Seventh Anniversary Reflection

by Dan Misleh

If we only pay attention

I’ve told this story to a number of people and they suggested I write it down. For this seventh commemoration of Zach’s passing, I share this story with you:

The Ireland trip was going very well. But on this Thursday morning, halfway through our trip, I was not happy.

After Susie’s weeklong retreat with other women in Ireland, I flew to Dublin to meet her. We planned another solid week with the intention of not only a nice vacation exploring the country, but to connect with Zach as we neared the second anniversary of his going home to God.

We hopped from one bed and breakfast to the next along the north and central Atlantic coast beginning in Westport then meandering south, enjoying traditional Irish breakfasts in the mornings and Guinness pints in the evenings at the many pubs along the way. We planned two nights in Galway but the bed and breakfast was not the best. It was a funky place with a somewhat eccentric host. Neither of us were satisfied with our choice.

Beyond the bed and breakfast, my unhappiness that Thursday morning was more about the need to work to finalize a grant for my organization as I felt it didn’t meet our standards. It was due at the end of the day which meant I had to get my edits done in the morning so it could be submitted on time. So I worked on it at the bed and breakfast for a few hours while Susie explored a bit of Galway on her own.

At one point she texted me saying that she found a bed and breakfast near the Cliffs of Moher where we had planned to go the following day. While we were forfeiting a night’s fee at the funky place, we agreed that it would be good to get out of Galway.

I finally finished my work and around noon, we checked out and made our way south to the cliffs. The bed and breakfast Susie chose in Doolin was perfect: a spacious room with a view of the ocean and a peak at the cliffs to the southwest. We dropped our luggage and headed out.

Stunning, spectacular, amazing! This nearly perfectly sunny day could not have offered a better view of this world-renowned natural attraction. From the entrance to the park, we walked south and then north along the cliffs to capture all of the sights. As we were considering heading back to the car, we found a patch of grass, lay facing the sky and looked for images of Zach in the clouds, something we’d done since his death. No images revealed themselves, but we both became melancholic for what we lost. We said a short prayer to Zach, telling him how much we missed him and hoping he was happy. With teary eyes and as the sun began to set we started walking south, back towards the car.

As we walked, we noticed that everyone was looking left–eastward and away from the ocean–at the bay on the other side of the peninsula. A small rain cloud was shedding water into the bay and was lit up with the brightest and most distinct rainbow either of us had ever seen. It was clear that Zach was saying, “Dry your eyes. I’m here. I’m with you. Be at peace.”

We made our way to McGann’s Pub for a late dinner. The place was packed so we were seated in the back, out of view of that night’s musicians as this was the only booth available.

After we ate (Irish stew for Susie, fish and chips for me) a most gracious host stopped by for a visit with Susie while I stood near the musicians to take it all in. When I returned Susie and the host were still in conversation. He turned to me saying, “Your wife told me of the purpose of your trip and I just want to express my condolences.” I was so grateful that I reached into my pack and dug out one of the guitar picks my sister had ordered as a memorial token for our large family. On one side of the pick was Zach’s handsome face and on the other side, a rainbow. I had forgotten about the rainbow!

The host was touched and he said, "I'm going to pin this above the till (the cash register) and your son will remain with us until this place is no more.”

We snapped a photo of it on the way out, happy with the knowledge that Zach’s spirit remained in that beautiful town, near the Cliffs of Moher and its rainbow, produced just for us.

My good friend Rich had organized a bike tour of Ireland the following summer. I planned to go but the timing was wrong and the expense was a bit too much. As the trip neared, Rich asked me about the small deposit I had made to reserve my spot. Knowing they were stopping in Doolin for a night, I said to keep it and treat everyone to a drink at McCanns, raise a pint to Zach, and look for him above the till. He honored both requests and sent back the photo of Zach’s smiling face amidst the hundreds of other photos and tokens pinned and posted behind the bar.

I shared Rich’s photo with my mother-in-law. Immediately she said, “Look at the bottle of Jameson whiskey right beneath Zach.” It struck me like it struck her except I never noticed it.

You see, John Patridge, Carole’s late husband and Zach’s grandfather (Papa), had a thing. Years ago, we sent Zach and his cousin Emma to Stockton, CA, to hang with Nana and Papa for a week. Papa introduced Zach to Marx Brothers films (cue Zach’s over-the-top laughter) including Animal Crackers in which Groucho Marx plays Captain Spaulding and asks his secretary, Jameson (played by Zeppo Marx), to take notes.

From that time on when Zach would answer the phone and Papa was the caller, Zach would say, “Captain Spaulding! Good to hear from you.” Even through the landline speaker, you could hear Papa exclaim, “Jameson! How are you?” They would carry on this way until Captain Spalding would ask Jameson if his mother was home.

I recently found in our Ireland photo album the picture I took of Zach’s pick over the till, the one nearly identical to Rich’s. Sure enough, a bottle of Jameson was in that photo as well. We just never noticed.

Layers upon layers of coincidence? Or real and tangible signs of Zach’s spirit, Zach’s not-so-subtle messages from the Great Beyond? It seems like too much to be just coincidence.

I hope you find signs of your loved ones as you continue to remember them whether in grief and sadness or with fondness and comfort knowing that they are in a better place.

Zach took time to comfort us with the rainbow and made us laugh with the Jameson’s. Undoubtedly he and Captain Spaulding are both in on the joke.

Andrew Desantis

Seventh Anniversary Letter

Andrew Desantis is a dear friend and DeMatha classmate of Zachary’s. Please enjoy this beautiful letter to Zach.

June 13th, 2024

Dear Zach,

Seven years.  I didn’t know how to say it, so I thought I’d just put it in a letter.

It crosses my mind sometimes where you’d be right now, if you were still here. Of course it does. I think it will always be present in those who knew and loved you. What might have such a beautiful soul done with a full life?

I’d like to think that at this point, both of us in our mid-twenties, you would be well on your way to save the world.  Maybe I’d go see you in Maryland, or New York, or Alaska, or wherever you happened to be living. Or you’d fly out to visit me in Colorado, where I call home now. I imagine hiking through the quiet foothills and sitting on my front porch over beers, talking about the different directions our lives took us.  I can see you, your face lighting up and crinkling with laughter, still wearing your hair and beard long like a giant Jesus Christ Superstar. Maybe you are a returned Peace Corps volunteer and now work at a nonprofit. Deepening some vocation to better humanity, shining your heart outwards and uplifting others like a peaceful Christian mystic or Bodhisattva.   I do know you’d undoubtedly still be writing and making music, the songs becoming more deeply moving, and powerful, and expressive of your inner Self as you gained wisdom and years. Growing, experimenting, traveling, changing…I imagine what experiences we might share in adulthood, adventures, milestones.

Adulthood.  What a strange word to write. We were kids when we met each other, gangly, awkward freshman at DeMatha Catholic High School. I think I remember first seeing you from afar in the cafeteria freshman year, surrounded by a group of guys from the novice rowing team. We crossed paths lots of times that fall, coming and going from the band building, math class, overlapping acquaintances. 

Do you remember the first time we hung out?  You caught me between classes around November and asked if I wanted to Metro into Gallery Place that weekend to grab Chinese food. I agreed, eager to get to know people in those earlier days of high school, and I already liked you from afar-- you were the only kid on dress-down day who wore Teva sandals and a Baja hoodie. It seemed like you were genuinely yourself without pretense, sure of who you were.

My dad drove me over to the Cheverly Orange Line to meet you on a Saturday. It was a warm sunny day, for November. When we rolled up, we found you leaned back on the bench in the sunshine with shades on, hands folded, like you were posing for a picture, trying to look cool and nonchalant. “Is that him?” my dad wondered aloud. You jumped up to come over to the car, shake his hand, and meet him properly. I think you knew this, but my parents loved you a lot. Not only impressed by your depth and maturity, you also had the magic ability to talk them out of their strict no-sleepover policy. And your ability to eat several generous portions of dinner was also a huge compliment to my Italian dad’s cooking.

We boarded a train towards D.C., on an empty train sitting by the windows. While passing over the part of the Anacostia River that crossed over Kingman Island near the old RFK stadium, I remember you excitedly pointing out where you rowed during practice, telling funny stories about Coach Ridgeway and random, unique anecdotes of the sport. Knowing nothing about crew or rowing, that first piqued my interest. I wouldn’t join the team until later that winter, with your encouragement helping me gain the courage to try out. 

We made it to Gallery Place and walked to Chinatown Express to drink green tea and eat chow mein and get to know each other. I think we were only there for an hour before we boarded separate trains to head back home. My mom was a little surprised when I met up with them out in College Park soon after.  “What- you’re back already? Did you guys even eat?”

Friends sometimes come and go, but we only became better friends as we grew older. I think there was a mutual shared understanding we had.  It started with the basics, sharing our love of books, especially Hemingway and Tolkien, putting each other on to new music, and bonding over a love of film.  Do you remember the movies we watched? Laughing till we cried watching corny Bruce Lee movies from the 70s in your basement.  The night you, me, and Ryan Moran stayed up all night in my basement, talking, watching Good Will Hunting, goofing off, not able to fall asleep, eventually winding up in the backyard to watch the pink sunrise. Seeing Interstellar, which you declared our generation’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, opening week at the Smithsonian IMAX; I remember coming out of the theater to sit down together on the steps outside, stunned into a newfound awe of the night sky, with the understanding that we had just shared something profound together.

There were a lot of good times we had. I will cherish those. They are more precious now, like an old wine. I can still take them down and dust them off and smile. There is nostalgia remembering our innocence as underclassmen, the long hours put in on crew practices spent in the weight room, running laps and doing hill sprints, erg machines on the colder days, getting out on the water, becoming closer as a boat, going to the Stotesbury Cup regatta in Philadelphia, the excitement of the races.  A back injury would prevent you from continuing your progression as a rower, but you always remained somewhere nearby, still very much part of the team. There were band trips (I recall eating an offensively large stack of pancakes at Pocohontas restaurant in Virginia Beach on a band trip and trying to walk it off along the beach before rehearsal time), sharing homerooms, hotel rooms on crew regatta overnights and band trips with good friends like Zeke, English classes together, long summer evenings hanging out at PG pool with Hyattsville friends. Sweaty, crowded shows at the now-closed Archie Blues Barber Shop in Old Riverdale's Town Center.   As we got older we would go through other rites of passage together.  Experimenting with smoking pot and putting vinyl records on, listening for the intricacies in the sound. Offering a stranger a twenty to buy us Jack Daniels from a Bladensburg liquor store because we didn’t have fake IDs. Trying to figure out who we were going to ask to homecoming dances.

You were the type of person who made an impression whether one knew you or not. At six foot five, you stood out at any student section whose chants you orchestrated, any party you walked into. I could always see you among the crowd or, if you weren’t standing up, I could pick you out by your booming laughter filling the corners of your room. I was always in awe, and a little envious, of what looked like an effortless ability to move between conversing with jocks on the lacrosse and basketball teams, musicians and band kids, the crew team, geeks, loners, class clowns, teachers-- hell, you even had the rare gift of being good at conversing with parents.  You really could talk to anyone.

You also introduced me to an adjacent community that I didn’t know existed growing up in exclusively Catholic schools – the Mt. Rainier, Takoma Park, Riverdale, and Hyattsville kids, with whom you’d come of age, raised under Montessori ideals and an earthy, down-to-earth crunchiness that seemed so uncharacteristic of what one might picture in the urban Washington metro area and the bustle of the District itself.  I feel like you welcomed me with open arms into this group of loving people, sharing values of human decency, warmth, authenticity, and especially community. I would grow to consider some of these people close friends.

I feel that you and I shared an understanding that sometimes there wasn’t a lot to be said, or that needed to be said. That you could easily share a comfortable silence with someone, and that was alright.  I’ve noticed it is sometimes hard to find people like that.  There is a constant need to chatter, in a world gripped with constant stimulation, gratification, distraction. Most people are not comfortable with silence. I think a lot of people saw and loved your boisterous outgoing side. I am grateful that you trusted me enough to show me more parts of you. The quiet nights driving home from a rowdy student section at a soccer game, or a party, after the loudness had faded. Just driving, listening to Radiohead, Jeff Buckley, or Pink Floyd cruising down Kenilworth Avenue, the music floating out as cool night rushed in. We were young, and life often seemed long ahead of us.  Close to the end of summer 2016, there was one drive where I remember telling you I was going to miss you next year when we went our separate ways to college, and you agreed. We talked about trying to stay in touch and not drift apart. It was a moment of wistfulness, but also resolve that our friendship would go beyond space and time. That we’d still be connected, even when apart.

I remember once walking by the upstairs school chapel on lunch break, later in our senior year, to see you sitting in there quietly. I don’t think you saw me, and I didn’t stop to say anything. I thought you were in meditation or some deeper communion with something.  We didn’t talk a lot about God, but I know that you were deeply led by Spirit, whether it was stated out loud or not. It was the unapologetic way you were yourself. The way you could find common ground with anyone. Your sensitivity to nature, music, and reading. Your ability to uplift those around you with an inviting comment of curiosity, or a witty quip or joke. You saw no separateness.

It was through knowing you and your soul more deeply when we traveled to Tijuana together, helping families build their homes, alongside a few parents and kids mostly from the Hyattsville/Mt. Rainier/Takoma Park circles. The hard labor under the sun, building homes from the ground up alongside families living in poverty, was deeply stirring. But it was the moment when our group of volunteers was cajoled into giving an impromptu concert at the AIDS shelter we visited, and your fingers moved over the shelter’s dilapidated guitar strings to bring new life into the room like an ocean breeze. I don’t even remember the song you sang, but I remember it was quietly powerful and from your heart, and I understood there was a deeper well of feeling and sensitivity within you then I knew before. I never told you how moved I was watching you kneel in the sand at Pacifico Beach before the border wall, in reverence, I always thought, to those who had sacrificed so much crossing a man-drawn line across the earth, which seagulls and fish moved across freely, parcels of land, cut up and divided by human governments. As forces we did not yet understand slowly rose around us, an era of xenophobia and Trumpism, you remained grounded in a higher love and simplicity.  The poem you wrote about your first time in Mexico still lives at Casa de Esperanza, in La Gloria.

The last time I saw you was at your aunt’s Christmas Eve party, after we had both returned home from our first semester of college. Many old Hyattsville friends from Tijuana trips were there. I almost didn’t recognize you at first with your beard and long hair.  You seemed somewhat quieter than you usually were in a group of people, but nothing else seemed amiss. You were able to work your charms on my mom to let her agree to me spending the night at your house. We spent a better half of the night catching each other up on the missing details of the last couple of months, our new lives in New York and Chicago, threw on the new Paul Thomas Anderson movie Inherent Vice, chomped on mini tacos.  At one point I noticed your bunny rabbit that lived in the basement was gone.  “She’s pushing daisies now,” you said. There was a solemn moment of recognition, and then we fell back into the easy conversation of two friends.  It was like old times. We said our goodbyes in the morning.  Sometime that next day, your family was in a bad car accident. Everyone was OK, but I remember feeling shaken how close you could have come to death. Did you know that within a couple months you wouldn’t be here anymore?

I know you were in great pain. I don’t know if I could have helped take some of that burden off you or sat with you in that hole until you felt better. Or helped take some of that stigma off your shoulders, had the barriers that prevented us from making contact in that more raw and vulnerable way been removed. I’d like to think we could have gotten you more help. I like to think things could have turned out very different that awful Tuesday in June 2017.  But the difference I see now is that things are what they are and cannot be changed. Everything happened as it did, even if it does not yet make sense. 

I wonder how things have been for you in whatever form you are now. Maybe you rest somewhere in the heavens. How is the music up there?  I can see your joy experiencing music in its truest form, at the source.  I like to think you are now at one with it all, Seraphim and Cherubim, the indescribably beautiful sound of singing and the glorification of the Most High.  Music which earthly Christmas Vigil masses can only imitate in comparison, perhaps adding in chords of your own.  Another sense tells me you’re not confined to a silver cloud strumming on a harp or lute all day, though I hope they have guitars laying around for you to play sometimes, too.

Maybe other parts of you settle around the places you loved.  Maybe there is some of you along the shorelines of the Anacostia in the springtime, as rowers launch smoothly across the brown waters undisturbed under cool sunny afternoons in April; you hover in the synchronized whoosh of eight oars forming a stroke, a swooping heron, the gentle ripple of a motorboat wake.  Like the brief illumination of a lit match, you are there again as two friends reminisce about something you said, smiling while they tell the story. Or in the eyes of a child at play in a Tijuana barrio, whose home took shape from hours of your sweat and energy toiling under the Pacific sun. Maybe other atoms of you, still, settle among the chattering birds and flowers of your home in Cheverly, in the dust motes drifting in beams of sunlight of a DeMatha hallway, the innocence of a butterfly or a small lightning bug, on an early June evening.  I remember the short story you once wrote, which you asked me to help you edit.  It was written from the perspective of a small insect on a tree, distraught, if I remember correctly, over the destruction of his natural habitat by human bulldozers. That was like you, paying attention to even the small things. Your sensibilities went beyond the human, although you cared deeply about people.

The truth of the matter is I cannot say for sure where you are now, and I am okay with that. I know you are all right. In the earlier days I was hungrier for an answer. There was a quality of grasping there, the feeling that if I had enough answers or pieces of the puzzle I could construct a semblance of narrative around what led to your death. I thought more answers would equate to more understanding. More understanding to more peace.  I know now that is an impossible search. There have been seven years’ worth of thinking, growth, acceptance, and being a participant of time. 

It has taken me some time to write about you. I would start something, and then crumple up what I was going to say. I worried that it would tear open scar tissue, so sensitive the first couple years, again. Or it would be inaccurate – I would leave out details or do some disservice to your memory, select the pieces of you that stick out most prominently, memorializing you into a museum statue, incongruent with the Zach I knew in flesh and blood.  But I think what it really comes down to, is the word I said earlier – adulthood. It feels so final. Writing this letter to you acknowledges that I am older and you will be on Never-Never Land, to stay the same age as you were.

I wish I could talk to you, even for three minutes, and hear your voice lilting and beaming as you go off on a tangent about a new album or some current passion. I wouldn’t even speak. Just to hear your voice again would be enough.  There’s an aching pain, dull, like an old tiny bruise, when I think about the man you would have become, the lives you would have touched, the song lyrics left unwritten, the sweet melodies not to be played on your guitar.

That little bruise will always be there. There will always be an urge to indulge fantasies of what-ifs.  But I prefer to stay more in reality, in this moment, these days. The truth of what is will always be more solid and grounding than the thoughts of a mind in grief.  And I’m sure you would not want those you left behind to remain stuck forever in grief.  You would encourage life to be lived more fully, more vibrantly, as you did. Even in the immediate aftermath, you would’ve been touched to see how people came together in solidarity and pain to try to make sense of your loss. It was shortly after your death, maybe the next night, when I remember going to the Hertzler-McCain’s Mount Rainier home with Ryan, to all pray together, and how comforting that was in a time of darkness. Or walking through the woods near my house later that summer, feeling down, and running into Paul Clark, our former Honors American Lit and writing teacher who was a guiding mentor for both of us; he asked me how I was doing, and walked with me, and we talked about you.  Or seeing the new Stars Wars movie with your sister Anna, which you would have enjoyed with a huge smile slapped on your face the entire time. You must have smiled at the subsequent trips undertaken to Tijuana in your memory, including one pioneered by DeMatha.  You must have been somewhere nearby during the hangouts of old buddies who knew you well during Christmas breaks or reunions.  There are so many things I learned about you after you were gone that continue to add depth and new color to the person you were.

You will never fully be gone.  But there is growing acceptance that you operate on a mysterious plane unknown to me now. Your physical self is no longer a phone call away.  I like to think that our relationship now is one of the heart. I tell myself that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, that the atoms of you have gone somewhere. You still guide and speak to me through little signs, synchronicities, and through music, especially the music.  The amount of times I’ve thought about you and the radio happened to fall on one of “your” songs is too many to count.

I still miss you, my friend. I will always miss you. I wish you deep rest and joy.  I knew you only a fraction of your short time on Earth, but I thank God I met you on this journey of life. 

I’ll see you further down the river.

Andrew

Sixth Anniversary Reflection

June 13, 2023

Dear Zach:

On this sixth anniversary, I'm feeling that I am out of deep reflections or wisdom for others to hear.

I think of you multiple times each day. Holidays, special moments, and anniversaries are more poignant, the pain slightly sharper, but I no longer crumble, struck with grief that colors the rest of the day grey.

Of course, I will always miss you and love you. That's just part of the human soul. That you are in a better place, free from the pain that haunted you day and night--especially night--does provide solace.

Yes, I think of how old you'd be (26), what you'd be doing, what career you might have chosen, whether you'd have fallen in love. I miss your humor, your laughter, your deep reflections, your compassion and your outrage at injustice.

On this beautiful morning (the first Tuesday since that awful Tuesday six years ago), I sit on the deck listen to the birds and hear your own song in their cacophony. As I search for a poem that reflects my thoughts today, I somehow recalled Dar Williams' song, The One Who Knows, that found new meaning for me after you died. Initially, I would play it to myself when Ben then Anna and then you went off to college. It speaks well of how fast and unfairly time slips by. It became a prayer for me as I thought of each of you across the miles: on your own, exploring your world and plotting some sort of future. After you died, the song's meaning deepened and now when I see the moon, I whisper a silent prayer of thanksgiving for your brief but powerful life, thank God that I became your dad, and seek your wisdom as I continue with what is left of my own journey. Rest easy my son.

Your grateful dad.

____

Time it was I had a dream, and you're the dream come true.

If I had the world to give, I'd give it all to you.

I'll take you to the mountains, I will take you to the sea.

I'll show you how this life became a miracle to me.

You'll fly away, but take my hand until that day.

So when they ask how far love goes,

When my job's done you'll be the one who knows.

All the things you treasure most will be the hardest won.

I will watch you struggle long before the answers come.

But I won't make it harder, I'll be there to cheer you on,

I'll shine the light that guides you down the road you're walking on.

You'll fly away, but take my hand until that day. 

So when they ask how far love goes, 

When my job's done you'll be the one who knows.

Before the mountains call to you, before you leave this home,

I want to teach your heart to trust, as I will teach my own,

But sometimes I will ask the moon where it shined upon you last,

And shake my head and laugh and say it all went by too fast.

You'll fly away, but take my hand until that day. 

So when they ask how far love goes,

When my job's done you'll be the one who knows.

Source: LyricFind

Songwriter: Dar Williams

The One Who Knows lyrics © BMG Rights Management

Fifth Year anniversary reflection

June 13, 2022

 Last night, we invited some dear friends for a potluck dinner, to share with Susie and me some memories of Zach, and to celebrate his short life. We talked about his uproarious laughter, his big heart, his artistry with music, and even his knack to be the center of attention in so many situations—attempting to eat a whole lime or succeeding in swallowing a raw egg (shell and all), and diving in the murky, likely toxic, and just plain nasty Anacostia River to find a crew teammate’s car keys. We talked about his role in organizing a “teacher of the year” coup for an educator at his high school who no one saw as worthy. We laughed, we cried, we remembered.

 The conversation unexpectedly turned towards both of us. Our intention was to keep the focus on Zach, but our friends would tug the conversation back to us, insisting that we were somehow heroic and inspiring in our handling of this awful tragedy. They said that we’ve helped to point the way for others in handling grief and unspeakable loss. I felt uncomfortable with the conversation.

In the early days, weeks and months following Zach’s death, my tears were always turned inward: feeling sad about Zach, for sure, but especially for myself and for so many reasons: that I could have done something (I couldn’t have), that he won’t finish college, fall in love, pursue a career, or give me grandchildren.

Now, I tear up for a different reason. When people ask me what I most remember about those days, weeks and months, tears well up as I say, “We didn’t have to cook dinner until September.” The dinners were but one manifestation of the complete and overwhelming outpouring of love, concern, and kindness by so many in our hometown of Cheverly, by friends far away, and by our loving family.

So, when our friends said how grateful they are for us being so open about our grief and showing them a way forward in their own moments of loss and heartbreak, I couldn’t help but wonder if Susie and I could have been as open if it wasn’t for this community, this kinship of family and friends. In those early days, it was as if you had encased us in emotional bubble-wrap, blunting the pummels of pain striking us day and night. Could we have had the courage to be so open with our grief had we not felt the protection and encouragement to share by all of you? I seriously doubt it.  

Five years out from that horrendous day and those awful months, far less sadness and far more gratitude fill our hearts; gratitude for each of you who were there for us then and continue to be with us now. Thanks for giving us shoulders to cry on, for asking how we are doing and for your understanding when we drop Zach’s name and a memory even when uninvited.

Today, I more easily shift from sorrow to gratefulness that Zach helped change my life both while he was alive and after he died. I am also enormously thankful for my two other miraculous children now married to equally bright and empathic partners. I am especially grateful for Susie, my partner in grief and in joy. I know for a fact that the grief of a father can never compare to the grief of a mother. Talk about heroic! And I am grateful for all of you.

It fills my heart to hear how many still invoke Zach’s help in silent prayer or simple conversation, sharing your own joys and anxieties. He indeed remains with us. Today, I hope you will recall your own memories—hilarious or poignant—and think about how his spirit still lives on in you.

Last night our friend Jean read a couple of paragraphs from our eulogy including the ending. I post it once again for you:

We believe that all who have been touched by this bright shining light, those in this Church and those far beyond these walls, all of us have an obligation to allow his life to penetrate our own. He’s recruited all of us to change the world for the better. In whatever way you can, I hope you will take up the challenge to try and change the world for the better using Zach’s example. God bless all of you and God bless you dear Zachary.

With a heart filled with gratitude,

Dan

Fourth Year anniversary reflection

June 13, 2021

Dear Zachary,

On this fourth anniversary of that awful day, I feel that I’ve finally come to grips with life without you. It wasn’t always so. I remember so vividly standing in line at Costco maybe a week after you died and wondering how the world had not stopped for everyone else as it had for me. I wanted to cry out to, employees, customers, anyone who would listen, “Hey people! Don’t you realize what just happened? How can you just go about your lives as if Zachary’s didn’t matter?” Oh right: they were among the unfortunate segment of humanity who never knew you.

Today I remember you as you were: funny and fun-loving, talented and smart, a handsome heartbreaker, an empathetic and loyal friend to all. The deep-hidden troubles rarely surfaced so none of us saw your end coming. Finally, those troubles shrouded all these gifts in darkness and overtook your will to continue this life here on earth.

As I look back on the year that has unfolded since we last commemorated your death, I have to say that it has been surreal. Last June, the world was reeling from the global pandemic. Mom and I (and millions of others) spent our days working from home as the world slowed to a crawl to stem the spread of COVID 19. We were the lucky ones as we still had jobs.

Our nation’s political divides stood out in high relief as we struggled with that all-American fiction of individualism where far too many failed to embrace any notion of the common good as the pandemic plagued our country. Individual rights (“It is my choice not to wear a mask or get a vaccine!) overrode love of neighbor and a sense of responsibility to others. As a result, three massive waves of death and disease overwhelmed us and hundreds of thousands more people died than was necessary. Undoubtedly you were busy welcoming those souls to their celestial reward.

In May, a Minneapolis police officer killed a black man by kneeling on his neck and suffocating him. So, on top of a global pandemic and a faltering economy, our nation began—for real this time, please God—to come to grips with its original sin of racism. Protests erupted in cities and towns all across the country. It has led many of us to reflect on our own complicity in how we treat, or blissfully ignore, those not born with the distinct advantage of being white in America. I have absolutely no doubt that your big heart and passion for justice would have led you to the streets to walk arm-in-arm with those seeking to unite us all as God’s beloved children.

In the fall, we headed towards an historic election which saw the biggest voter turnout in history. While Joe Biden won both the popular vote and the electoral college, President Trump insisted that the election was unfair and stoked anger among his followers that reverberates to this day. Our democracy continues to be in serious jeopardy as nearly a third of the country still can’t accept the outcome of a legitimate election. His unwillingness to concede—as every other former president has done—and his ability to stoke fear and outrage led to an unprecedented attack on our nation’s capital by his some of his most ardent supporters.

This divisiveness is exactly the opposite of who you were while you walked with us. You would have found a way to try and bridge some divides, understood the “other side” and found common ground. We truly need more people with those qualities for the sake of our country and our world.

On a happier note…

We anticipated the wedding of Ben and Miriah on July 10th only to be delayed due to the pandemic…but wait! They announced that they did get married on that day with a few friends as witnesses. Suddenly and happily, we welcomed a daughter-in-law. Shortly after that, Patrick and Anna got engaged and we celebrated both a wedding and an engagement on the same weekend in July. Our hearts were full.

Anna and Patrick married on April 24th in New York. Covid forced it to be a small affair with immediate family, but it was elegant and oh-so-much fun. You certainly would have celebrated both affairs with your trademark gusto! We felt both your presence and your absence in equal measure.

As life begins to return to normalcy, at least in the U.S., I look back on a head-spinning year and I thank God for our many blessings: our health, our growing family, fulfillment in our work, a home, and our new awareness of how much healing is still needed in our country.

I certainly do miss you and your humor, your smile, and that zest for life even if it concealed a deep pain. I will continue to see your presence in those I love and in this beautiful creation, and allow that presence to inspire me to live each day fully.

Love forever and always,

Dad

Third Year Anniversary Reflection

Dan Misleh

June 13, 2020

Dear Zachary,

Your laughter always came easy and vigorously. In the spring of 2008 you, your mom and I were waiting for more of Ben’s friends to show up so we could take prom pictures and wave goodbye to them as they piled into a stretch limo for their evening adventure. You were 11 and getting antsy. To distract you, I pulled out an old joke:

A shy young man spied an equally shy young woman across the dance floor. Since he had not found a dance partner and it was clear no one was with the woman, he decided to risk asking her if she would like to join him. Neither of them was very attractive. She had a nose that was, well, far larger than the rest of her dainty features. As they started to talk, she noticed that only his right eye was tracking her. The left was still because it was a false eye made of wood. They talked for maybe 10 minutes when he finally found the nerve to ask her to dance. “Oh, would I, would I, would I!” she said excitedly. “Big nose, big nose, big nose,” he replied and stormed off.

You started laughing so hard that everyone, including your mother, looked over at us. Your laughter, always contagious, started me going. It went downhill from there and neither of us could stop giggling. Mom was not pleased—and she threw a glance that said to me, “Really Dan? This is about Ben, not you!” You caught mom’s glance, too. Naturally, that made us laugh even more.

As you grew older, you were always ready to laugh heartily at the slightest mishap, irony or simple joke. One of my last memories of you, just days before you died, was at your aunt and uncle’s house. We were in the kitchen and I had a crumpled napkin in my hand that I tried to toss on the counter, not wanting to disrupt conversations that were going on around us. It was probably a four-foot shot and I missed the counter by two feet. With a grin and a puzzled face, you looked at me as if to say, “Oh my god, that was so pathetic.” We both started to laugh quietly while others around us had no idea what was going on.

These and so many memories like them are the ones that I hold dear.

At this three-year mark since you went home to God, you would have graduated from college along with your DeMatha and St. John’s University classmates. I wonder what you would have settled on as a major: English? philosophy? sociology? I imagine you doing a year of volunteer service somewhere as a way to follow the tug of your big heart and deep compassion for those whose lives have gotten off track. Then back to school to pursue a masters or a doctorate. I envisioned you as a philosophy professor; you certainly had the smarts to do almost anything you wanted.

I have no doubt you would have risked COVID to join the Black Lives Matter movement in Brooklyn or Manhattan or, if you were back home, in DC. You would have seen, as so many do, the unique and historic opportunity this is to move civil rights to the next level.

These two sides of you—the ready laugh and living fully in this messy but beautiful world, and the serious, big-hearted, compassionate and justice-minded bridge builder—seem to be rare qualities these days. Those of us who knew you loved these qualities. St. John’s Ozanam Scholars program honored you with an award, The Zachary Misleh Bridge Builder Award, given to two of your classmates this spring. Megan and Steffi were chosen because they exemplified your spirit of finding common ground and encouraging community amidst differences. Your principal at DeMatha told us that he can predict the quality of a class by the number of bridge-builders, the number of boys who can bring different groups together and see possibilities rather than differences. He said you were among that number and a key to the success of the Class of 2016.

If heaven is in need of a bridge-builder, you would be chief engineer, ensuring that everything is ready, so the crossing is easy, and all feel welcome—from George Floyd to those who arrive harboring or acting on the racist instincts they cultivated over a lifetime. You’d be a natural to bring them together, to reconcile and to urge them to become what we ought to be here on earth: one human family designed for love, for community, for kinship.

Our challenge in the here and now is to do the same. Help us take inspiration from your life, Zach. Open our eyes to see differences as opportunities for personal growth, not obstacles that set us apart.

We still mourn, for sure. But we can also be grateful for your short life, so well lived. Help us find that balance so we’re neither obnoxiously self-righteous nor oblivious to the pain around us.

And help us to not to take ourselves so seriously: to laugh at irony, to be silly once in a while, to enjoy the fullness of life.

Finally, let Sittie—your grandmother and my mom—know how much I miss her but that I’m glad she’s at peace, too.

I will always love you,

Dad

LETTER FROM JAMILA

(Jamila Moses)

June 14, 2019

Dear Dan and Susie,

Right now as I’m writing this email to you, it’s 6AM in Georgia and I just woke up from a dream about Zach. I remember hoping so much in the days and months after his death, that I would see him in my dreams, get to hear his voice, or give him a hug, since I couldn’t do those things in my real life anymore. Now I cherish every dream and memory I have with him, holding it so close to my heart and begging my mind to not forget.

June 19th, the day of Zach’s funeral, also happened to be my 18th birthday, and your birthday as well Dan. I never considered that a coincidence, but rather a very bittersweet birthday gift from God, or fate, or whoever is controlling my voodoo doll.

That same day, after the funeral and the gathering in the basement, I drove home and packed my bags for camp. I had signed up to be a camp counselor for The Muscular Dystrophy Association’s summer camp. So, after all the crying, and the crying, and the more crying, I got in the car and drove two hours to the middle of nowhere Maryland. So for two hours I blasted the radio, rolled down the window, and cried until I couldn’t anymore. I remember driving over the Bay Bridge and trying to look out past the ocean as far as I could see without crashing into oncoming traffic (more difficult than it sounds). I asked a lot of questions out loud to the big man in the sky, to Zach, and to myself. As I drove, the highways turned into farmland, and the sun began to set. I have this very vivid memory of driving past cornfields and watching this amazingly vibrant sunset fall across the ears of corn. There was no more crying to be done at that point. For the first time since his death, I had found some sort of peace. As I drove I no longer felt like he was gone, just relocated, but always present. I knew that even if I couldn’t see him or hear him in my daily life, I could find him in those beautiful moments that God gives to us, like sunsets, and sunrises, mountaintops, and in the sound of family laughing together.

I have a newfound appreciation of heights. Not for the height itself, but for the view it provides. Whenever I am in the city I try to find the highest point that I can look out from. I enjoy hiking not for the activity of it but for the sense of smallness I feel when I get to see the world so far below me. I fly back and forth between Maryland and Georgia a lot, and every time I am transfixed on watching the cars and the people get tinier and tinier. Those are the moments where I can find Zach, sitting next to me, reminding me that there is a whole world out there.

As Aleja has expressed to you, moving to another state for college has made this loss sting a little more. No one here ever knew him. How do you explain to someone who Zach was and do it justice? How can you paint them such a detailed and massive picture of someone so amazing that they too can understand what a bright light this world lost? It’s hard. But like so many others, I have decided that sharing his love and patience and joy is all that I can do, and that is how I will keep his shockwave of compassion moving outward across this world.

Thank you for raising such a phenomenal son.

Love,

Jamila

Zach: Sometimes it's hard

A Reflection by Julia Lowry (Zach’s cousin, Age 11)

October 28, 2019

Sometimes it's hard to lose someone.

Sometimes it's hard to get back up.

If you know what I'm talking about then just stay strong.

Sometimes it's hard to be strong.

Sometimes it's easy to doubt yourself.

Sometimes it's easy to shut yourself out.

Sometimes it's hard to do some things…

But you just gotta be strong,

but you just gotta hold on,

and you just gotta take some time to think,

to wonder will you ever see them again,

or do you just gotta remember them,

remember them,

remember them,

remember them.

But I don't think they'd want you to dwell over them

or shut yourself out because you miss them.

Sometimes it's hard to remember the good times

and easy to remember the bad.

Sometimes it's hard to remember who you are

and hard to remember all your worth.

But you just gotta stay strong and live your life

and live your life.

Sometimes it's hard.

Sometimes it's hard to remember that you need

to take care of yourself.

Don't try to distract yourself,

don't try to distract yourself.

Cause when you realize that their still gone it makes it worse.

Just try to remember the good times,

remember the good times,

when you were happiest.

Sometimes it may feel like you'll never be happy again,

but it will come, you will be happy.

Sometimes it's hard to think

and people will say it’s alright

and you might think it's not

but it will eventually get better

and with your friends and family by your side

it will get better and people will support you…

Don't try to run away,

don't try to run away from your feelings.

Its ok to cry and it helps to talk about it,

Pour out all your feelings,

your friends and family will always be by your side…

But now they’re gone

but they'll still live on in our hearts in our minds.

SOMETIMES IT'S HARD

Second Anniversary Reflection

Dan Misleh

June 13, 2019

Dear Zachary:

Two years today. I want time to stand still but it simply will not cooperate. Days stack up to weeks, months and now years. Each day I awaken with you in my mind and fall asleep in hope that you will visit me in my dreams.

There are still too many days where I feel that I go through the motions of life rather than returning to the living. I joke and laugh with co-workers, friends and family. I drop your name and share a memory of you now and then. I never really know how people react to that: some hear a tinge of sadness; others may see that I’m adjusting a little more. Both are true. 

The pain is both less chronic and less acute. There are still times when it hits hard, I tear up for a second, but it is not like the early days when once the tears came, it was hard to stop, and the rest of the day would be shrouded in grief. There is a part of me that doesn’t want the pain to ease. Would it mean that I miss you less or have adjusted to a reality I never asked for? In my heart and head, I know it doesn’t mean that, but still…

As I was lying in bed ready to go to sleep one night in late May I fantasized that you were just on a long trip and came home. Just the thought made my heart leap from my chest. I imagined I would hug you so hard and hold you so long that it would become rather awkward for you and those gathered around. Tears of joy would stream down my face. Our reunited family, all five of us, would sit down to dinner and my eyes would be glued to your beautiful face. I’d stand up to get the dessert but pause behind you to see if the crown of your skull was peeking through that glorious mane of yours and tease you if it was. You would regale us with your travel stories. We would step into old and cherished patterns of one-liners from movies and quick-witted remarks about current events and public personalities. Mom and I would shoot each other loving glances that would say, “look how blessed we are to have three amazing children that have grown into adults, each bringing joy to us and to one another.”

But that fantasy sails away like wispy clouds. You are truly gone. That 13th day of June 2017, and the days following, are seared in my memory and are not to be erased, perhaps just blurred some…hopefully blurred some.

My capacity for sympathy has reached new heights and am far more prone to weeping over those who suffer similar losses, especially the children: those dying at our southern border; those starving in war-torn Tunisia; those taken suddenly by random gunfire in our once-safe schools. More families left to wonder how it came to this with their own specific date by which they now mark time, question God, and struggle to find a way to carry on with this new burden.

 Surely my personal loss needs to be put into that perspective. I have amazingly empathetic family and friends who have accompanied me on this journey. I have a great job, access to counseling services, the ability to travel to see beautiful places, and time to reflect on your life and my blessings. But I still long to reach that place where I can be truly grateful for the time we had, rather than the future that won’t be.

 We are keeping June 13 sacred. It seemed that the whole world flickered and dimmed two years ago as it lost a beautiful light. It was a day that I know you found a new life beyond our reach and one where you are at peace and embraced by the love of those awaiting your arrival and those you now welcome, especially the children. I know you are now pure love and that you still inspire others to be love here on this planet. We’re doing our best to remind people of that love and rekindle that light lost. But most need no prodding. 

Our dear friends MJ and Jerry are dedicating this year’s Little Friends for Peace camp in Cheverly to you. They have been amazingly supportive of our family and remind us of your extraordinary skills as a counselor to young children who are seeking to find gentler ways to encounter a sometimes-harsh world.

The DeMatha community has certainly remembered you as well. The crew team has named the most outstanding freshman award after you for the rower who most exemplifies teamwork, dedication, and DeMatha values. And mom and I worked with school leadership to use your memorial fund to sponsor an international service trip in your honor to Esperanza International in Tijuana, a place and time that impacted you so deeply. This Sunday, we will both accompany your classmates and fellow oarsman Pat, Zeke and Andrew along with five current students, the principal and an inspired teacher to Mexico to help build sturdy homes with the poorest families.

I know that in the days, weeks and years ahead, buoyed by memories and memorials, I will continue my return to the truly living, even as I carry this burden. I will be grateful for this outpouring of kindness while realizing that too many in our world have far larger loads than my own and whose losses are not accompanied by compassionate family and friends or memorial awards and service trips named in honor of those they have lost.

On this second anniversary, I contemplate this mystery: While I wish I would have known more about what you were going through and done something to prevent June 13, I am also so grateful that you were with us for 20 years, dear Zachary; that you made the most of your too-brief time on earth. I am truly grateful that you lived your life to the fullest extent that you could even as you quietly carried your torment. I will remember you in the sunrise and the sunset, in those moments when the earth’s beauty catches my breath, in the eyes of your mother, your brother, and your sister. I’ll try, each day, to return to the living with the assurance that you are now my wisdom figure accompanying and inspiring me on my remaining journey.

Forever in my heart,

 Dad

There is a crack in everything. 

June 13, 2018

Today is about Zach Misleh; but it is also about all of you.

June 13, 2017: a random day in the middle of a random year by which I now mark time. On June 12, our family was whole, and life was cruising along. Ben: happy in Colorado with good friends a solid job, and the mountains to lure him away in any season. Anna, too: life-giving work, living at home with Susie and I and finished with her first year of graduate school.  Zach: home after his first year of college and a service trip to Puerto Rico with his classmates from St. John’s University and getting steady hours lifeguarding at the local swimming pool.

But at about half-past 2:00 pm on June 13, our whole world shifted. That was when we knew Zach was gone. The rest of that week was spent sharing and receiving heart-wrenching sobs, planning for a funeral and a burial, (Are we really doing this?), welcoming other mourners, consoling them as they consoled us. Family and friends arrive from out of town. Neighbors bring food, open homes. Hundreds leave their Father’s Day dinners to wait in line forever just to offer a word of condolence at the wake and say goodbye to Zach. Hundreds more fill St. Ambrose Church beyond its capacity for a funeral and farewell on Monday. We place Zach’s ashes in a niche at Ft. Lincoln Cemetery on June 23 and celebrate his 20th birthday on June 24.

Within a couple of weeks, I am back at work but not really. How does the world continue spinning after such a tragedy? How will life ever be normal when this pain—felt so acutely by so many—weighs me down like a millstone? The rest of the summer was going through the motions, visiting the cemetery, shedding tears often, sighing heavily and saying repeatedly, "Oh dear Zachary, what happened?”

And the losses piled up in the winter and spring: my dear friend, Eric Harder, just a few months older than me is gone from lung cancer; my brother-in-law Brian Shortz, just a few years younger than me, succumbs too quickly to brain cancer; my father-in-law, John Patridge to pancreatic cancer after a two-year battle. Each loss tears at the wound and re-opens it for a time.

Today, one year since Zach took his life, the rawness of the open wound is healing but it will never fully close. Many have described the hole left when someone so beloved leaves so unexpectedly. That’s really what it feels like: a big hole. 

But I think the hole, the wound, never heals for a reason. It is a place where I can store memories of happy times. It is an opening like a knothole in a wooden fence where I can still have a conversation with Zach and listen in stillness to his reply from the other side.

In Leonard Cohen’s song, Anthem, part of the refrain says:

“There’s a crack, a crack in everything. That’s where the light gets in.”

We are all wounded, cracked, broken, battered. Some of us more so than others. We all carry scars and walk through life as cracked and imperfect vessels. Now I see that those imperfections are the places where empathy resides and where kindness can seep through. Sometimes I wonder if kindness and brokenness are not really just kindred spirits. How much kindness and empathy can we really have without heartbreak and deep wounds?

Zachary certainly had his share of cracks. It doesn’t seem fair that someone so young should have so many holes to plug. In the end, I suppose he was just tired of trying to hide them or gave up his search for the right tool to fill them. But maybe his undeserved brokenness was also where he found the strength for 20 years to be so incredibly kind, gentle and empathetic. We’ve learned from some of his friends who shared their own haunting depression that in Zach they found a very sympathetic ear—that he would go out of his way to reach out. Maybe his cracks also let in an abundance of humor and stoked his ability to enter fully into life’s moments. Maybe they were the places where hyperbole found an escape: "Inception (or Star Wars or Interstellar or…) was the best movie I’ve ever seen!"  "Kendrick Lamar just put out the best album ever. Period."

Today, I miss my boy so, so much. I miss laughing with him, watching him stifle a smirk at my bad jokes, and having short-burst conversations using only Pink Floyd or Bruce Springsteen lyrics. I miss his deep and thoughtful reflections about current events. I miss watching him grow into a man. 

But today is also about you, dear family and friends. 

I appreciate—more than I ever thought possible—all who have shared this year-long odyssey with me and with our family. Today, I realize—thankfully, even if a bit late in life—that big holes and gaping cracks offer us a choice. We could allow them to sink us further into despair as we try in futility to plug and patch them. Or we can leave them open, enter into their rawness and allow them to nurture much greater empathy and understanding. Lucky for me that I’ve had a circle of compassion this past year, a cocoon of love and friendship that left me only one real choice. Because of each of you, I think I’m coming out of this okay. Because of you I have chosen to leave the cracks open and the holes unfilled and let some light in. Thank you.

Dan

Who will I be when I no longer exist.......?

A poem by Ann Carrabino

February 11, 2018

Who will I be
when I no longer exist…?
When I have been gently lifted from my days,
FreeWhole(at once)
In the arms of this sweet rest…

I will be the center of the rose,
Catching onto the sun
in a place where no one can find me.
For I will be no place and no one
But I will be everywhere and in everything.
Hopefully a little bit of this and a big part of that.

I’ll go wherever I want
'Cuz there'll be no place to go.
For I'll already be here
No longer needing to wait for there.

I'll be able to hold me to myself in the warmth of the sun
To cover myself with colors only I can paint,
'Cuz I'll be all of them at once
Mixed up, shining, sparkling yellowey-green orange golds.

I'll see all,
Not with my eyes...
For I suspect that they'll be resting in some other place.
But I'll hold all gathered to me,
Bound-up, pressed tenderly, loved ever so
gently by He who finally decided to
remember His Promise of Old.

For you see, I'll be home...
For the first time no longer needing to fear the
coming of the dawn
Which always seems to rage (just a little) against
the passing of this good but gentle night.

To wait, to wonder,
To ask of each of you in hope:
(Which it seems is only faith's memory anyway)
Why is it that I've had to make this journey?
To enter into this place of where all Is and Isn't,
Was and Wasn't and Will Be

To know for the first time
That what is found when life encounters life
Is that which clothes what is born anew
When Death seizes hold of Life,
Wrestles with it,
Brings it down
down
down
down
to the ground...

Only to have it burst free,
Yellow-golden,
Flower-laden
Still Point.

And there for the first time
To know my life
Resurrected
unceasingly...

Cradled forever in the love,
The tenderness and mercy that
melted away the last of my winter
taking with it all of my pain and my fear...
Leaving only my most favorite part:

All my love for you
and all of your love for me.
Life eternal.

For Zach Misleh
With much love to Dan and Susie
and their wonderful family,

Anne Carrabino

Christmas and the loss of a son by suicide

Six Lessons After Six Months

December 21, 2017

Dear Friends and Family:

Since June 13, when Zach lost his battle with depression, I've heard that my transparency with my own struggles and grief has been helpful. For some, it is because you know a friend or family member who has lost a loved one to this, or a similar, tragedy. For others it is because, as I so often hear, “There but for the grace of God…”

And I don’t want this message to be a downer as excitement builds for this wonderful holiday time. But I am feeling that a reflection might be a worthy holiday exercise, for me if not for you. I write mostly in the first person as I don’t want to presume how others are feeling. I also know that these insights are not particularly unique or novel. However, maybe they will speak to you, too.

I write this in the time between waiting for Christmas and just having reached the sixth month anniversary of Zach passing to eternal life. In a year, I suppose I’ll have appropriated different lessons, but for now, I offer these reflections and these lessons of loss and love:

1)    There cannot be too much community. Within hours, if not minutes, after the news began to spread of our loss, neighbors from across Cheverly and across town appeared at our home to cry with us, hug us, bring us comfort, food, booze, whatever was needed. People who love Zachary and who love us from so many facets of our lives found a way to connect through texts, emails, phone calls, prayers and support in so many ways. Whether they were close by or across the country, all were present.

Pray with me for those without these support networks, for those who suffer through such a loss alone or nearly alone. A week after Zach passed, another young man, a Central American immigrant from our parish, also died by his own hand. His life was marked by abandonment and neglect. Where were his community and his networks?

Lesson: show up, offer words of condolence, and keep doing it, even if only occasionally. Those who mourn rely heavily on your concern. It is like a quiet soothing hymn that plays in the background offering comfort even when we aren’t really listening. I will admit that I didn’t get this until now and apologize to those who I neglected in your sorrow.

2)    Mourners need to talk. Don’t be afraid to ask: The loss of a child is not the normal course, not the way things are planned. Seeing a person in such pain and grief after losing someone with his or her whole future ahead is really, really uncomfortable and heart-wrenching stuff. If you think that by asking, “How are you doing?” will receive a curt reply or an angry glare, you would generally be wrong. Mourners need to know that people care long after the crisis has gone from a boil to a simmer. I want to talk about my experience of Zach’s life and of his death and to share my joy and my sorrow with you. While it may be uncomfortable for you, it is vital to the healing process for everyone involved. It’s okay to see me cry or stare off into space. I’m having a moment and am grateful to have you beside me absorbing some of that pain.

And remember that Zach’s immediate family are not the only victims of this tragedy nor the only ones needing to talk, to process. He had such an outsized impact on so many that they, too, suffer terribly from the bewilderment of the manner of his death as well as from the sudden loss of his kinship. I think it is a good thing to be a “wounded healer” because only in our common grief can we arrive at a new and brighter place with the love we share with one another as we hobble along life’s uneven road.

Lesson: It’s best to ask, “How are you doing today?” because some days I’m fine, other days I’m awful. I’ll try to be honest about that and will be so grateful that you ask now and then.

3)    The mourning process is uneven and unique: Each of us mourns differently both in intensity and in duration. I know some wish that I “get through it.” And they don’t mean that as in, “Still, Dan?” but more like, “I see your pain and I hope it eases for you sooner than later.” I don’t know what the timetable will be. I suppose when I get through this first year, it will be easier. It already is in some ways. But for now, the fact that I’ll never see Zach again in this life is the very first thing I think of when I awaken and my very last thought as I nod off to sleep.

Lesson: be patient with mourners. Don’t be surprised if they seem “normal” nor exasperated when, day-after-day, they bear their sorrow like a badge. Just be patient with me and for those who have suffered this particular loss. Words are nice, but if you can’t think of anything to say, just offer a hug or a hand to hold until the tears slow and balance is regained.

4)    Faith has been critical: I can’t say that I “get” heaven. With the exception of some well-documented near-death experiences, no one that I know has actually died and come back with a trip report. But I can say that having a faith to lean on has been invaluable. I understand that not everyone believes in God or that they have found a comfortable home in an organized religion. And no religion is perfect since they are also human institutions. But for me, my Catholic faith, my parish pastor, and other religious leaders have been a lifeline. I truly believe Zach is in a better place and the poems and notes composed for our family by thoughtful, faith-filled friends are fragments that at once trigger fresh rounds of grief but are also lifelines in times of true despair.

Many have described the “thin place” or the “veil” where heaven and earth meet. I’ve experienced this since Zach’s death at unexpected times. In August this past year, Susie and I stopped in the evening at a hotel in Western Pennsylvania as we were heading to Cincinnati. The hotel was atop a mountain and in the west the sky was blue, orange and red with a peculiar looking cloud shaped vertically, not horizontally like one usually sees. We stood there for a moment talking quietly to each other. When it was time to check in to the hotel, I said, “Goodnight, Zach” and at that instant a lightning bolt raced across the sky. Some might say it was a lucky coincidence. I think it was Zach saying, I’m okay and at peace.

There are far fewer Sundays that I don’t cry than those when I do. A song, a reading, a look from a parishioner and suddenly I’m sad, longing for Zach, and feeling sorry for myself, my family, and those who knew and loved Zach. It is cathartic, important and is part of that search for meaning amidst such a tragedy.

Lesson: Humans have forever searched for meaning: a search heightened when someone so loved is lost so suddenly. Religion, its rituals, its theological underpinnings, and its personalities, can bring meaning and provide a path forward. At the heart of my religion, Christianity, is love. The beautiful, bewildering complexity of that simple word should be enough.

5)    I have a new identity: which is “that poor guy who lost his son to suicide.” It’s the saddest club in the world. I know that in church, at work, in the neighborhood, and with family and friends people look at me and ask themselves, “I wonder how he is getting along?” It gets easier, but the experience has defined me indelibly. The trick now is to figure out how to reach into my core, take out this new thing, examine it and decide how to respond.

There are many tempting ways to cope with this new identity but only one that makes sense. Let me be quick to add that we should not blame those who choose other options. We don’t know how such a death by such a means will impact others. I can only decide how it will ultimately impact me. Here are a few options I’ve not chosen. 1) Get stinking drunk and stay that way to keep the pain at bay. But alas, as my brothers will attest, I’m a poor drunk and usually get sick before I’m too far gone. 2) Be angry: at God, at Zach’s therapists, or at Zach himself for not disclosing sooner how he was feeling and how close he was to the edge of the abyss. Anger seems pretty unproductive for me and requires so much energy. 3) Ignore the pain by diving into work, exercise, or other addictive behaviors so I never really mourn his loss, my loss. But it doesn’t appear that I am physiologically prone to addiction. 4) Curl up in a ball and give up on life myself. But as a father to Ben and Anna, a husband to Susie, an uncle, brother, and friend to many, why would I want to add to the pain they already bear?

The path I’m trying to choose is one that embraces the pain, realizes the beauty and love Zach left to so many, celebrate his brief 20 years on this earth and turn my focus again to those he’s left wounded but inspired by his life.

Lesson: I can choose to live out my new identity in many ways. But the best way for me is to be inspired by and enter deeply into what was and is rather than what might have been. And I’m not there yet, if I’m honest.

6)    Suicide is uniquely cruel and mysterious. I’ve said, often just to myself, “If Zach was to die, why couldn’t it have been in some other way?” That he took his own life with almost no warning is a blow almost unbearable. In the weeks immediately after his death, I was looking for answers. One method for coping was to read books about suicide, the suicidal mind, and the experiences of others. I wanted to get to the bottom of this. It’s not that I really blamed anyone, not even Zach. It is that I was disoriented and confused. Americans look for answers, solve problems, don’t rest until we overcome. But there is no control here. No way to fix it. With so little warning and with Zach hiding his depression so well, what could we have done?

The human brain is so very complex and we’ve not scratched the surface of our understanding of not only this organ, but the environmental and social factors that contribute to its functioning. Someday, we will certainly know more. But like cancer, we can only continue to support those doing the research to find a cure as we walk alongside those who suffer.

A dear friend called me as night fell on June 13. He said something that helped me cope with such a bewildering day. “Dan,” he said, “This was a disease and it is not your fault.” Through my shock, he made me hear it again. A week later, my son Ben said, “There are three outcomes to a disease: 1) you get well; 2) you live with it; and 3) it kills you.” This depression, this loneliness, these voices—whatever was going on with Zach in those final moments—it was a disease. It was a disease that stole his will to live, which I now know is different from a desire to die.

In the weeks and months that followed, friends and relatives have joined organized walks to raise money for suicide awareness. I’m sure I’ve never given so much to charity as I have to these wonderful, thoughtful, action-oriented people. They and I want to make sure that medical research continues and social service organizations are there to help the lost, the lonely, the diseased people “Out of the Darkness.”

Lesson: if you want to help lessen the scourge of suicide, become highly attuned to those who seem down, withdrawn and desperate. Ask them how they are doing and listen attentively. Seek help for them. And consider a gift to prevention and research organizations. Do it in memory of or inspired by Zachary.

Thank you for reading through this reflection and for your love and support of me, my family and all those impacted by this tragedy

Truly I wish for you a blessed holiday and a peaceful—please God—New Year.

Dan