A Message from Jason's Dad

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Please listen to this song by Jason Crabb titled “Somebody Like Me“ and you will have a little understanding of what was going on in Jason’s head as he rode away from Provo, Utah a year ago.

Conversations with Jason

I feel like the person in this song…feeling like I have no hope. The news media has totally destroyed my life, my teaching career has ended , my integrity and honor gone. I’m guilty in the eyes of the world without even a trial. I guess I will know who my true friends are because everyone else will not be around.

This is how Jason felt when he rode away from Utah with his Dad and Mother Patsy just a little over a year ago. We only wished he understood the hundreds of family members and friends that believed in him and loved him and would never forsake him.

It has been a hard year dealing with the lost of a son; closing his estate and working with attorneys, but its finally ending. The Provo Police department has returned all of Jason’s personal items that were taken during the investigation and no incriminating evidence was found that could have convicted him of anything. Even with the many interviews conducted with former students and families nothing was found to convict or darken his name.

Jason told us that he was thankful that there were agents that protected children and watched out for their best interests. He only wished that when a teacher was being investigated, that teacher would not automatically lose his or her job. Jason had told us several times he did not hold anyone from the school district to blame and talked about the good times he had working at Amelia Earhart and all the good friends he had.

Anyone who knew Jason understood how important teaching was to him; standing up for the underdog and watching out for those who bullied. Sometimes it was very difficult with his migraines and the depression to get through the day, but all it took was for a old student to walk into his room and say, "Hi Mr. Z, do you remember me?"  Many of these old students would tell him how thankful they were to him for not giving up on them. These words would energize and lift Jason, help him with his depression and give him the encouragement to keep going forward.

Jason would want you to all to know that he is still teaching; just in a new place and he will see everyone again someday.

Please finish this by listening to “Walk on Water“, a song Jason just loved! One does not have to be perfect... just keep doing your best.

Please feel free to respond and let Jason and his parents know what his friends thought of him.

Pin It I drove across town in a bleary haze. It had been a long day. It always tends to be that the long, hard days are punctuated by fatigue, aren’t they? I felt a sense of deep emptiness as I drove; the few snowflakes falling from the blackened skies caught in the beam of my headlights for just a moment, like little, white moths drawn to a bug zapper.

photo credit

As I drove, a depression I’d not felt in a while seemed to ebb though the vents and settle over me, a blanketing mist that threatened to take me under. It was a feeling of loneliness, worthlessness, and realization of all of my faults and shortcomings. It was a time of comparing myself to others, and finding that I was coming up short in so many ways.

Why wasn’t I as nice as So-and-So?
How come I wasn’t as talented as What’s-His-Face?
Why wasn’t I as organized as What’s-Her-Bucket?
When was I going to get to that immense to-do list?
Who would even care if I just stopped trying?

The feeling cast its shadow over me as I continued on my journey. Fumbling with my iPod, I found the most depressing song that I could, and proceeded to play again and again. I allowed each and every failure to take center stage in the spotlight of my mind. I allowed the emptiness to swell to mammoth proportions, and let myself feel completely despondent.

The world was a terrible place.
Nothing seemed of value.
I embraced hopelessness as an old friend.

I parked my car and wandered into the local grocery store seeking orange juice. I walked past the deli section, and the counter where I’d bought ice cream so often before. I hadn’t done that in a long time. Grudgingly, I strode up to the counter and paid for a cone. When the woman asked what flavor I wanted, I explained that I wanted her to save it for someone who really looked like they needed it. “Please give it to them,” I instructed, “and tell them that it’s from somebody who hopes they feel better soon.”

The woman smiled – a smile as big as Christmas itself – as I walked away.

I felt the tiniest spark.

I headed to the freezer section and pulled out five or so cylinders of orange juice. While walking to the check stand, one of them slipped from my grasp and rolled across the floor. A woman’s son picked it up and handed it back to me with a smile.

There was a flicker.

The cashier beamed as I paid for my things and wished me a nice day – double bagging my items so that they would be safe.

The flame was smoldering.

I strode out to my car; as I did, I changed the song on my iPod. As the new music poured from the speakers, I drove toward home. A few random snowflakes fell from the evening skies, catching in the glow of my headlights like little, white fireflies floating on the breeze.

The night was still dark, but the blackness wasn’t quite so dense.
The world was still vast, but it wasn’t as empty as it was before.
I still had problems, but they did not feel nearly so hopeless.

You know, I’m convinced that the best remedy for hopelessness is stepping around the obstacle of ourselves – even just a little bit – and opening the door of hope just wide enough so that others can poke their heads in.

November 26, 2009

Pin It My mind is a tumult of thought.

I thought about Mom today; as I did, I found it strange that someone you care about in this life could suddenly be whisked away. Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of their voice might still be in existence…yet they are no longer with us.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to write about Mom, about how I’ve felt, about the good and the bad moments over the previous months since that fateful day this past summer. A whole lifetime has passed since those heartrending moments, and yet, it feels like it was only as long ago as a whisper shared amongst friends.

Time keeps going on whether or not we’d like it to.

The house was a melee of smells as family members were preparing the food for our Thanksgiving feast; however, I just felt that I needed to get out for a little while—to be alone—to think.

I decided to take out the trash.

I moved outside into the bitter crisp of November as the Thanksgiving wind buffeted me from all sides. In the distance, the pale light of the sun shone through the horizon’s misty clouds. I wanted that sun to bury its warmth deep into the empty and dark places of my soul. I stood, breathing in with lungs capable of still doing so, feeling the oxygen filling me.

I thought of the meal we were about to eat; the meal that she would not be taking a part in. It just seemed so inequitable, so unfair.

I retreated to my basement office to escape everyone and everything. I decided to organize files—as well as the accumulated slices of decades’ worth of living—to take my mind from the pummel of reflection. I settled down and found boxes rising about me in the minefield of disorganization…

Letters, photographs, various knickknacks and paddywhacks; they surrounded me like a vestibule of yesterday.

As I sifted though these fragments of my own life’s history, I felt myself remembering this particular student, that specific moment of childhood—a fragmented memory which had long-since been forgotten and lain dusty and dormant.

It wasn’t long before my dad came into the room.

Against the wall was a collection of artwork Dad had given to me on that last visit home, nestled amongst them were the sticheries, those which Arlene had done while she was still alive. Dad stared silently at each of these pieces in turn and then asked:

“Did you know that she wrote to you on the back of this one?”

I looked up from the papers I’d been sorting through, and shook my head. I arose from my place and moved slowly to where my dad was standing. The stichery was large, proclaiming “Welcome to the Zimmerman’s” proudly from its frame.

I turned the frame with trembling fingers and looked down at the brown paper backing. There, scrawled in curls I immediately recognized, I saw a message written to me. Mom had written it, she’d written sometime before—before the final days and moments that had taken her inescapably away.

I read over the note she’d written, my mouth dropping open. I was devoid of speech for several moments—I simply gazed at the writing before me.

And, just for a moment, she was there. Whispering those things I so much needed to hear, a message spoken from beyond the blistering confines of this thorny life.

When my dad departed from the room, I remained a few moments longer, gazing at the letter written to me.

I smiled.

Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of voices might still be in existence…and testaments of love will not be forgotten.

Laughter

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Mom made me laugh, which is a good thing, considering the circumstances and the things I really want to write…perhaps in a day or two I shall.

I moved close to hug her today. I just wanted to be near her. The well of tears has been precariously short in supply as of late. I held on for a little while and asked her if there were anything she needed. Her weakened voice was arduous to formulate, she murmured: “Yes.”

“What do you need?” I asked, drawing back.

“Air.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked her.

The weakest flicker of a smile echoed across her face as she whispered, “Yes.”

And so she was.

To ‘Joey.’

Pin It I know you’re reading this, because I know you come here.

I know you feel horrible about where you are right now in life. Seems like you’re in that place again, doesn’t it? However, ask yourself the question: Are you doing better than you were yesterday? Than you were last week?

I know you are. I know you’re trying.

We all slip, we all stumble. Every time you fall, get right back up again, dust yourself off, recommit, and get going again. Wallowing in a pool of self-pity and despair does nothing for anybody—including yourself.