“Tim’s House – Moving In”

c. 2007 Rod Ice a
All rights reserved
(8-07)


One of the most enticing things about professional journalism is being able to observe a wide variety activities without needing justification.
It is a realm for those who are naturally curious. Stories are everywhere. One needs only to have a clear mind and open eyes to discover inspiration.
Such thoughts echoed recently, as Liz and I enjoyed a behind-the-scenes preview at the new 'Tim's House' oasis in Chardon. Our tour guide was Carole Brazis, founder of the organization.
The local group was born after her son committed suicide. He had friends across the county, yet felt a sort of emptiness and pain that could not be dispelled. After repeated attempts to find assistance failed, he ended his life in 2006.
The loss was overwhelming for Carole. Yet, she channeled her agony into a positive force. Even in the midst of mourning, she began to envision a way that the darkness could yield light. Her dream had been to buy Tim a home where he would always be safe and secure. In his memory, 'Tim's House' began to take shape.
As a writer and friend, I had been privileged to observe the development of this incredible idea into a full-scale operation. Over a course of months, Liz and I attended different benefit events for the ‘House’ that Carole, Dan and their volunteers made possible.
Yet, nothing could prepare my senses for the experience of visiting this spiritual sanctuary for the first time.
We toured the 'Tim's House' facility at 150 Court Street, in Chardon. Originally built as a residence, the location once held 'Big Brothers-Big Sisters' of Lake & Geauga County. Its family-inspired design seemed perfect to house Carole's leading-edge concept. In every way, it truly felt like a home for those affected by the grief of suicide. Not a clinic, or a counseling center, but a safe haven from anguish and hurt.
Carole explained that generous donations had made it possible to sign a two-year lease on the property. Included would be a craft room, library, reading room, meditation room, kitchen and computer stations.
"People sometimes get confused," she said. "Suicide victims are those who chose to end their lives. Suicide survivors are those who are still here. I'm not a victim, I am a survivor."
Carole spoke about her plan for the future with clarity and conviction.
"We've got to get good at self--support groups," she said. "Then, we'll add other services. We will be able to refer people to help, when needed."
Her outlook was bright, but realistic. "I've got to write grants," she said. "And, stay busy!"
We were discussing the 'House' as an important component of Geauga when Robin Echols Cooper joined our conversation. The playwright, musician, author and mother brought an expressive dimension to our meeting.
She invited us to join in a 'Tim's House Jam,' with festive musical tools from her personal collection. It was a gesture that Tim himself would have appreciated and endorsed.
We assembled in the craft room and picked out our instruments. She played a tall drum adorned with natural colors. Liz and Carole each took a washboard. I played a thumb piano.
The exercise calmed my spirit by opening a pathway for expression. Robin, Carole and I traded improvised lyrics in a call-and-response about the 'House' that grew more emotional with each stanza:

Tim's House
Out of the dark
Tim's House
Into the light
Tim's House
Only the day
Tim's House
No longer night.
Tim's House
Your heart is broken
Tim's House
But the door is open
Tim's House
Come for the healing
Tim's House
We are singing.
Tim's House
Across the nation
Tim's House
From station to station
A beautiful spirit
Tim's House
We won't forget.

Suddenly, I felt connected to another time - July 29, 1980.
I was nearing my 19th birthday then, in central New York State. Among my circle of artistic friends was a former college student named Mark Lebowitz. He had written for the theater and composed rock 'n' roll songs of an odd, creative nature.
Mark had been admired by every-one. We envied his experience as a broadcaster and street poet. Our hope was to, in some way, emulate his example.
Yet, a streak of darkness touched his psyche with invisible power. He became erratic and changed his appearance. Then, a radio news report announced that he had chosen a final exit from humanity.
We were stunned and unprepared. His family cloaked the event in silence and buried their son at an undisclosed location. There was no official farewell for us or opportunity for public remembrance. His passing was observed by a toast of Guinness Extra Stout on a hill outside of Ithaca. We smashed a full bottle that would have been his to share. In the time that followed our pondering continued.
No closure or comprehension of the sad moment ever appeared.
Yet, in the room at 'Tim's House' I began to feel changed. We sang in tribute to Tim and of hope born in his name. While rocking in my chair and trading vocalized emotions, I felt something unexpected fill the room.
It was a sense of joy.
Tim's life was a gift to those who shared his earthly journey. A sort of irony echoed with the end of his voyage here, because he had helped so many to find comfort in themselves.
Unbelievably, the peace he brought to others escaped his own existence.
But in that room, he had again found a method to stir us toward happiness - by singing our love for him in spur-of-the-moment, melodic verses.
My eyes were wet by the time we had finished. Workplace duties called with persistent determination. Liz and I promised to return.
Driving back toward Thompson, I chanted to myself. My fingers tapped the steering wheel in a syncopated rhythm.
"What's playing in your head?" Liz inquired with a grin.
I went red with embarrassment. "Was it that obvious?"
"I know my husband," she said.
"That jam session touched some-thing in here," I confessed, while thumping my chest. "Wish I didn't have to work the weekend."
"Why?" she purred. "What would you do instead? Write at home instead of… writing at work?"
I took a deep breath. "It's been a long while. But I think the time has come to dig out one of my guitars!"
Liz flushed with pride. "I've been saying that for ages. Don't stay long at the office, tonight. You've got your groove back, I think."
I nodded, while considering our day. It had been a moment of re-awakening.
"Thank you, Brother Tim," I said with wordless praise.

FROM THE GEAUGA COUNTY MAPLE LEAF