This is the photo adorning my desktop. It’s there to remind me to focus on the people I care about who are inhabiting physical bodies on earth. Self, mom, son, dad, husband, etc. It’s much too easy still for my thoughts to dwell elsewhere, with the one who is gone. I thank God for these and others who give me reason to go on.
[©GGS circa 2007, all rights reserved.]
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Dialogue Replay
CT: “I don’t know man. It’s just really hard being the only bunny here. … I just feel all this pressure to change my costume, to be a bear. … I don’t want to change. I shouldn’t have to!”
Teddy: “Well Man. I don’t even see your costume. I just see a man. I don’t care if you are a bunny.
CT: “But if you ignore my costume, are you ignoring part of me?”
In this piece of work from Gabriel’s senior year of high school, he outlines his racial awakening and subsequent passion for racial justice and reconciliation.
***
The Birth of an Activist by Gabriel G. Scheller
Over the years I have probably read more books than the average teenager. This can partly be attributed to my four years of home schooling with a literature-based curriculum and partly an early introduction to novels by my mother. I have also seen many movies and television shows, more than is probably healthy. Because of these two factors, I was hard-pressed to think of one book or movie that has had any significant influence on my life. The movies I chose are Remember the Titans and Glory; the book is Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
I have been blessed to live as a bi-racial child in an entirely Caucasian family. I never knew my Tanzanian birth father. About a month after my first birthday, my mom married my father and he adopted me when I was five. I have never felt uncomfortable around my white family. Everyone on both my natural mother’s side and my adoptive father’s side treats me with love and respect.
My parents tried as hard as they could to make sure I never tasted the bitterness of racism or bigotry. They even moved the whole family from Point Pleasant Beach, NJ, which had hardly any diversity to Long Branch, NJ, which had everything from Hispanics to Asians. In turn, I never had to deal with discrimination because of the color of my skin. I was never denied access to any public place because I was black. I could always drink out of the same water fountain as anyone else. This was a blessing in almost every way, except that by not suffering myself, I was not as sympathetic towards the people who had suffered as I could have been. The Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement seemed so far away that I never appreciated what had been sacrificed.
It was not until eighth grade that I began to realize the things I had been taking for granted. My mom, my brother and I read Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s writing style was breathtaking and powerful. She made me feel the ice cold water of a woman trying to escape through a frozen river and every lash inflicted on Tom by Simon Legree. As we read, I had to breathe sighs of relief throughout the book and thank God that he did not create me to live in that time.
Later on I saw the movie and it was very disappointing, as most book-based movies are. I was the only one in AP History class who had read the book and I had everyone excited to watch it. “Wait ’til you see how bad Legree is. You’re gonna’ hate him so much.” Unfortunately the film makers could not fully visualize just how evil Simon was. They did not make his voice drip with hate or send tingles up my spine every time he entered a scene. The movie made him out to be simply an angry drunk, more pitiful than malevolent. The effect was exactly the opposite of the one I had had as a reader. Instead of hating Legree, I almost felt sorry for him.
This new found empathy with the suffering of my predecessors invigorated me. I wanted to do everything for Civil Rights! I wanted to fight the good fight! But there was not even a little inequality I could find in my town, considering the fact that minorities were the majority.
It was not until sophomore year that I saw the two movies that have had the greatest effect on me. I recall seeing posters advertising Remember the Titans and scrutinizing it harshly. How could a Disney movie about football be worth seeing? After it came out, the buzz of the critics was positive, but anyone can find a critic who likes a bad movie. I didn’t take it that seriously until I heard the kids in school raving about it. It was inspirational! It made grown men cry! I finally watched it in my US History II class when it came out on video. I was astonished by Denzel Washington’s stellar performance. This movie didn’t sugar coat anything. It showed the bigotry and skewed logic of disrespecting someone just because of their skin color.
I wanted to do something. I thought for a long time and finally decided I wanted to make a movie, a story of racism that takes place in the present. I wanted to show that it still lives, to show that even though the movers and shakers of the Civil Rights Movement made astronomical advances, we still have a ways to go. I also wanted it to be set in the North. Unfortunately other than setting, I really had nothing to go on. I thought for days, but nothing came to mind and I gradually forgot about my plans.
That spring the class watched Glory. Once again I watched as African Americans were hated for no logical reason. I watched them fight and die for the freedom that I still take for granted. I wanted others to feel the same way I did, watching these movies and reading that book. I was reminded of my screenplay. This time I was determined to come up with a plot. I tried for almost two weeks. Everything I came up with was either pitiful or reminiscent of some other movie. Three weeks had gone by and I had given up. I went to sleep depressed and discouraged. It must have been 2:30 in the morning when I woke up. I saw it all in my head: plot, camera angles, what the actors needed to look like. Everything was there. I hopped out of bed and took out a piece of paper from my desk drawer. I had to get it all down. I couldn’t forget. I crawled back into bed after almost forty-five minutes of furious scribbling and fell asleep with a smile spread across my face.
After much refining and lots of thought, my screenplay evolved into a book. I figured that it would be a lot easier for a first time author to have his book published than it would be to have a screenplay made into the major movie I wanted it to be. Plus, I had no idea how to write a screenplay. It just made more sense to write it as a book, hope it would be popular and then have it made into a movie.
The novella is coming along very slowly. I have been writing it for almost a year. Due to writer’s block and my tendency toward procrastination, I have spent much less time on it than I would have liked. In the move out here to California, some of my important notes were lost, which set me back further. I plan on bouncing back and reaching my goal before I have to leave for college, where I will probably be so sick of writing things that I’d rather have my fingers broken than do it voluntarily.
These three media pieces have influenced me for the better. I have more respect for myself and appreciation for my ethnicity. I don’t let people make ignorant comments about my being mixed the way I used to—even if it’s only in fun. I have decided to stop pretending that it doesn’t hurt. One day I hope and pray that I will have done something to make at least one person feel the same way.
[© GGS 2002, all rights reserved.]
[©GGS circa 2000, all rights reserved.]
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Back in the day,
in my “H” double “O-D,”
sittin’ on the stoop listening to Snoop “D-O” double “G.”
Tried to be good,
do what my mom told me,
causin’ all kinds of trouble, wit my homies.
Back in the day
with Mase, Big & Puffy,
tryna pop wheelies on my Huffy.
We were told not to talk to strangers,
not to get violent like Power Rangers.
Back in the day when life was sweet
and the hardest thing to do was beat Mario 3.
When PS1 beat the Snes.
Big League Chew, yo’ that stuff was the best.
Jurassic Park & that movie Twister,
Family Matters, Smart Guy & Sister, Sister.
My first girlfriend & the playground where I kissed her.
Back in the day when my whole ‘hood knew me,
plannin’ wit my brother how to sneak into movies.
BK Knights & knee high socks.
Walking down the street to the barber shop—
short on the sides & long on top.
Waffles at Gramma’s,
Kick Ball & skippin’ rocks.
Can’t forget Slammers & Pogs.
Waste all my money from doing chores
on candy & soda at the corner store.
Back when I was innocent, never suspicious.
Fruit Stripe gum & Bubblicious.
Scared of bullies that might hurt us.
Captain Crunch, Pop Tarts & Ninja Turtles.
Catching fireflies on warm summer nights,
playing Manhunt in my LA Lights.
Talkin’ in class, passin’ notes—
Do you like me? Check yes or no.
Waitin’ for the bus, tryna make my hands warmer.
Battle Toads & Transformers,
Ghost Busters.
Watchin’ Nickelodeon, my brother & me,
Camp Anawana & Pete & Pete.
4th of July, ice cream & bottle rockets,
back when Gameboy could fit in your pocket.
Tryna save Zelda with Link.
Knock on wood. Jynx personal jynx.
Being young is what I miss.
Like a bracelet you hit on your wrist,
my childhood went by in a snap.
I can’t believe years go by so fast;
I can’t help but miss way back when.
I’d give anything to be a kid again.
[©GGS 2004, all rights reserved.]
*******************************************************************************************************************
[© GGS circa 2002, all rights reserved.]
Here is the impromptu message that Jeff gave at Gabriel’s memorial service in New Jersey. It’s only 12 minutes long, and it’s full of wisdom …
If you’d like to respond to the invitation at the end of Jeff’s message, email him at exploring.intersections@yahoo.com.
And here, for your blessing, is his sister Sudie singing I Can Only Imagine with unexpected joy …
[Special thanks to Holland Davis for preparing these recordings for upload, and for your continued friendship. To Mercy Me, if I’m violating copyright law by posting Sudie’s version of your song, well, please send me a bill.]
Today is 2 months. The ache for Gabe has gripped me like a vice. I am not alone in this experience. Several members of my family have had days … and days … of being unable to function, at all. For a good portion of every day, I find it hard to want to go on. I told my husband the other day that I can finally begin to comprehend his life of chronic physical pain because the agony is physical as well as mental, spiritual and emotional. However, we are doing our best to put one foot in front of the other with the help of good friends and family. Thank you for your prayers and support.
My family is historically bad at giving gifts. I remember being a kid and getting mostly what I wanted, but I was extremely rambunctious, hyper-active and outgoing. You could throw string and an old shampoo bottle at me and I would have the time of my life. However, like all teenagers, cynicism and an unhealthy obsession with being cool made me much harder to entertain.
I peg myself at about 13 when I stopped getting really excited for Christmas or even birthdays. This probably says a lot more about me than it does about my parents’ and brother’s gift-giving abilities, but I’m still a little skeptical. There was one year though—save for the X-Box Christmas (my parents never, ever bought me video game systems growing up). That year I had gotten punched in the face on Christmas Eve at the mall as I was trying to buy my dad a last minute gift (it’s a long story) and I got something I knew was a gem before I really even understood it.
Through all the disappointing shirts, socks and Christian rap CDs, I opened my brother’s gift to me. We always open one another’s gifts last. I think that year I got him a DVD of a movie I was sure he liked (I was wrong), but he got me Calvin and Hobbes: Sunday Pages 1985-1995. Anyone growing up in the ‘90s would rather disown Power Rangers, The Ghostbusters and Ninja Turtles than speak ill of the great work of art that is Calvin and Hobbes. So imagine my excitement when there in my hands was 10 years (all) of the Sunday comics in full color. Not only in color, but on one page was the final draft that went to the papers and on the adjacent page were Bill Watterson’s original sketches with his commentary on each one.
I was stunned.
Always having enjoyed drawing cartoons, watching cartoons, reading cartoons (I’m a kid at heart), this was a wonderful gift. What I didn’t realize at the time was that one sentence in the book would help me answer one of the most profound questions ever posed to me.
In February, 2006, our very own E.J. Park had an article published in Christianity Today with a title the editor probably thought was clever and funny: “A Tale of Two Kitties.” If the title is the first thing someone reads in a magazine, readers must have thought that Dr. Park’s article was cute, cuddly and possibly a little bit funny. This couldn’t have been any further from the truth and despite the moniker, E.J. asked America a serious and troubling question that has plagued me since I first heard him mention it in class.
Is there anything too sacred to be mass-produced?
Let that sink in for a second. Is anything too sacred to be painted on 10,000 t-shirts? Is there anything too sacred to be put on a billboard? Is there something so close to your heart that you would feel offended if a big corporation or even a small business put it on a coffee mug? Whoa! Way to change my world E.J. … ignorance was bliss!
In the article, E.J. referenced the great Calvin and Hobbes. Some of what he said I had already read in my book. Bill Watterson’s characters (a boy and his stuffed tiger) had captured the imagination of millions. In only 10 years, he was able to carve out and create a world so intriguing and so interesting that everyone wanted more. Watterson had t-shirt offers, TV-show offers, movie offers, everything one would think a comic strip artist would dream of. But defying expectations and probably baffling his family and friends, Watterson said no. The world he had created—the characters, the landscapes and the imagination were much too important to him. Too important to give Calvin another person’s voice and too important to settle the ambiguity of Hobbes by making him into a real stuffed tiger.
Dr. Park references all this and more in his article. (It was called A Tale of Two Kitties because Aslan was also referenced. I bring up only Hobbes here because I was more partial to Watterson as a kid than to Lewis.) If a man thinks his comic strip, a form that has never been taken seriously, is too important to merchandise, too sacred to mass produce, then how much more seriously should we take Jesus? How much more seriously should we take love, emotions, sex, etc.? Is there anything we as North Americans take as seriously as Watterson took his art? I don’t know.
It’s funny to me that the decision of one secular man could change and influence my life more than the hundreds of CCM songs that I have probably heard. His seriousness and devotion to his art have motivated me more than what have classically been called “great artists.” His decision to stand up for something that many other people probably thought was irrelevant was what forced me to finally look at my life and relationship with God. After years of church, countless youth groups and more snow retreats than I would like to remember, a cartoon cat and a smart-ass kid are what brought me closer to the Lord, to my art and to myself.
How’s that for a Christmas gift?
[©GGS 2007, all rights reserved.]
Note: This essay first appeared as the introduction to a paper titled Communication Credo that Gabriel wrote for his senior seminar at Wheaton College. He went on to write:
“In the same way Watterson did not want to sell his art short, I do not want to sell God, the people involved or my audiences short. I do not want to make holy moments into postcards and sacred tears into coffee mugs. I understand these decisions are aggressive. I understand I will not get it right all of the time, but as long as I sincerely believe in having a healthy respect for the sacred and a revulsion for the dehumanizing, I can be an ethical Christian communicator.”
I wish I’d seen this documentary months ago … then I might not have missed or misread the warning signs for suicidal depression that Gabe was exhibiting. These symptoms are used to diagnose adolescent depression, but could just as well have described my 23 year old:
Other warning signs include:
From the PBS depression fact sheet for adolescents and college age students:
“One out of four young adults will experience a depressive episode by age 24. Depression is caused by a variety of factors, including genetics, environment and adverse life stressors. Teens that have chronic illnesses or have experienced trauma are at greater risk of developing depression. …
When your teen goes away to college they are exposed to many stressors that can lead them to develop depression or other mental illnesses. Moving away from friends and family, taking care of yourself for the first time (money, laundry, etc.), having to make new friends, and being academically challenged can be overwhelming. It’s harder to know how your teen is doing when they are away but you should know that surveys have shown that about 50% of college students report feeling so depressed that they have trouble functioning. Many colleges have established good mental health awareness programs and services to aid students. It’s a good idea to know ahead of time how these issues are handled.”
You can plug in your zipcode here to find out when Depression: Out of the Shadows airs on your local PBS station. I only caught part of it last night, but learned so much in that brief introduction that I’ll be watching and recording the entire show on station KCET tomorrow evening at 7pm.
The Depression: Out of the Shadows website includes plenty of informative resources and links. If you suspect that you or someone you love is suffering from depression, get the help you need.
Update 5/24: I apologize to those of you who were looking for this documentary on KCET last night at 7pm. It was only on digital KCET and is not listed for the coming 2 weeks. I’ll post the next air time when I can confirm it.
Update 5/26: Depression: Out of the Shadows will air on station KOCE (Huntington Beach) on Thursday, May 29 at 8pm. I’m setting my Tivo this time. (At 7pm, a show called Men Get Depression Too will air.)
Wheaton College professor John Walford gave a passionate testimony about his brushes with suicide at a recent Wheaton chapel service. There have been three recent alumni suicides in the past year, and the university is rightly concerned about a trend that reflects an alarming three-fold increase in youth suicide.
While I commend both the university in its desire to address the issue with a strong exhortation and Dr. Walford for his transparency, the message fell short in that it lacks the expert advice that might have provided students with consolation, deeper understanding and tangible help.
Today I’d like to commend to you InterVarsity Press editor and Christianity Today columnist Al Hsu’s excellent book, Grieving a Suicide. I met Al in February at the National Pastors’ Convention and noticed this book on a display table. After Gabe’s death and before we left for the services in New Jersey, I asked him to send me a copy. It was waiting for me when we returned to California. I’m reading it for the second time and ordered 10 more copies for family and friends. (I received the shipment yesterday and will distribute the books forthwith.)
Al’s book is dedicated to his father, Terry Tsai-Yuan Hsu, an accomplished electrical engineer who took his own life after a debilitating stroke. Al brings to the topic both a survivor’s understanding and good scholarship.
The book is divided into three parts:
In Part I, we learn that “the grief that suicide survivors experience is described by psychologists as ‘complicated grief.’ … Those of us who experience complicated bereavement are actually grappling with two realities, grief and trauma. Grief is normal; trauma is not. The combination of circumstances is like a vicious one-two punch. We are grieving the death of a loved one, and we are reeling from the trauma of suicide. The first is difficult enough; the second may seem unbearable.”
Al categorizes the resultant turmoil as follows:
In the chapter from Part II on remembrance, Al offers this helpful advice:
“Because of the corrosive, personality-altering nature of suicidal depression, ‘by the time suicide occurs, those who kill themselves may resemble only slightly children or spouses once greatly loved and enjoyed for their company.’ The days, weeks and years following a suicide may be a time of gradually recovering the memories of our loved one, of discovering true and lasting remembrances of their life.”
The chapter I have most marked up is the Why chapter. From our first conversation at 5:00 in the morning after Gabe died, Aaron Kheriaty gently but firmly instructed us that the suicide will never make sense. And yet we try …
Al writes, “We must make a distinction between causes and triggers. Suicide might be triggered by divorce or the loss of a job, but those may not be the actual causes … Suicidal desires run much deeper, and if one event does not trigger the suicide, another might.”
Nonetheless there are some defining characteristics:
Al mentions other factors like suicide as philosophical protest, the higher tendency toward depression/suicide in those with artistic temperaments, suicide because of grief (eg. 9/11 survivors) and suicide as atonement.
He says we may be asking the why question when what we really want to know is How could they do this to me? For him, it is helpful to realize that his father “did what he did to end his pain, not to cause pain for me.”
Each life and death is both common and unique. Dr. Walford’s experience with the temptation toward suicide sounds familiar and yet very different from Gabe’s. He communicated it in his chapel message through the lens of spiritual battle. That is one lens. The context of Gabriel’s death reads to me like a perfect storm of contributing factors. I see his suicide through a compound lens.
Walford chose a route to suicide that allowed him the opportunity to come to his senses. Gabe did not. Is one man more spiritual than the other because of method or outcome? I think not.
In Part III of Grieving a Suicide, Al talks about life after suicide. In the chapter on the healing community, he gives good advice on the language we use to describe suicide. Instead of saying someone “committed suicide” as if the victim were a criminal, we can say they died by suicide or they took their own life.
The final chapter offers five lessons we can learn from suicide:
Our family has been mercifully spared much insensitivity and ignorance in the wake of this tragedy. I can’t imagine going through this without the wise counsel of those who’ve walked the road before. Grieving a Suicide is a book I don’t ever want to recommend again because doing so would mean someone else enduring this type of senseless tragedy. And yet, a suicide occurs every 17 minutes in the United States.
If you are a pastor or lay minister, prepare yourself with knowledge before you try to minister to the grieving and confused. This book will help you do that; it includes a helpful appendix of suicide prevention/survival resources. If you are a survivor, it will be a balm to your soul.
Thanks Al!
[photo ©cas 2007: sunrise at Mustard Seed Ranch, Warner Springs, CA]
Our friend Lenny Bernotas, pastor of Trinity Bible Church, preached a powerful sermon at Gabe’s memorial service called “Grace for Gabriel.” One of the many things that stuck with me from the message was Lenny’s admonition to remember how Gabe lived, rather than how he died. He quoted from Philippians 4:8
Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
What good advice … wisdom from God … wise, peaceable, etc.
Today is five weeks. I’d like to redeem this anniversary by dedicating it to a celebration of Gabe’s life and legacy. I’ll begin with a poem I wrote about him 10 years ago. Next Friday, I’ll post some work of Gabe’s—a poem, rap, cartoon or video. Something that celebrates his life and incredible gifts. But first …
Gabe
You came sparkling into the world,
a firecracker bursting multicolored across the sky,
your soft brown skin glowing with delight at
everything your eyes beheld—
I loved you from the first.
You spoke in sentences sweet
when barely a year had passed,
and when the wedding bells did ring
a granite floor was laid beneath your tiny feet.
The Lord has made a miracle,
he’s made one bright and true;
he sent it shining through the night
to come reside with us.
Never from that swollen golden crimson time
until this frozen grey has
my heart known a moment without
beating just for you.
[original poem © cas, 1998]
[photo: Making Scary Faces with Mom, Fairless Hills, PA, 1986]
Jeff and I were on staff together at our former church with pastor and worship leader Holland Davis. With no direction and little notice, Holland agreed to provide music at Gabe’s service in California. His ministry to us was tender and beautiful. This song was one of two he sang in addition to the gentle guitar strumming that filled the sanctuary at various places in the service. The other song is called “O Love that Will Not Let Me Go.” Holland tells me it hasn’t been recorded yet. I hope he’s working on that.
From the beginning of this tragedy, people have remarked at how well my family is handling it. The other day, I joined the chorus and told Jeff he was doing really well for somebody who had never before experienced the sudden death of an immediate family member. He said, “I know my Redeemer lives and I’m not doing as well as you think.” I fully concur with his sentiments.
Having said that, there are some explanations for why we are doing as well as we are.
First, friends who’ve lost children have told us that the six month point is when the reality really hits hard. We are still in a good deal of shock, thank God, and fully expect things to get worse before they get better.
Second, we’ve been through hell as a family over the past five years. Gabe’s death feels like the horrific end to the whole terrible ordeal. As I wrote about last year in Christianity Today, Jeff and I left full time ministry primarily because our boys were not doing well. They were both struggling in numerous ways. They needed some TLC and we rented our lovely little overpriced apartment with the pool and palm trees as a place of respite for them.
[Irvine, CA, 2007]
When Gabe came home last summer after graduating from college, we had a blow-out one day about I don’t remember what. He dumped his feelings about these years and said something about having wanted to kill himself while he was at school. Contrary to what I told The Wheaton Record in the disoriented days after Gabe’s death, he never said when these thoughts began or how long they lasted. I took him seriously, but mistakenly believed that he would be okay now that he was home. After all, we had all experienced these fleeting thoughts in the midst of our trials and a primary source of his pain and stress was gone.
For a while, Gabe appeared to settle into normal life. More recently, I had become concerned again, and had suggested counseling. We tried to encourage him to find a faith community for support and friendship. His one attempt involved a conversation with a pastor who disparaged his beloved parents’ decision to become Anglicans. Jeff took him under his wing and gave him a job so that he could help him get off the ground financially and support him emotionally. We worshiped together at home on Easter Sunday.
We did everything we knew how to do to help Gabe. I can rack my brain all day and night about my own failings and the warning signs we missed, but I know that we gave our all to loving him and caring for him. Even in his desperate state, he was able to leave behind the words, “Dad, you are my hero,” “Mom, you were a great mom” and “Mike, you were my best friend growing up,” etc. Imagine if we had this outcome with angry words left behind. Gabe loved us and we loved him to the end. There is peace because of this. There is also great pain in knowing that our love wasn’t enough to save him.
[Winward Beach, Brick, NJ, 1985]
The third reason we are doing as well as we are is that Gabe always seemed to have a precarious hold on this world. He had his first serious asthma attack when he was 13 months old, 3 days before Jeff and I were married. I was calling the doctor all day long because he was breathing funny and was listless. She kept saying she was too busy to see him, but finally agreed as the day drew to a close. When she listened to his lungs, a look of terror crossed her face and she sent us immediately to the emergency room. Gabe spent the next 5 days in an oxygen tent.
There would be many such terrifying moments over the years, the last of which was 3.5 years ago. I had to fly to Chicago as Gabe was being placed in an ambulance with his lungs on the verge of collapse. I didn’t know if he would be alive when I got there. As I flew through the sky, I imagined what I would do if I was greeted with news of his death.
Gabriel had other physical traumas. The most serious was a brain injury a couple months after this last life-threatening asthma attack. It was 2 days before Christmas, 2004. As Jeff and I waited at home to decorate the tree, Gabe and Mike went to the mall to buy their dad a present. They returned bloodied and with Gabe incoherent and unable to remember the details of his life. They had been assaulted in a dispute over a parking spot. Gabe was knocked backwards to the ground. Because of his NF, the soft spot on the back of his head had never closed. A palm-sized area of his brain was exposed. It took him nearly a week to regain his memory and for a long time afterwards he said he didn’t feel like himself. But then, as always, he seemed to bounce back.
The point is that Gabe lived his whole life in the shadow of death. We lived in that shadow with him. We know we will see him again. The time doesn’t seem so far off to me and the loss is too recent for the ache to have really settled in. It comes over us in huge waves and then passes for a while. Also, I’ve lost many friends and a father when I was just a girl. Issues of mortality don’t weigh heavily on my mind. I’ve always known this life is but a moment. Perhaps Jeff has known it too from living with Gabe and me.
A fourth reason we are doing well is because we have to. We have another child whose whole identity is altered. It has always been Gabe and Mike. No other person has lived Mike’s experiences with him in the way Gabe did. He needs us to lead the way through this. We’re determined that this tragedy not destroy him or us.
[Pumpkin Picking, Wall, NJ, 1988]
Finally and most importantly, there is the comfort of the Holy Spirit. From the early moments after the police left our home, a verse of Scripture kept washing over my brain: A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. I was assured of God’s compassion for Gabe. The story of David’s response to his son’s death also impressed upon my mind. I identify with him in my better moments. He said, While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, “Who knows, the Lord may be gracious to me, that the child may live. But now he has died; why should I fast? Can I bring him back again. I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me. (2 Sam. 12:22-23)
Gabriel’s whole life was bathed in prayer. His was a long, intense struggle for such a short life. He overcame tremendous obstacles while he lived, more than most of us will ever have to face. When he died, for days, I kept saying, “My poor baby; my poor baby.” What pain he had to be in to do such a thing. He is at peace now. I’d much rather have him present with us and working through his struggles, but that option is past. As I wrote in Gabe’s obituary, our sorrow is surpassed only by the joy it was to have shared our lives with him. We will miss him every day of our lives, but we will live them with faith, hope and love. That’s what he would want.
[Atlantic Avenue Beach, Long Branch, NJ 2000]
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