Cameron's Personal Essay Draft

“Moonrocks, Nevada. A place where any urbane would dread, but for he who loved riding dirt bikes, it became a heaven on earth. A place that unites family in wholesome recreation, but at times can border the line of life and death.”

There was a time when I didn’t believe in a God. Nevertheless, I wasn’t what you might consider a problem child nor a rebellious teenager. I just didn’t think about the possibility that there might be something out there greater than myself, my family, or my friends. If you were to ask me what I believed in, I’d tell you that if I do good deeds in this life, I’d end up where I want to go in heaven. For my 19-year-old brain, heaven consisted of a motocross track, jumps, and all the dirt bikes I could ever want.


If you were to ask me about Hell, I probably would have scoffed. I’d heard stories of hell, seen movies: the fiery wasteland where the devil works people to death with ball and chain. I didn’t believe in ghost stories. People swear that they’d seen ghosts; my mom swears she’d had her grandmother come and visit her bed the day after she died, but I was hesitant.

It was in the third grade, my grandma on my dad’s side, a woman who had taken care of her health throughout her life, suddenly passed away from a brain aneurism. It took everyone by surprise. She was 66 and I was devastated. She passed so quickly, so quietly that she wasn’t found for 3 days. On the third day, a family friend rushed up the stairs to make sure everything was okay, but he entered her room, only to find her peacefully in bed, a book open on her lap, and reading glasses on the bridge of her nose.

That was my first experience with death. My brother and I were so young, we hardly understood, but I vividly remember the call when it came. My mom who had been washing the dishes dropped the plate in the sink, cracking it as it fell, and rushed into her bedroom. We were unsure what was going on but when my dad got home early that day, we knew something was terribly wrong. My parents talked in their room for a long time, at least that’s what I had assumed was happening. When they finally opened the door, my brother and I were brought into their bedroom and sat on the bed. I, being 8 years old, glanced over at my mom. Her eyes were watery and her nose red. I looked over at the man I respected with a loving, childish look. I can’t remember ever seeing tears in my father’s eyes. He was a big man. A large 6ft 4in man with a mustache that covered his upper lip. My mom tells stories of never seeing him without hair on his face. But here he was, crying like one of my friends my age and I was astonished.

“Grandma passed away last night” he said in a muffled tone.

“What?” was the muttered squeak of my little brother: age 4. He didn’t quite understand.

“Grandma Lois passed away last night and she’s not coming back. She died” replied my father, trying to explain it in a way so that his young mind could grasp the gravity of the statement.

Suddenly I felt hot tears running down my face. Once they started, they wouldn’t stop. I grabbed the pillow next to my face. Oh, the agony! My little heart exclaimed. My grandmother had died and she wasn’t coming back. The one who had made cookies with us as kids, came camping with us to our yearly camping trip at my favorite place on earth. The woman who, when she saw us, would shed kisses upon our young necks and say, “oh my little pussycat, I love you.” The lady that I knew as my grandma had died and my dad told me I would never see her again. I cried and cried until there were no more tears left to cry and my parents just let me.

After recuperating from the initial shock, I remember waiting for January 16^th to come. That was the date that my grandma had promised she would come visit us before she died. I didn’t say anything to my parents about this hope – I simply waited. On the night of the 16^th I sat quietly in my room, just as a child might if awaiting the arrival of Santa Clause. I waited up all night, but just like that child, I was sorely disappointed: no one came. But she promised I thought, why couldn’t she come? Waiting and waiting, I didn’t want to believe the truth, but eventually, time passed and she never came.

I’m unsure if it was because of that experience or influence of the high schooler’s around me, but I slowly lost the belief in life after death. I lost the hope of seeing deceased family members again, but I never lost my way. Looking back on what principles guided my belief, I might have been classified by what John Duffy calls a “deontologist.” He says, “deontologists hold that certain actions are morally right or morally wrong, inherently good or inherently bad, regardless of the circumstances.” I guess I could relate. If you stole, it was bad, but if you paid for your groceries it was good. If you murdered someone it was evil, yet if you helped someone in need it was right. Society put mandates on how I acted as a youth and I had been okay with that.

Now, however, reflecting on my life, questions arose that were more complex than the simple black and white answers I’d been so used to being ok with. Finding a belief in Jesus Christ for myself was much like learning to ride a dirt bike. It took a little bit of time to learn, but for some reason there was a familiarity about it. The first time I sat on my bike, the orange and black plastics that garnish the interior engine of the KTM, I ran my hands over handle bars, making my way to the throttle. The bike was probably too big for my 11-year-old body, but my dad said I’d grow into it.

To start the malicious machine, the bike required a kick star, a flip of the throttle switch, a twist to let the fuel flow from the tank into the carburetor, and finally, the pulling of the choke lever into position before making the initial kick. To make things more overwhelming, the bike required the adjustment of the “leak jet” depending on the elevation of the area we were riding. The leak jet regulates the ratio of fuel to oxygen to the carburetor when opening the throttle. With too much fuel, the bike will bog down and with too much air, the bike won’t run properly. It must be adjusted just right.

How does one learn all the intricacies of a well-oiled machine? How does one learn to have faith in something that can be difficult to understand? I am embarrassed now to think that I ever questioned the influence of divine love because I now see my Grandma Lois everywhere, but my young heart was not ready to understand that the thread between her and I should not ever waver, let alone break, in the years that followed her death, when my life now looked so different.