On Thursday, August 18th, we buried a cherished brother, an aspiring son, a protecting citizen, and a nascent, loving husband. Getting to this point was the most heart breaking, emptying, yet spiritually comforting and replenishing week of our lives. We are both still consumed by a brooding sense of loss, though it’s cathartic to reflect back on this week: what we have seen, what we have heard, what we learned…
It began with a frantic call at 1:50am on August 13th. It was Lex’s birthday. Rick was with Lex and her family in the 8800 block of S Princeton Ave, celebrating the life of her aunt who passed away suddenly the day before. The terror of what happened next, I can only imagine. It ended with Rick, struck by a lone, lethal bullet, shielding his wife of three weeks and knocking her to the ground.
As we arrived at Roseland Community Hospital down on 111th, what we saw in that ER was pain, hurt, and anger. We heard the screams of a broken wife and mother, and, in others, we heard the silence of hopelessness. There in the darkness of the south side of Chicago, we learned that, each of us, in our shocked state of grief could only stand simply to hate, or simply to love.
In that darkness, certain beacons of light appeared. We learned how he died protecting his wife and we recalled how he lived, protecting those whom he cared about. We saw a Chicago Police officer who only job was to console, pray, and listen. There was a light in her eyes when Fr. Tom appeared: it was clear we all shared a common faith. In his freshly creased blacks, it was also clear that his spirit was neither fresh nor eager, yet he stayed with us in our murky time of piqued need. The nightmare of that night turned to the derisive light of an otherwise bright and sunny morning.
The outpouring of support that followed was comforting at its best and daunting at its worst. So many people turned to us in prayer, phone calls, and visits to offer their sympathy: their humble, authentic, awkward, honest sympathy. Truly, what can be said? We are simply grateful for the selfless love of our friends and family.
As we turned from shock to grief, we turned to faith and prayer to plan a visitation and funeral mass for Rick. The visitation was brimming with support and sorrow. From a quiet room under the buzzing lights of the ER, it was hard to imagine the sheer volume of people Rick had touched, coming to honor him that night -- what we saw was overwhelming. At the funeral the following morning, we all heard the sound of the Old St. Pat’s choir who had traveled to lead us in song, we marveled at the Word of God being proclaimed by dear friends from Chicago, and we listened to the voice of Fr. Tom as he searched for the perfect words to offer that glimpse of Christian hope.
On Thursday, August 18th, we buried Rick. But not before our hearts had turned to know the Peace of God in some small way more than before. We learned to not only ask “why?” but “what can we do?”. We learned that grieving is not possible without friends and family, and that friends and family are simply not possible without love: doing and being God’s love.
The Lord is near. Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing what you have learned and received and heard and seen in me. Then the God of peace will be with you.
- Paul’s letter to the Philippians 4:5-9
