Now we understand. We understand what all the parents and the brothers and the sisters mean when they say of their children and
siblings, taken from them too soon: They taught us so much. We are still learning from them.
Yes, now we understand.
He is still teaching, this bright-eyed, playful, wonderful youngster who rests now in the lovely, serene shade at Oakwood. So many lessons, every day - every hour sometimes it seems, when the kids come by the house to remember him. There were the girls who did a collage of pictures and a poem. There was the classmate who wrote a song about him. There was the author Kaye Gibbons, sharing his work and hers at a local reading. There was the beautiful dedication of the yearbook at Broughton High School. There was the call from the boy who was with him at Outward Bound, remembering how the others didn’t care much when he got frostbite. But Wade helped him.
That was no surprise, Elizabeth Anania and John Edwards, Wade Edwards’ cherished parents, and his sister Kate - her poem is best of all - hear such stories all the time at their home. The pride and the depth and the number and the fondness of the memories do not, and will never, erase their loss. But there is some comfort in knowing that Wade will survive, his memory so brilliant, in the hearts and minds and in the letters of so many.
Wade, fresh from victory in a national essay contest (after which he was first mentioned here) and on spring break during his junior year at Broughton, died in an auto accident on his way to the beach April 4. Eyewitnesses and the Highway Patrol cited the likely cause as a strong gust of wind, which blew Wade’s car slightly off the road. When he tried to bring the car back onto the highway, the vehicle flipped over. A freak accident they called it, something that might have happened to anyone. It was such an unfair thing, for Wade was the safest of all of his buddies. He was meticulous, did not drink, and was called upon by other parents to drive their kids.
In the eight weeks since the tragedy, there have been letters from Jesse Helms, who met Wade in Washington and wrote a beautiful tribute, and two letters from first lady Hillary Clinton; there was an emotional, prolonged standing ovation at Broughton when John and Elizabeth accepted an award at the honors assembly; the National Endowment for the Humanities, sponsor of that essay contest, will establish an award in Wade’s name, for NEH officials remember Wade as the most popular of the competitors. And there are trees - a dogwood at Aldert Root, Wade’s elementary school, and a cedar in Israel, and another dogwood in the family’s backyard. "The boys," friends of Wade, planted that one.
What was it about this boy? Lots of words come to mind, none adequate. But the remembrances of his friends, the little stories of kindness unknown even to his parents until now, mean the most.
One youngster told John and Elizabeth about how Wade helped him prep for the college boards - and he credits Wade with raising his score. Another remembers that though Wade didn’t drink or smoke, he refrained from harsh judgment of those who did.
So many stories, of how Wade worried over the burdens of others. He was brother-confessor to many, fretted whenever he saw selfishness or any manner of unfairness. But the weight of this world did not bend him, for he retained his wit and sunny spirit.
We promised lessons. One is that wisdom - deep, profound wisdom - is possessed by some of the young who walk among us; whiskers and wrinkles are no measure of it. Another is that the strength of family bonds passes on to make strong individuals. And: Possessions and appearances are no measure of the person. In responding to one question on a school quiz about how to make the world better, Wade wrote that people need to know each other more by what’s inside and not by what is outside. He was 7 years old then.
His friends will live the lessons, knowing from Wade that it’s OK to hug your father and your mother no matter who’s around, and to say that you love your sister. And parents will live the lessons, too, being quicker to see and acknowledge the good of which all kids are capable.
All of us who encountered Wade somewhere along the path, whether the closest of mates of childhood or adult passerby of just
weeks ago, remain in awe of all he was and all he would have been and all he still has to tell us. There are lessons yet to be
learned in love and humanity, and we remain attentive. Wade has not dismissed class.