Stephen Thyberg, March 25, 1988

Stephen Thyberg, May 29, 1965 - March 25, 1988

For my first blog entry, I’m posting something I wrote 1998, on the anniversary of the suicide of Stephen Thyberg, who was a student at Wheaton College the same time I was there.  I first wrote this in response to some articles written in a newsletter put out by the Wheaton College gay and lesbian alumi association in the mid-1990's.

Many knew that Stephen was gay.  So the memory or story of his death carries a strong resonance with a number of Wheaton College LGBT alumni, many of whom had the experience of feeling that their sexuality and faith were at irreconcilable odds with each other, an experience that not infrequently brought many to the brink of despair.  

I don't suppose anyone can know with any degree of certainty what were all or some or any of the factors that ultimately drove him to his death.  All I know is that, for those left in its wake, regardless of faith or sexuality or whatever, his death was devastating.  And the ripples continue to bounce back, lapping up against us, even now these many years later.

While the Wheaton group is what initially prompted me to write this memory, it was also something that I very much wanted to write.  

This photo is of Stephen in Wheaton College's production of Godspell.

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March, 1998

I don't know how many times l've sat down to try and write this out. I have talked with many friends over these last few years about what they experienced "when they found out." My memory of that day remains vivid. In many ways, it marked a turning point for me in my life. It’s been rolling around in the back of my head for a long time now. I'd like to share it by getting it out on paper. It happened 10 years ago: Friday, March 25, 1988.

Stephen and I were both in Wheaton's theater group, Workout. Though I didn't know him very well myself, we had many of the same friends. I remember him as aloof, effervescent and arrogant. He was tall, thin, and energetic, with a tuft of bouncy, dirty blond hair and a fabulous smile. I once told him that he reminded me of the character of the younger brother (played by Rupert Graves) in the movie "A Room With a View." "Really?" he said. "Thanks! I love that character!" Then he went bouncing off down the hallway. That's what I remember about him; he bounced. I liked him like that because he seemed accessible and his energy was catching. He could also be very distant, even seemingly, purposefully aloof. At times, I could not walk by him and say "Hi" without feeling that I had done something wrong. He bounced and brooded with equal vigor. He drove me crazy.

In the spring of 1988, he and I had one of the same classes - Modern European Literature, with Dr. Roger Lundin. It was a class full of people who I considered to be the intellectual / artistic elite on campus. I remember feeling intimidated and defensive. Speaking up in class was like an act of defiance against my feelings of intellectual inferiority. Stephen was a part of that for me; laughing at Dr. Lundin's jokes and ironic quandaries. He had grown a literary length of stubble and took to wearing a green, army fatigue jacket.

That Friday was just like most days in Wheaton in March, chilly and gray with a hint of spring in the air. I forget what we were studying at the time - Thomas Mann? Proust? Flaubert?  One of those angsty, romantic existentialists. Dr. Lundin had not yet arrived. 

Just before class, Dr. Henry Nelson, the then Dean of Students, stuck his head in the door and called Stewart, one of Stephen's roommates, out into the hall. 5 or 10 minutes later, he came back in and asked for David (David was also one of Stephen's roommates). Another 10 to 15 minutes went by.

Finally, Dr. Lundin came into the room. He sat up against his desk, stared out the window, and said nothing for a long time. A couple of times he opened his mouth, took a breath as if he was going to say something and then went back to staring out the window. 

Finally he looked at us and said, "Class dismissed." He paused. "Something terrible has happened.  I can't say what. I think you will know by Monday. I wish I could say more. I'm sorry to be so cryptic. I have just heard something terrible and I am not now at liberty to say what." 

Dr. Lundin had a way of choosing his words very carefully. Typically, it was a process he relished. This time, he seemed to be having some difficulty. 

"But you will probably know soon," he continued. "Come back on Monday. I don't know if we will have class then or not.  We'll see." He paused, took a deep breath and said, "That's all."

I waited for most of the class to file out before I decided to leave myself. I really wanted to know what was up. I thought perhaps that something was going on with Stewart, something serious.

As I left the classroom, I headed towards the stairs in the middle of Blanchard Hall.  From the other end of the hall came Dr. Nelson, Stewart, David and a couple of other men carrying walkie-talkies. I will never forget the looks on David and Stewart’s faces. David was staring ahead blankly, his mouth hanging open. He seemed to be in shock. Stewart was behind him, staring at the ground, clutching onto David's shirt tails with one of his hands. Both faces were completely pale.

I stood there for a moment, frozen as they walked past. I had to know what was going on. I walked back into the classroom. Dr. Lundin was talking with Roberta, Heather, Patsy and a few others.

Roberta asked, "It’s TVC, isn't it?" (TVC was Stephen's nickname)

Dr. Lundin nodded and said, "Yes."

"l thought so," Roberta said. "It’s so strange but as soon as you walked into the room my first thought was, 'It’s Stevie. Something's happened to TVC'"

I asked what happened and someone said, "Stephen Thyberg just killed himself by jumping in front of a train."

If it was a movie, I think I would have raised my hand to my mouth, gasped and exclaimed, "Oh my God! No!" 

But the words "Stephen killed himself" and "Threw himself in front of a train" didn't seem real. I think my response was something inane like "You're kidding" or "Wow."

"We think it's him," Dr. Lundin emphasized. "They haven't identified the body yet. Well, what's left of it. They found his wallet. They won't be able to make an announcement until they've made a positive identification and have been able to notify his family. That's why I couldn't say anything. I really shouldn't be saying anything right now. 'Berta, how did you...?"

"l just knew," said Roberta. Roberta also had a way of choosing her words very carefully.  She seemed remarkably calm and she spoke slowly. 

"l knew something was wrong. I ran into him the other day outside of chapel. I know that he had been really depressed for a long time. And for the first time, that day, he was smiling. I asked him what was going on. He gave me a big hug and said that he was just feeling really happy. That he was feeling God's love more than he had in a long time. I don't know. It was strange. l've been concerned but I didn't know what to do. Now that this has ... I mean, there are these typical signs..." 

Tears started to roll down her cheeks.

Dr. Lundin interrupted her. " 'Berta, no. Don't do this to yourself. How could you know? You couldn't."

I feel a little awkward putting this conversation in quotes. It is a conversation that I remember quite well, but obviously, I didn't have a tape recorder. I recall that at one point, Roberta looked up and said, "Jimma." 

Jimma was Jim Young, the director of Wheaton's small theater program. The basis of the program was Workout - an ensemble of 30 or so students who met regularly - twice a week - for improvisational and theatrical exercises. All productions were cast out of Workout. It was (and remains) a very close-knit group. Stephen and I, and David, Stewart, Roberta - all of us were part of that group. Jimma led Workout and was a kind of fatherly-mentor for many. How to break the news to Jimma? I recall that Dr. Lundin agreed to go over and talk to him. 

We left the room. I walked back toward Traber dorm with Patsy (who was also in Workout). Neither of us knew what to say, except that we each felt that we never knew Stephen very well and that we didn't know what to feel, so we found ourselves feeling nothing.

Later that afternoon, I went to work at AV Services in the basement of Pierce Chapel. I wandered around feeling oddly privileged and important. I possessed knowledge that no one else on campus had. I told myself that I shouldn't be feeling that way. I tried to feel sad, which, of course, didn’t really work. I felt self-conscious. I didn’t know what to feel. 

I left AV and wandered down Blanchard lawn. At the base of the lawn, I saw Nate, another Workout person and good friend of Stephen’s. He was running and his face was red. I could tell that Nate had just found out. I went up to him. "You heard?" he said. "Yes," I responded. We hugged and remained there, embraced for a few minutes.  A car drove by. There were a bunch of guys in it and they all shouted at us, tauntingly; "Hey ladies!" or "Fags!" or something like that; I don't remember exactly. I don't know if Nate noticed.

Nate told me that people were starting to gather at the theater. "l don't want to be there right now,” he said. “Right now, all I want to do is run." 

He took off and I headed over to the theater.

When I walked into the building, I looked down the hall way and saw a group of 4 or 5 people huddled together, praying. They looked up when they heard me coming.  I saw their faces.  It suddenly hit me. 

I have sometimes read a person describe what it's like being in close proximity to a bomb or a grenade when it goes off. At first, after the explosion, they can't hear anything; it's like being deaf and they wander around feeling numb. Then they experience a slight ringing in their ears that quickly grows into a loud and painful din. I might describe my experience in a similar fashion. I suddenly sobbed, ran toward them and fell apart.

We cried and prayed with each other. Then Betsy came running in. When she saw us, she collapsed on the floor and screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. She quieted down to soft sobs and I thought, "Thank God; she's done." But then she took a deep breath and began to scream and sob all over again. So loud and for so long that I started to get angry at her. Why did she have to scream like that? What was she trying to prove? Why won't she just stop? 

It was terrible. Finally, Jimma came out of his office. He knelt down next to her and spoke to her, quietly, comfortingly and firmly. I don't know what he said, but I was relieved that someone was doing something.

More people arrived, one by one. Some were angry, most were confused, shocked and a few cried. Some knew what happened, others didn't. Many had heard that something had happened but didn't know what. Each time we relayed the message, "Stephen Thyberg killed himself by jumping in front of a train today." Each time became more and more of a chore to say those words. It became tiresome. It became tiresome to deal with the reactions. "Oh my God." "He what? What did he do that for?" "Jesus." 

I remember Anita's reaction.  "You guys, what's going on? I heard Stephen was in a car and got hit by a train or something. ls he alright? What happened?"

"No, he's not alright. He, he was killed. He wasn't in a car."

"He what?" she said. "What, what do you mean he wasn't in a car? I heard he was in a car. How can someone get hit by a train if you're not in a car?  ... how can.... why wasn't he in a car?"

That evening, there was a service in Pierce Chapel. Some of the people in the theater made it their mission to post flyers all over campus announcing the service. Others refused to attend. 

"l'm tired," I remember someone saying. "l'm tired of dealing with all of this. And I

DON'T want to hear a bunch of stupid evangelical Wheaton students who didn't know him pray for his soul. I don't want to deal with it. I am so mad a Stephen right now I could scream."

Word had spread fast and lots of people came to the service. Chaplain Vic Gordon and Chuck Lewis (head of the Counseling Center) led the service. Most of what I remember from this point is in bits and pieces. I remember Vic saying something about how some may wonder at a time like this if suicide is a sin and what it might mean in terms of a person's salvation. 

"While I think this is a complex question," he said, "l don't think that now is the time to deal with such a question." I heard Paul next to me mutter "Damn right it's not." 

Then Chuck Lewis stood up. He was visibly shaken and simply encouraged us to feel what we were feeling. I gained a great deal of respect for him at that moment. Whatever role or position he had at Wheaton College was dropped. He was there as a human being along with the rest of us. We were led in silent prayer. 

I remember while we were praying, someone got up (Stewart, I think, though I've never been certain) and screamed, "Shit God! What the FUCK is going on?" He then sat down weeping, "Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy..." 

Throughout the service, I went back and forth between crying and feeling "l shouldn't be crying.” Like my grief was somehow an infringement upon others.

The service ended. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was the counselor I had been seeing at the Counseling Center. She was smiling at me sympathetically. I told her that I wasn't sure why I was crying. She looked surprised. Someone I knew had just killed himself. Wasn't that a good reason? 

"Yeah," I said vaguely, though I didn't quite believe it.

"You gonna be O.K?" she asked. 

"l'm fine," I said assuringly, letting her know that I was not planning on going out and running in front of a train myself anytime soon. 

"Am I going to see you on Friday (our next session)?" I nodded, "Yeah." "Call me if you want to talk before then. I mean it. Call me anytime." I nodded again. She hugged me and left.

To this day, I am still uncertain how much of my grieving was actually for Stephen. I said at the beginning of this that his death marked a turning point in my life. It did. My first year at Wheaton was very difficult. I think Stephen's death shook me out of a kind of stupor. I was brought face to face with a suicide I had so often contemplated as being my own. I was gay.  I didn't come from a "Christian" family (as it seemed that 90% of the other students had). My parents were divorced. I felt abandoned by my father. I could not focus. My grades were not very good and I felt like an idiot. Despite having a number of friends around me, I felt quite lonely.

I wanted to be at Wheaton so badly but I felt so much like I didn't belong. I often sat in my room thinking about killing myself.  Then I would think about how my mother and sister (with whom I’ve always been close) would react.  Imagining their grief and my guilt, I’d cry myself to sleep and woke in the morning, feeling calmer and even somewhat refreshed.  I often interpreted that as a form of grace, God’s comfort settling over me as I slept.

Prior to the service in Pierce Chapel, I remember standing in the theater as the last stragglers were wandering in to find out what happened. I was crying and I was saying, "No. This is not right. Suicide is wrong. Life is a gift, a gift from God, from God who loves us. To do that, to give up, is to throw it back in God's face and say 'Fuck you.' This is a gift, a very precious gift. How dare we think about throwing it away." 

I was preaching to myself. I was giving myself a reason to hang on.  Stephen had given up and here I was, unexpectedly caught in the wake of his self-destruction.

My lesson from Steve's death is not: How a repressive environment like Wheaton can drive a person to suicide. I cannot even make that kind of conclusion or assign blame like that.

Something that remains in my mind is the eyewitness account of the train conductor. He said that Stephen stepped out in front of the train, faced it and clasped his hands over his head, "Almost victoriously." 

Whatever forces brought Stephen to that point - to what? The point of despair? I can’t know what he was thinking or feeling when he made his decision to take his life. I can’t even be sure that it was despair. But regardless of whatever factors may have been acting on him - Christianity, his struggle with his homosexuality, his family, Wheaton, whatever - his final steps onto those tracks were his own.

I almost feel guilty saying that. Wasn't Stephen a victim? What about all those gay teenagers who commit suicide every year because they are gay and they can't accept themselves and their families won't accept them and society won't accept them? Aren't I absolving Wheaton and Christianity and families and society of Stephen's death by saying that it was all him? How can I answer that question? 

I don't believe that it was all him, no.  Nor do I absolve Wheaton or Christianity or families or society or even myself of the human crimes of intolerance and willful ignorance and the pain that these things inflict – intentionally or not. But if being a victim of these things automatically necessitates death, then someone please put a gun to my head. No, I must believe that we have more power over our own souls than that.

My lesson from Stephen's death was: hang on, live. I know life hurts. I know you're parents did shitty things. I know Wheaton can be a terrible place to be. I know that you're lonely. I know that you can't see the point. I know that you don't know what you are doing with your life or how to live it. I know, I know, I know. But I also know that your parents love you (however imperfectly), God loves you, your friends love you. I love you.

Life is a precious, wondrous gift. Hang on, live.