Pondering Andrew

Buddha and shadow.

There is this line in Alan Paton's Too Late the Phalarope that causes me to reflect upon Andrew and the strange intersection of our lives: To punish and not to restore is the greatest of all offenses. 


Andrew stalked the Zen Center for a very long year, breaking into buildings in the wee night hours, climbing with cat-like stealth up walls to reach windows and rooftops, and terrifying residents. He threw rocks into the windows, big smooth L.A. river rocks like the ones later found in a bag in his car. One night, police dogs found him hiding under the Founder's Altar. His obsession was the daughter of our founder, but unable to locate her, we became the next best thing. His behavior confounded our community.

We surmised that Andrew suffered from a form of mental illness and possibly an alcohol addiction. We learned the dismal assertion that the best one can hope for was that the stalker finds another target. We took to heart the warning of the district attorney's lawyer that we take this situation very seriously. "I worked with about ten people this year," she said, "and I will tell you that in each case you would never have thought the person capable of murder." But could Andrew possibly be such a person?

It took a challenging and stress-filled year of securing restraining orders and working with local agencies, anti-stalking experts, and finally the district attorney's office to stop Andrew. At sentencing, unkempt and clad in an inmate's orange jumpsuit, Andrew was led before the judge. In a firm voice, he assured the court that he understood clearly the terms of his three-year felony probation. He was later released into his brother's custody.

I don't recall when we placed Andrew's name on our daily Prayer List. Soon after Andrew was released to his brother, we heard that he was back on the streets, disheveled and in the grip of his tenuous condition. His situation was heart-wrenching not only because help seemed out of his reach, but also because it was an unsettling reminder of the fragility within oneself that can so easily unravel and descend.

A tree poem for Andrew.

On the first-year anniversary of the felony probation, someone threw a heavy rock through our picture window, sending shards of glass throughout the  room. On the second-year anniversary, nothing seemed amiss. On the third-year anniversary, nothing. Nothing, that is, until we learned several months later that shortly before the third anniversary, Andrew killed himself by jumping in front of a train.

I am pondering what it might have taken for Andrew to restore himself. I am pondering what our community and I could have done to create conditions for his restoration.

Further on in Paton's book, these words: There's a hard law ... that when a deep injury is done ... we never recover until we forgive. In spite of all that we endured with Andrew, no one held any lasting grudge against him. Perhaps he forgave us for not knowing how to help him.

Thanks to the Zen Center for offering a memorial service for Andrew this week. Andrew, may your next life be beautiful.