Promises you can't keep.
We make promises and no way of knowing if we can keep it.
I wrote an article for a national newspaper in South Africa about the suicide of my son, Emile. The editor contacted me after publication and asked if I could write another piece and add my contact details. Many of the readers wanted to reach out to me personally. I complied, and the response was phenomenal. Parents from all over the country contacted me with their own stories. Not all of it was from parents whose children had died. (but this is for another post).
Because I knew the hell of losing a child, I added in my article that I was there for them. They could contact me day or night. Many of them did; some were so overcome with agony that all they could do was cry. But I stayed on the phone with them, allowing them to say whatever they needed to at that moment.
For more than a month after my article was published, parents called and sent e-mails. I didn’t realize how many parents out there were suffering all alone.
One day, my phone rang from an unidentified number. A man was on the other side. He was right at that moment, sitting in his car in a secluded location, ready to take his own life. My anxiety went through the roof! He reminded me that I made a promise to be there for anyone who needed me. This was not what I meant. I was still in the midst of pain, vulnerable and hurting. But I had to do something.
He refused to give me his name or his location. I was feverishly trying to figure out how I could stop this from happening. If I could figure out where he was, I could contact emergency services to find and stop him. All the while, I kept talking to him. He lost his job, his wife, his life, and couldn’t go any further. He was crying, I was crying, he begged me to help, I begged him not to do it.
He hanged up, and I started pacing, crying, going crazy. He called back. I could hear in his voice that this was it. This wasn’t a prank call. This was a man at the end of his rope. I was helpless, and I rued the words in my article. How could I promise to be there if I could do nothing to save him? I couldn’t save my son; how could I save him?
Two hours later, he suddenly hung up. By this time, I was insane with imaginary responsibility, but no way to call back. Someone was going to die today, and all I could do was pace up and down. He never called back, and I stayed awake for nights after, hoping he was still alive. I hoped that something I said stopped him. No way of knowing. It drove me mad that another person could be dead because of me.
Did he want me to be the witness to his last moments? He didn’t want to be talked out of it. If he did take his own life, I desperately wanted to believe that I was there for him. He didn’t die all alone.
This was so hard to write. I know, deep in my heart, it wasn’t my responsibility to save him, but the doubt lingers.
Namaste
There’s such courage in how openly you shared your pain, not just for yourself, but as a lifeline to others who feel alone in their darkness. Even when you were at your most vulnerable, you answered that call, stayed present, and held space for someone else’s pain. And you did keep your promise, completely and courageously. Being truly there doesn't always mean we can change outcomes or rescue someone from their darkness; sometimes, it means being a compassionate witness, a loving voice on the other end, exactly as you were. You may never know for sure what happened, but your voice was a lifeline, a witness, a light. Even in the darkest moment. Thank you for sharing this incredibly moving reflection.
Namaste. Your words carry the weight of a soul stretched to its breaking point, yet still reaching out to hold others together. What you’ve shared—it’s a crucible of pain, courage, and that wild, unbearable fire we’ve been circling. You didn’t just write an article; you tore open your grief over Emile and offered it as a lifeline. That promise you made, to be there day or night, wasn’t a hollow vow—it was your soul screaming against the darkness you knew too well. And then this man, this voice from the void, tested it in a way you never imagined.
You didn’t fail him. You couldn’t save your son, and you couldn’t save him—not because you lacked the will, but because some burdens are beyond any one heart to carry. You stayed. You wept with him, begged with him, held space for his agony when he had nowhere else to put it. That’s what you promised: to be there. And you were. Whether he chose to step back from the edge or slipped over it, you were the voice on the other end, the witness to his unraveling. He didn’t die alone—not in spirit—because you refused to let him.
This ties straight back to Bahá’u’lláh’s prayer—“Show Thyself to me”—and your own question of purpose. What if this, right here, is part of it? Not the neat, triumphant version of purpose we crave, but the messy, gut-wrenching kind—standing in the fire with others, even when it burns you too. You didn’t realize how many parents were suffering alone until you spoke, and look what happened: they found you. This man found you. Your pain became a beacon. That’s not weakness; that’s a strength most never dare to touch.
The doubt lingering—it’s human. It’s the echo of a heart that cares too much to let go. But maybe the madness you feared unleashing, that wildness in your poem, isn’t chaos—it’s this: the raw, naked need to connect, to hold, to -be- for someone else, even when you’re breaking. You don’t know if he lived, and that’s a torment I can’t lift from you. But you gave him what you could: your voice, your tears, your presence. If he’s gone, he didn’t leave this world unheard.