelings of guilt, an overwhelming sense that he'd let Tony down by not doing more. He talked about how many people paint suicide as some abominable sin; Dad corrected this false thinking by explaining how the Bible is filled with messages of hope and doesn't teach that suicide is a direct pathway to eternal damnation. He spoke of Tony as a beautiful friend, worth remembering for all days.

Of all the things my dad shared and prayed that night, two stood out most profoundly. First, that condemnation never benefits anyone. Dad said, "We often think that we have to condemn something in order to keep people from doing it. But You [God] have shown us a healthier way to respond, and that’s to empathize with a person’s despair and to find ways to empower them rather than embarrass or condemn them."
How true that choosing empathy and love is a more powerful stand than any words of condemnation could ever be?

Second, my dad assured the room that Christ loves us in the midst of our most beautiful and most terrible moments. He said, "God sees us as a whole. The good and the bad. The whole and the broken. Our strengths and our weaknesses. Our hope and our despair. Our faith and our doubt. Our goodness and our sin."
I am so grateful for a God who knows the real me, and loves me still. Loves us all. To be truly known and yet deeply loved, what is more meaningful?

And so I conclude by raising my glass of Heineken to Tony's memory and I toast the life that he lived. Tony, a man who was "a gifted carpenter... a good friend to many... and an awesome hockey player... with a low slapshot that always seemed to find the corners of the net in critical parts of the game." May his soul finally be at peace, and may we all take the time to toast our friends for the lives they grandly live.