Bradley
His name was Bradley. He was a student of my first wife, who was an English teacher. She had him staying at our house in order to help him get away from drugs. This boy was in serious psychological trouble because his father used to take him into a garage regularly and whip him. My wife thought his mother was a coward for not reporting his father to the police. I agreed.
One day in early July, I was driving Brad home from my house. We were driving along a highway from Edmonton to Jasper. He said he wanted to thank us for taking him in. Then he informed me that he would be dead in the morning because he was going to commit suicide that night. He felt it was only fair to tell me in advance.
I didn’t know Brad very well. We were not close friends. I did not know why he wanted to kill himself. I knew that if I dropped him off, he would do exactly what he said he would.
Perhaps if we had had a closer friendship, I probably would have a more emotional response. Instead, I immediately and automatically began to compute how I could be helpful under the circumstances. I knew that I had no basis on which to persuade him to reconsider. Within a few seconds, I suggested, “How about if we just keep driving?” He paused for a minute or two. “I never thought of that possibility.” After another long pause, “OK. I can’t refuse,” he explained. Clearly, he didn’t really want to commit suicide. Given the opportunity to continue to think about it, he couldn’t turn down my offer. After a half hour or so of driving, I phoned my wife and explained what had happened. She supported my decision.
She understood the problem Brad was having. As we traveled west, Brad called her frequently on the phone and had prolonged and emotionally intense conversations with her while I had a cup of coffee. After many calls, Brad said, “We can turn around now,” and I made a U-turn. We had reached the suburbs of Vancouver after being on the road for three days. There is no doubt in my mind that I had saved his life.
I had made a difference in Brad’s life. An act of love makes a difference to the well-being of another person. I see it in my children. They want to be my friends because they want to make a difference in my life. The same is true in a loving sexual relationship. For me, making love is an act of love in this sense because it is the most powerful way to uplift someone, a kind of mental union that has the potential of transforming a person. Love is important because it makes a difference.