Without Auggie here, my world feels as if it is lit by a ghost light. Those of us who love him must now navigate through the dim shadows. I try to be grateful that I can see at all (Hubbard, 177).
When we first learned we were moving to Orange City in late 2022, I wondered what my future held. Then I received an email with the subject line “Possible adjunct?” It was from Bob Hubbard, chair of the theatre department at Northwestern College. According to email records, it took me just an hour to respond with “Yes, I’m definitely interested…” The rest is history. I just completed my first semester as an adjunct, and it was wonderful. That is not the point of this post, though. This is a post about grief in the wake of suicide.
As I got to know Bob, I found him to be optimistic, kind, and outgoing. He was warm and welcoming when the team met for training before the semester began. And, perhaps not surprising because he’s a theatre professor, he has the kind of presence that draws you in and makes you want to listen to what he says. The same can be said of Bob’s writing.
Word got around toward the middle of the semester that Bob had a book coming out and that it was sort of a memoir, not for Bob, but for his son, Auggie. Because I’m new around here, I didn’t know the history. I didn’t know the pain. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I committed to reading it, not really. And I’m glad I didn’t know because I got to meet Auggie through tales from his father, perhaps the person who knew him best, who loved him best, who loves him best.
You see, Bob’s son Auggie committed suicide in 2020. I did know this fact before entering the book’s pages, but that’s about all I knew. The book, Scenes with My Son (Eerdmans), chronicles the life, death, and impact of Bob’s “beautiful boy,” Auggie. There are other important characters in the narrative: Bob’s wife and Auggie’s mother, April, as well as Auggie’s older brothers, Charlie and George.
This blog isn’t a review per se. It’s an excellent book: well-written and engaging. Instead, this is a post about grief and recovery (sometimes just hanging on by a thread but surviving), especially after a family member commits suicide. I don’t know this pain personally, but I can tell you that I had to set this book down a few times. I also succumbed to tears at various points. I cheered for Auggie when he fought hard to break Accelerated Reader records and tried out for bands (he was an incredibly gifted musician [esp. tuba]). I cried when he had angry outbursts or had to do all sorts of treatments for his depression and suicidal ideation. I prayed for him, even though I knew how the story was going to end. It’s like when you watch a movie where you know a beloved character will die, and you just pray that somehow the ending will change.
The ending didn’t change.
Auggie died.
And when he died, pieces of his parents and brothers died with him.
But I can attest that Bob is not dead. Nor is the rest of Auggie’s family. I didn’t know Bob before, but I do know him after, and he’s a beautiful soul who is taking the tips from the book’s epilogue seriously, tips that are sort of lessons learned from Auggie’s life. They include:
Stand up for the marginalized and side with the powerless.
Practice extravagant kindness.
Be passionate.
Keep learning.
Love art and support artists.
Live in joy.
Is Bob grieving? Yep. Of course he is. He’s also living. It’s as though Bob continues to carry Auggie’s torch so that Auggie can continue living. And he does, through Bob’s words and actions. Through the stories he tells his students. Through the way He continues to love God and hope for peace. He’s carrying the torch, and Auggie’s light continues to shine brightly.
Let me share an excerpt of an email I sent Bob after I finished the book:
I wanted to take a moment to thank you for sharing your beautiful boy Auggie with me and the world. I didn’t have the pleasure of getting to meet him on this side of heaven, but I am grateful to know him through your words on the page. …”
I’ve known grief, the kind that seems all-consuming. The kind that makes you want to yell and scream and cry. But I’ve never lost a child to death. Bob’s book helps his readers understand some of the pain and experience some of the hardship of the moments, days, and years following a loved one’s death by suicide.
This is an important book. This topic should be discussed rather than buried under the rug or held captive in rooms that do not change even though everything else around them does. I’m grateful that Bob chose to be open about his feelings, feelings that are brought to life beautifully in Scenes with My Son.
Thank you for sharing this, Lindsey. This is how I felt reading a book called “He Said Press” by an USAF widow. It detailed her grief after losing her husband (and a dear friend of my dad’s, they had been roommates at USAFA) in a tragic crash during a routine training flight. She still had 3 children who needed her. She had to continue living. I had the privilege of meeting her and her oldest son when I was a firstie and he was a doolie. She shared with me that her grief continued to manifest in unexpected ways, including feeling guilty that she was grateful her son could not be pilot qualified. Grief does funny things to our minds and relationships even years later. Being a believer, I know we both know that this is because grief isn’t supposed to exist. But the beauty wrought through grief is profound and God is present in the grief and the beauty. I’ll have to look up this book. I like to read such books occasionally to remind myself of how God helps us walk through grief.