The winter after I graduated from college I was living with my grandparents. One morning, my grandmother and I found my grandfather dead in her sewing room. He'd slit his wrists with the bread knife the night before, after I had gone to bed. It took me a long time to forgive him for what he'd done, and the only reason I think I came to terms with it was because he was terminally ill and he'd been on Prednisone, which may cause depression in some people (a little fact that the doctor failed to mention, by the way). He never left us a note, either. I can understand why he did it, but I don't have to like it or the method he used.

Spiritually how it all fits in, I haven't quite figured out yet. I like to think that we get a chance at a do-over until we get it right, though.