John Ramsey - The Other Side of Suffering: The Father of JonBenet Ramsey Tells the Story of His Journey from Grief to Grace

Many men owe the grandeur of their lives
to their tremendous suffering.

Charles Spurgeon

My life has been often grueling and complex over the past fifteen years. Im a simple businessman who lost children, wife, much of my life savings, and my good reputation. In 1996, JonBent, my precious six-year-old little girl, was violently murdered in our home on Christmas night as we slept in our beds. I was placed under an umbrella of suspicion as being her killer. My gentle, loving wife, battling ovarian cancer, was publicly placed under the same umbrella.

The world media was quick to sensationalize our tragedy and led a tabloid-fueled frenzy that sought our conviction for the murder of our child. What most people do not know is my world had nearly collapsed four years earlier when my oldest daughter, Beth, was killed in a car accident.

For some time Ive felt compelled to share my untold faith journey to help and encourage fellow strugglers. Ive learned that almost no one escapes scars from loss, unfairness, abuse, or heartbreak. I want to share with you how I recovered and reestablished a direction for my life, and hope for the future. Most important, I want to tell you how my faith in God was tremendously strengthened. Its my prayer that my personal story might help and encourage you on your life journey.

This is the story you have never heard.

Delhi, IndiaDecember 31, 2009

Its late evening. Ive missed my connection to Bangalore, and the next flight wont leave until nine thirty in the morning. It will be a lonely New Years Eve for sure. I can feel myself having what my wife, Patsy, and I used to call a pity party, feeling sorry for ourselves. I walk outside the airport into the Delhi night air, damp with fog generated by the cool evening air and the closeness to the Himalayas. It smells of a peculiar mixture of aging fruit and diesel exhaustnot a bad odor, just an aroma unique to India, Id soon learn. I begin walking in the direction the ticket agent said: Youll find a hotel just outside, turn to the left, down a few blocks I need the exercise, and with these marginal directions, a taxi is probably out of the question, so I start walking, as the man said, just outside, turn to the left

The noise and clamor of travelers of every race and nationality hustle for taxis and rickshaws; uniformed police blow whistles and wave their arms; crowds of men, women, and children stand in queues and restless clumps waiting for buses.

I collide with an old Indian man struggling with a large suitcase wrapped in twine. He moves slowly, his back bent over in an obvious state of scoliosis, his body a cascade of bones beneath his neatly wrapped tunic. Hes barefoot, his right foot slightly twisted and crippled, and he walks one hesitant step at a time. The turban on his head is brown with dust, his beard a tangled series of knots. He is startled by our abrupt meeting and has the look of someone almost overwhelmed by life. He could be someones grandfather. He stumbles and the old suitcase falls to the ground. I feel like I should do something, so I reach down to help right the suitcase. Sorry, let me give you a hand. He smiles at me with a subservient, toothless smile exaggerated by his emaciated features.

He doesnt respond to my offer for help, but continues smiling, his brown skin creased, burnt like crushed cardboard. He peers up at me, giving me a look as though we have connected in a strange way. The smile seems personal, as though we share a private secret.

Please, let me help you with that

I reach for his suitcase, but he hangs on tight. Its obvious he doesnt speak English. He clings to the suitcase with both arms, shielding it from me. His smell is almost overpowering, acrid, pungent, as though he hasnt taken a bath in months. I look into his eyes and realize the left one is blind, a milky veil covering the pupil in spongy blankness. The other eye gleams like black onyx, and I feel it penetrate into my own. He continues to stare at me, smiling, while protecting his suitcase.

I feel somehow connected to this man. Is he a beggar? A vendor? A traveler? Who is he? Im aware that the cities in India are full of beggars. Men, women, and children with desperate lives. He hobbles to the edge of the walkway and unties the frayed twine around the battered suitcase. Inside is a small rug and what appear to be a few dozen clay amulets. He rolls the rug out on the worn dirt and sits on it, his legs crossed with the crippled foot twisted upward. He spreads out the amulets before him, closes the suitcase, the whole time watching me with his one good eye and smiling that smile.

How does he do it? I wonder. How does he manage to go on with life when hes old, crippled, half blind, and destitute?

People have asked me, John, how have you survived all your suffering?

Here is a man that makes my struggles look easy. What motivates him to continue living?

His mouth is dry and peeling; his smile reveals blackened gums. Im filled with feelings I cant identify, and on the crowded, noisy street by the Delhi airport, I ask him, How do you go on?

He nods, the grin spreads. We cant communicate with words. He probably speaks Hindi, the official language of India.

For the last few years, Ive lived through overwhelming loss and Ive come to India battered and bruised by the world, but with a growing faith in God. Ive learned a lot about my faith since its fragile underpinnings were rocked to the core eighteen years ago.

Im seeking His direction for my life. I wonder what faith, if any, this man has. He must have some sort of faith. Probably Hindu, since 85 percent of India is Hindu. The remainder is split between Christian, Muslim, and Buddhist. Hindus have thousands of gods they worship. The caste system, which was outlawed by the government years ago, is still very alive in practice. This man no doubt is a Dalit, or untouchable, the lowest caste.