The Writing on the Wall; or, how to live forever, sorta

Spring break demands adventure. So yesterday, the husband and I took our teenage son Jonah and his friend, Matthew, to check out some rocks an hour north of us.

(That ain't the kind of spring break revelry some envision, I grant you. But, hey. We’re a couple of middle-aged parents with a mortgage and knees that are starting to creak when we stand up. For us, looking at rocks is pretty good.)

I first heard of the Ledges in Grand Ledge from a woman who cut my hair last spring. I was looking for cool places to explore near our new home in Jackson. The Ledges ― I’m not sure if that's their official name or just what everyone calls them ― might be a good option, Kat suggested, snipping in the general vicinity of my head.

All summer I thought the next weekend might be the right time to give Kat’s suggestion a try, but months came and went and we never got around to it. Fall filled quickly, with its cross country meets and marching band extravaganzas, then winter with more running and drumming and busyness. 

When spring break rolled around and Jonah announced he and Matthew planned to go hiking, I was happy for them. When they invited us old folks to come along, I was even happier and suggested we finally make our Ledges outing happen.

We took the back roads, parents in front, singing along to bad 80s songs on the radio and talking about summer vacation plans, young people in the back, talking about whatever young people talk about. I was eager to get where we were going, having waited so long to see this place that looked so enticing in Google Maps photos, but the drive was a peaceful kind of slow, and good.

You can access the Ledges via an east trailhead or a west trailhead, but I’d been told the better option was to skip the -heads altogether and park on the north side of the Grand River, in Oak Park. We expected something more official-looking than the gravel parking lot and muddy grass spreading under a few trees, but when we trudged to the edge of the park and looked down, we knew we had hit the jackpot.

The Ledges is a misnomer, in my opinion. The striking feature of that part of the river is not ledges but cliffs. Vertical, thick, in some places shockingly smooth, in others bumpy and gnarled and creviced, the sandstone walls fall away from your feet as you stand on the top and rise enticingly above your head once you follow a treacherous set of steps to their bottom.

White scratch marks scaling the otherwise yellow-gray walls showed where professional climbers worked their Spider-Man magic and where climbing instructors, on sunnier days, urged novices to keep going. The cliffs aren’t extravagantly high ― in some spots, if the husband stood on my shoulders and our son stood on him, Jonah could have peeked over the top, except that by then I’d be sprawled on the ground like a four-limbed pancake.

On the ground nearby lay giant slabs of rock that had broken off of the cliffs years ago, landing with a thud I could still feel in my chest as I climbed on top of them.

Rivulets of water excused themselves as they trickled between our feet, easing their way out of some mysterious place in the cliffs in tiny, mossy waterfalls you had to bend over to examine closely. Under an especially bulky overhang, a portion of rock right at the base had worn away, crawling some 15 feet under the cliff until it formed a small cave where leftover firewood made my imagination boil with thoughts of dark nights and coyote howls and adventure.

Here and there, where the wall was smooth and had large expanses of bare space, hikers and climbers and other passers-by had scratched letters and words into the gritty surface of the rock. Names, sentences, illegible words and collections of letters, even a giant mermaid gave evidence that someone had been there, had marveled at the same cliffs, bent down to look at the same little waterfalls, imagined themselves in the same fire-lit cave.

One inscription, the only one I saw with a date, read “1931.” A time not that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, but it felt old as I traced the numbers with my fingertips, wondering what the person who carved it was like, what they worried about, what they dreamed of, who they loved.

On a wall surrounded by other scratchings, a large heart encircled four letters, the lovers’ declaration frozen in time: “SB+SH.” I wondered if S and S still loved each other, or if they regretted that cliff carving, regretted that they had once believed love lasts forever.

The pocketknife I didn’t have with me itched in my pocket. I looked at the walls and the letters and the river and the people there with me and I wanted to make a mark that said I was there. A mark that said, in some tiny way, I exist, I see, I feel, I love. I am not nothing. I have stood next to this wall and smacked it with my hand and laid my cheek upon it and somehow that makes me real, a part of this world even though I am infinitely small and infinitely meaningless as the water keeps flowing and the wall keeps crumbling and people keep falling in love and growing old and turning to dust.

Leaning on the wall, its thickness blocking the wind that had made me pull my jacket tight when I was up at the top, I watched my husband take pictures and my son climb a stack of fallen slabs. Soon we would need to knock the mud off our shoes and pick up some subs and head home for track practice. For a moment, though, we were just there, separate but together among the cliffs, quietly being, and listening to geese squabble on the river.

Maybe I didn’t have my name on a rock. But I have made a mark on the world. I have given it my children, and they are the most extraordinary humans I know. I have taken up space, not always doing right by it, but sometimes making something better for someone else. I have loved people and they have loved me back, and I can’t ask for anything of greater or more lasting value than that. Not even if it were scratched on a cliff.

Before we left, I had to duck under a go-no-further cord and clamber over to the imposing leg of a railroad trestle, standing sentry at the edge of the water. It was rusted and crumbly and solid and steel and will last another 100 years, easy. 

One side of the metal was scrawled with more names, more letters from the past written by hands like mine, reaching out to me, connecting, speaking, existing.

I fished in my pocket and pulled out my car key. With its metal tip, I scratched my initials in the battleship-gray paint.

It won’t last forever. The paint will fade and chip away, disappearing into the river.

That’s OK. I’m here now. And I have people I love and work to do and back roads and bad 80s music and cats and a fireplace and maybe tacos for supper. Really, that’s all a person can ask for.

And it’s pretty doggone good.

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If you live in Jackson and need a good haircut, I recommend Kat at FiveOneSeven Salon. But don't tell her I sent you, because I went back to cutting my own hair and she'll be disappointed in me.

If you visit Grand Ledge to see the cliffs and need something to eat afterward, a grinder from Mancino's might take a while to make and not be all that spectacular, but the woman who takes your order is really nice.

If you are having a really bad day, or know someone who is, and need help dealing with it, you can call or text the national suicide and crisis lifeline any time for anonymous help. The number is 988, and they want you to call.

Sentenced

Last week, family members of two dead women sat in silence as a judge sentenced their loved ones’ convicted killer to die in prison.

The hearing held few surprises. Michigan law dictates a lifetime sentence without possibility of parole for people who deliberately kill other people. And Brad Srebnik had been found guilty of strangling a 17-year-old to death and burying her body in his friend’s Alpena, Michigan back yard, then executing his girlfriend in the woods to keep her from going to police.

Several family members spoke or asked the prosecutor to read a statement on their behalf. The life sentence was not justice, they said. It didn’t bring their loved ones back. It wasn’t enough.

Even the judge said it felt unfair that someone who took two lives should get to keep his own. Even if that life would be spent in a cage.

Recent efforts and decisions at the state level ― including a Michigan Supreme Court ruling banning life-without-parole sentences for anyone 18 or younger ― have experts and legislators debating the purposes of long-term incarceration. 

In 2022, Michigan judges sentenced 56 people to life sentences following a murder conviction. Of the 32,000 people currently incarcerated in Michigan prisons, more than 4,000 are serving life sentences because they killed someone, according to the most recent data available from the Michigan Department of Corrections.

More than 4,000 people serving life sentences for murder means more than 4,000 people shot, strangled, stabbed, poisoned, struck by vehicles, or otherwise violently wrenched from this life by someone who wanted them dead.

Does life in prison adequately punish the intentional taking of a life? Does it satisfy our need for vengeance, reform the wrongdoer, or deter the next would-be killer?

A few days ago, The Detroit News put out a fascinating story about five convicted murderers asking the state parole board to commute their sentences to allow them to leave prison. That includes Lawrence DeLisle, who made national headlines in the 1980s when he drove his station wagon into the Detroit River, drowning his four small children.

DeLisle told police his leg cramped, jamming his foot against the accelerator while he drove into the river at 55 miles per hour in a vehicle in which, a few months before, his father had committed suicide, according to the Detroit News story.

A prosecutor opposed to the commutation says that, no matter how well DeLisle may have behaved in prison, he shouldn’t be released, now at age 63, because he is a danger to society.

After three decades locked up with the people we consider the most dangerous in the state ― and more than 30 years in a system where, despite efforts of well-intentioned people, drugs run rampant and inmates get raped and gang members kill one another, according to the experts and inmates I’ve interviewed ― DeLisle might well be more dangerous now than when he entered prison.

But I don’t buy the argument that we cannot release him because he is a public danger. He may have killed, but it doesn’t follow that we should expect him to emerge from prison raging and murderous.

If we want him to stay in prison, we should be honest about the reason. It’s because we burn with anger at what he did and are not done punishing him for it.

I’m not calling that an unjust reason. Horrible crime deserves severe punishment. If he deliberately killed his kids ― I don’t know if that’s the case, but if he did ― we absolutely should be mad.

We should be furious at the person who put hands around the throat of an Alpena girl and stopped her breath. We should rage at the hands that pulled the trigger and took life from a woman in the woods. We should abhor the dark acts of cowardice that make women victims of men’s lust and the hands raised against children and the greed-fueled drug sales that leave people dead on the sidewalk.

I don’t know if DeLisle should stay in prison. I don’t know if the death penalty, if Michigan offered it as an option, would make those left behind feel they had gotten justice. I do know that if all we do is pour our anger on convicted killers, people are going to keep getting killed.

We catch and convict a murderer. Good. We put them in prison. Good. We feel a little better. Good.

But the environment in which that killer came to be still exists.

The factors that led that victim to be dead still lie at the feet of other potential victims, ready to ensnare them.

If our fury burns hot at unjust death, maybe we should turn that anger toward the systems that impede justice and exploit the vulnerable and make people desperate. Maybe we should fight to keep kids safe and to help people out of poverty. Maybe we should study for ourselves what best stops violence and support with our time, money, and votes the efforts we believe will make change.

Maybe, if we truly want the to understand what paves the road to murder, we should examine our own weaknesses, our own prejudices and preconceptions, our propensity to excuse away our own bad behavior that contributes, even if ever so slightly, to a world that looks the other way until someone is dead.

On Sunday morning, standing next to my son and surrounded by fellow churchgoers, I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed as the words of the first song of the worship service stung my heart.

“All my life, You have been faithful,” the music leader sang, her eyes closed, leaning into the lyrics. “All my life, You have been so, so good.”

I cannot point to the 1.2 million people in U.S. prisons and say they, they are the bad ones. No, I have not murdered anyone. But I have hated. I have wanted to wound. I have turned my eyes where they should not go and my hands to unwholesome things. I have seen bad in the world and shrugged, saying it’s someone else’s problem.

All my life, I have been inadequate. All my life, I have made excuses for not trying harder to capture my errant thoughts, for not working harder to stop bad things I see in the world.

And still God’s goodness runs after me, wrapping me in forgiveness and acceptance I can never, ever deserve. His arms spread wide, my Jesus accepted the death penalty in my place and sentenced me to life, imprisoned not in condemnation but by gratitude and awe that even one such as I could be loved by the One who knows how little I deserve it.

We can’t live under grace like that and not want to get off our rear ends and give life to someone else. You may be a literal lifesaver who yanks people from fires or stands between them and bullets ― and I know some of my readers are ― or you may be someone who can volunteer at a soup kitchen or donate to the Boys and Girls Club or ask a sad coworker to coffee. It all adds up. It all matters.

It all saves lives, one tiny bit at a time.

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Lockdown

I just received a recorded call from my son's high school informing me the school is in full lockdown because of a credible threat.

Suddenly, everything else in my life has stopped.

My son is locked into a school building, mentally rehearsing what to do if he hears gunshots. Police cars are, I have no doubt, surrounding the school, officers approaching the building tensed and ready to act. Teachers are probably anxiously counting heads and trying to look calm, their hearts thumping.

I’m furious, as I sit in my chair shaking, trying to make sense of it. Furious with a world in which this is a reality. In which my son knows about lockdowns because he’s experienced them before. In which I can’t just shrug it off as another mostly meaningless drill because there is absolutely the realistic chance that something very bad could happen at my son’s school today, could be happening right now.

My son, my son. Please be OK.

People who don’t know better say today’s kids are weak. They point at the generation currently in their teens and young 20s as too easily wounded, too fixated on their own mental health and too afraid of adulthood.

I’m not an expert in mental health or juvenile anything. But what I see is a generation of kids who have grown up practicing hiding under desks and in closets and knowing somebody could, at any moment, come to their classroom door and try to kill them. Kids who have seen video of other kids their age running from school buildings with their hands on their heads and trauma etched on their faces. Who have seen the numbers of dead and wounded, the pictures of blood on classroom floors.

How dare we say we had it tougher back in our day, back when Columbine, Sandy Hook, Parkland, Uvalde, and Oxford were just places and names and not horrifying reminders of the vulnerability of our children in places they should feel safest.

Today’s kids are phenomenal. They struggle, yes – mental health counselors and teachers and parents will attest to that. But they have endured increasing school violence and the COVID-19 pandemic and the isolating impact of social media and too-young exposure to the most serious aspects of adult life via the internet and come out the other side with resilience and compassion and a drive to make their world better.

They’ll be OK as adults. In fact, they’ll be awesome.

As long as they live that long.

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In the face of looming danger that feels inevitable, we are not powerless. If we want reduce school shootings, we can use the power of our voices and our votes to advocate for laws and practices that protect our kids.

Even more than that, we can pay attention to the people around us and around our kids. We can notice when something is wrong and act on it. Most mass school shooters plan their attacks and share threatening or concerning messages or images ahead of time. If someone's words or actions raise a red flag, we can say something, even if it's uncomfortable.

None of us can help everyone who is a victim of bullying or a survivor of trauma or has some other big hurt that might become so heavy it triggers violent behavior. But we can be there for the people in our lives, setting aside our own bad days and busyness long enough to see that they need someone to listen and care. We can ask if they're OK and if we can do anything for them. And if they worry us, we can tell someone.

Maybe that's only a small drop in a big ocean. But it's a drop. And we can't do nothing. Not when schools keep calling parents to say their kids are hiding in closets.

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My son just got home. He let me give him a long and tearful hug, and he told me about sitting on the floor in a dark locked room for an hour like it was no big deal, and then he made a sandwich and went up to his room. Police are still investigating, but whoever sent the threat did not follow through. For now, my boy is OK, and I can breathe again.

If you have a teen in your life, maybe send them an “I love you” text today. Or bake them cookies or invite them to play a card game with you. They’ll think you’re weird. But they’ll also know you love them and are there for them when they need to talk.

If you have a gun in your house, lock it up.

And if you notice something that makes you worry about the safety of a young person or the people around them, say something. Now. Tomorrow might be too late.

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To confidentially report anything that threatens school or student safety, including signs of suicidal ideation, text your concerns to 652729 (OK2SAY) or call 8-555-OK2SAY (855-565-2729) or email OK2SAY@mi.gov. 

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Warning signs that can signal a young person may be in crisis or need help:

1. Suddenly withdrawing from friends, family, and activities, including online or via social media

2. Bullying, especially if targeted towards differences in race, religion, gender, or sexual orientation 

3. Excessive irritability, lack of patience, or becoming angry quickly

4. Experiencing chronic loneliness or social isolation 

5. Expressing persistent thoughts of harming themselves or someone else

6. Making direct threats toward a place, another person, or themselves

7. Bragging about access to guns or weapons

8. Recruiting accomplices or audiences for an attack 

9. Directly expressing a threat as a plan 

10. Cruelty to animals

Source: Sandy Hook Promise, an organization that empowers communities to see and respond to the signs of potential school gun violence, in honor of the 20 students and six adults shot and killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut on December 14, 2012.