On Sacred Ground

In 1990, as a young lieutenant I walked the fields of Gettysburg; places like “Seminary Ridge”, “the Angle”, “Peach Orchard”, “Devil’s Den” and “Little Round Top”. Standing there, I saw the battle, heard the roar, felt the shock of artillery, the sting of black powder on the nostrils, the snap of bullets. I saw death. It was a moment that reached deep into my soul as the imagery of the horror of those three days in 1863 gave meaning to the words “sacred ground”.

The walk to the cemetery to pick David’s burial plot was surreal. The ground radiated summer heat and the smell of new mown grass. Surrounded by family, I wasn’t supposed to be here. The church administrator held out a plot map. I glanced down and said “it needs to be near the soccer field and in the shade of a tree, David loved the shade”.

There on the map was a plot, #26 that was perfect. It was at the bottom of a hill and in the afternoon shade of an oak tree. We bought the plots on either side for Nancy and me so that one day we could lay in rest with our little boy. Until David died I had always associated “sacred ground” with war, religion and baseball. Now I had my own.

The first time I visited his grave after the funeral the symmetry of the mound of dirt and the bright flowers was all rather striking. It had a rather comforting feel to it. Nancy and I picked out a simple cross as a temporary marker and wrote David’s name on it. I committed that I would visit often, not to be separated by death but joined by it. Then the flowers faded, the earth sunk and death in all its ugliness glared at me.

A couple of months after he died, after a particularly heavy rain, I found that the earth had sunk severely. I panicked and my head filled with horrible thoughts at the jarring sight. “Was he wet? Was he scared?” I had an inexplicable urge to start digging to get him out. I stood and cried as hard as I ever had, my grief matched by the cold soaking rain. David was dead and he wasn’t coming back.

Eventually the sinking stopped and the grounds crew filled in the low spots and planted grass. In the spring grass began to grow in earnest and quickly the open wound of dirt was gone. The leaves bloomed, the smells of summer returned and we took one step forward.

Last fall on an evening visit I noticed the lights of the soccer field and the laughter of kids. I stood at the grave and saw a young child peeking over the fence of the soccer field looking at me. I smiled. That’s just how I envision David in heaven, surrounded by children.

We each bring our rituals to the cemetery. For AJ, its acorns and rolling down the hill, Ali comes alone when home from college. Nancy leaves candy. We’ve had snowball fights, eaten snow cones; we’ve laughed, cried, prayed and stood silently. Nancy and I have shared many tight embraces as we have watered the ground with our tears. I even was on a conference call once while standing at his grave. (David was so proud of my new job with HP).

Day after day I visit, parking in the same spot and standing at the same spot on the lower left side of his grave by his right knee. Standing there I have noticed small subtle changes, like the grass or the leaves, the weather and the angle of the sun. I pray and cry but mostly, I talk to David. “David, the leaves are changing. I know how much you loved the fall”...”AJ got a hit this week”…”deer season starts next week wish you were here”...”I miss your laughter”. I talk just in case he can hear me from heaven.

I have gotten to know who else was buried there. There is a young man who was killed while home from college, a baby who died at birth. The father who left a big family, the grandmas and grandpas who lived long lives. Each loved; a reflection of loss and a gentle reminder that we are not alone in our grief.

This week I stood at my usual spot and after a long hard winter felt the softening of the ground and first warm breeze. I saw robins poking for worms and a hint of green in the mostly brown grass. I picked up a handful of candy bars and faded flowers that had spent the winter under snow and leaves. I straightened the rosary crucifix someone left and put the acorns at the foot of the cross just like AJ likes them. It felt right.

Soon the leaves and flowers will return and with them the sounds of summer. Life moves on but David moves with us. I still talk to David when I’m there and I still pray. I don’t always cry but sometimes I do. To others in their daily lives this place is barely noticed. To me this is sacred ground.

Christmas With David

Our first Christmas with David was (like any new parent's) filled with joy. But we also had the added excitement and anxiety of the news that my early release from the Marine Corps to return to college had been approved. My desire to finish my education had kicked into high gear when Nancy and I found out she was expecting.

There was so much change to absorb; bottles, diapers, feeding schedules, the needs of an infant and a new life outside the Corps. We picked out a little Charlie Brown tree for the three of us with a few decorations for the apartment. I remember the joy of hanging his "Baby's First Christmas" ornament that year.

Nancy took to mothering like a duck to water and quickly mastered the basics. But, we were still young, inexperienced and far from family and home. My role was primarily relief duty, to catch the diaper changing and feeding when Nancy needed to sleep. If it was important she wasn’t going to leave it up to me. Then David started crying on Christmas Eve.

I looked intently at my infant son, marveling at the complex faces he made, without a clue what they meant. We changed him, burped him, walked him…nothing helped. I felt bad but even in his discomfort I smiled at the mad faces he made with his little balled up fists going outward. He cried into the night and now we began to worry. The strain of new parenthood met with exhaustion and we looked at each other with no answers. David eventually fell into a fitful sleep which would erupt into cries unexpectedly as we were startled from our own sleep.

On Christmas Day without any idea what we should do to do we made the long drive to Camp Pendleton’s Naval Hospital where David had been born. Eventually, we saw a pediatrician who after a peek in his ears announced with a look of mild annoyance “he has an ear infection”. Relieved and with our first lesson in parenting in hand, we were on our way home. This would be the last Christmas that David did not wear a smile all day.

David loved Christmas not for the presents but for the commotion. He loved it for the chaos of big family chatter, our big breakfast, piles of gift trash, Grandma’s food and rob-your-neighbor. He loved sitting with AJ going through his gifts and talking to him in that sing-song patter they shared together. Most of all, David enjoyed the happiness of others.

Of all our family traditions, the one that David cherished more than any other was “sibling presents”, a gift exchange for the brothers and sisters on Christmas Eve where every present has to come from the dollar store. I can still see David on his last Christmas Eve, sitting on the big family room couch with his bag of presents between his legs. One by one he flipped them across the room to each sibling. They were carefully selected, delivered with humor and a big David grin. He loved being from a big family, he loved being the oldest, he loved being a brother and he loved his family more than anything in his life. In that simple act of love, we see David at his truest.

Are There Birthdays In Heaven?

On the morning of David’s birthday I stood at his grave. The frozen grass, the dull gray sky and frigid wind reflected the loss in my heart. As tears rolled down my face my thoughts drifted to the joy of his birth and his last birthday.

I had just returned from my first overseas deployment in March of 1984. Nancy and I not only were newlyweds but we really didn’t know each other that well. We’d had a whirlwind romance and our marriage was followed by a 7 month separation. Nancy and I left Missouri and drove across the U.S. to Camp Pendleton with all the joy of new love.

We settled into a tiny apartment in San Clemente two blocks from the beach. It was so small that you could stand in all three rooms from one spot but we were happy. Within weeks Nancy learned she was pregnant. Our excitement was followed quickly by the sobering realization that in a few short months our lives would be forever changed. If it was a boy he would be named David Daniel after my older brother David who died at 18 months.

Every step of her pregnancy was filled with expectation and excitement; the first check-up, the first flutter, Lamaze classes and buying maternity clothes. As her stomach grew I felt a pride of pending fatherhood as we walked and were greeted with smiles from people. Being young and broke we spent our free time mostly going for walks on the beach. It was there we developed a lifelong love our kids will recognize, for Hawaiian Shaved Ice. We also discovered that as Nancy got bigger she went downhill easily but uphill back to the apartment was another story! I’d stand in back of her and push as we laughed our way home.

While the birth of every child is memorable, David’s was particularly so. We had been to a wedding on Saturday night and I had had a little too much to drink. I was also fighting a cold and exhaustion from a 25 mile hike the day before. So as to not disturb Nancy when we got home I fell asleep on a tiny couch. I’d been asleep no more than an hour when Nancy shouted out “Chris!” I bolted upright. Nancy said “We’re having a baby”. Through the sleep and hangover I saw her standing in front of the bathroom door with water dripping down on the floor between her legs, her water had broken. I was instantly awake and sober.

Water breaking had not been part of our plans so I wasn’t even sure what it meant but I knew we had to get Nancy to the Naval Hospital and quickly. I grabbed the keys and said “let’s go”. Nancy said “no, not until I take a shower”, I was dumbfounded. She said she wasn’t going to go to the hospital dirty. She got in the shower. I asked her how she felt and she said “fine, doesn’t hurt at all…oooowwwwwww”. We laughed with nervous excitement as we kept saying “we’re having a baby tonight!”

We finally jumped in the car around 2 a.m. and headed towards base. The gate guard at the remote Las Pulgas gate asked us where we were going in the middle of the night. I was just a lance corporal so hardly carried any weight. I told him Nancy was in labor. He quickly waved us through and said “don’t drive too fast” I said “absolutely”. As soon as we were out of sight I drove as fast as I could without crashing.

We checked into the hospital and they whisked Nancy away. A Navy hospital is functional and nothing more. There were no soothing birthing rooms and I waited anxiously in a waiting room. When they finally summoned me in Nancy was already in the delivery room, which was also a sterile surgical room. It was so bright and full of stainless steel it hurt my eyes.

I kissed Nancy and touched her stomach. It was so tight. I timed her contractions and tried to remember the things they taught us in Lamaze but I quickly realized the last thing Nancy cared about was Lamaze. I pulled up a chair and held her hand as she drifted in and out of consciousness. After a couple of hours exhaustion took over and fell asleep with my head on her bed. Suddenly I was jolted awake as she hissed “I’m having a baby and you can’t even stay awake?!” I looked up to the now very familiar glare of an angry Nancy.

Finally, Nancy was fully dilated and things happened quickly. As the nurses and doctor arrived I was pushed to the side. I glanced nervously at the heart monitor not sure if the numbers were good or bad. As the baby’s head began to emerge I was mesmerized at the miracle before me. Then after several minutes the baby fully emerged and the doctor held him up “Congratulations, it’s a boy”. They placed him on Nancy’s chest. The love I saw in her eyes told me I’d been replaced as the love of her life. It was Sunday morning, Dec. 9, 1984.

I was not allowed to hold him right away because they needed to put him on a warming table. He was naked except for a blue knit cap Nancy had brought. As he lay there I did touch his feet and hands and marveled at the softness of his skin and his full head of shiny black hair. He was sturdy and had the familiar Lozano nose. A million thoughts went through my head. Finally, they wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to me. If I close my eyes I can still remember every detail of that moment.

I cradled his body in my left arm with his head wresting by my elbow. I raised him and lowered my head and gently kissed him on his forehead and nose. I whispered “welcome to our world, I wish you only great things”. The smell was more wonderful than anything I’d ever known. Eventually I had to give him back and then they whisked him off to the nursery so Nancy could rest.

[ I didn't realize the coincidence until I wrote this story but when David died I leaned over and kissed him on his forehead and nose the same way I’d done on the day of his birth and said “It’s ok David, you fought hard now it’s time to go home. Thank you for being my son”]

A few days later I arrived with a new car seat and we took David home to our apartment. David’s birth was the first of many changes that were about to occur. I was being discharged from the Marine Corps only a few weeks later. Nancy and I would be living with my mom and I was returning to college. David’s birth had convinced me I had to sacrifice to get ahead and provide for my family. In early January I loaded Nancy and David on an airplane and with the help of my brother and a friend moved back to St. Louis.

Over the years birthdays would hold a special place for David. It was with David that I started a tradition of taking my kids out to breakfast on their birthdays. In 2008 David was living in Kenosha, Wisconsin in an apartment close to Lake Michigan. He was not going to be able to return for his birthday because of work. I’d missed his previous birthday because I was in Iraq. On a complete spur of the moment I asked Nancy on the 8th “do you mind if I go to Kenosha to spend his birthday with him?” Nancy thought it was a great idea. David’s grandfather Mike joined me and we drove up to surprise him. We arrived in the early evening. I stood outside his door and called him on my cell phone “Hi David its Dad, what are you doing?” He answered “not much just watching TV.” I then knocked on the door. “Just a minute Dad someone’s at the door”. He opened the door with his phone in his ear. He instantly began laughing loudly with those glowing eyes of his “You’re so stupid!” David loved a good surprise.

The next morning we got up and went to Franks a diner we’d seen on a Food Network show. It was snowy and cold just as David liked it. We squeezed into the tiny 1920’s diner and laughed and ate and laughed some more. After breakfast we went to the store so I could buy ingredients to make his favorite fajita dinner and carrot cake. That evening we ate and laughed some more lit his candles and sang him Happy Birthday. In the dim glow of the apartment he smiled that big David smile. I just remember how happy he was and am so grateful that I went.

As the cold snaps me back to the present I am left with the magnitude of his loss and my complete loneliness. Gone are the laughs, gone are the smiles, gone are the things that made David so easy to love. Gone is my first born. Gone is a piece of me. My spirit is buoyed only by the hope of the resurrection and the love of my family. As I pray quietly I ask David “Are there birthdays in heaven?”

Father's Day

The first year after someone dies the hardest things are dealing with the “firsts”, days and events where your loved one is absent. It’s been nearly eleven months since David left us and we have been through our first birthdays without him and the holidays. Through each of those I made it fine, I was strong and seemed to find the joy and humor in the day. But, today is my first Father’s Day without David. I hope the day that has started out with many years will be part of the healing. So, I’d like to recall my first “father’s day” and my last Father’s Day with David.

It was March of 1984 and I had just returned from my first overseas deployment. Nancy had stayed with my mom and after picking her up we drove cross-country to Camp Pendleton. Marriage was still new and we were filled with the hope and dreams of any new couple. We settled into an apartment in San Clemente that was so tiny you could stand in one spot and be in all three rooms at once.

In true Lozano style Nancy became pregnant immediately. I can remember the sheer joy we felt and anxiety of parenthood and what we wanted for our new child. That spring and summer we watched Nancy’s stomach grow and we took birthing classes. Of all the things I remember though, it was the joy of the first time I felt David move. It was just a flutter but I was mesmerized with it. As the flutters became kicks we used to joke that the baby was doing summersaults. Then summer became fall and winter and Nancy grew larger and uncomfortable. We’d walk to the beach and on the way back I’d have to stand behind her and push her uphill. It was such a time of joy.

As far as names there was no question, if it was a boy it would be David Daniel, in honor of my brother David who died when I was an infant. If we had a girl’s name I’ve forgotten but I remember being confident it would be a boy though I don’t know why.

Pearl Harbor Day was a Friday. I came home from work beat, a 25 mile hike under my belt and coming down with the flu. But rather than rest Saturday night was the wedding of a friend where I drank a little too much (oops!). We got home around midnight and miserable I fell asleep on a rather uncomfortable wicker couch. At around 1:30 Nancy woke me up rather excitedly. Through the haze I remember her saying “I think my water broke!” Instantly, I was awake. I sat up and there stood Nancy by the bathroom, water pouring between her legs. “We’re having a baby tonight” she said with a smile. My first reaction was to pile her into the car and get her to the hospital but Nancy would have none of that. “I need to take a shower first” she said. As she was getting ready she said “it doesn’t even hurt”. A few minutes later from inside the bathroom I heard her first groan “ooooooow”. We laughed nervously as I urged her to hurry up because we had a 45 minute drive to the base hospital.

Finally dressed, she grabbed her bag she had packed in advance and we walked her to the car I had driven up the hill of the empty lot next to our apartment so she wouldn’t have to walk. On the way we stopped and got batteries for our camera and then began the long drive.

Camp Pendleton is a world unto itself. We exited the interstate at a lightly used gate called “Las Pulgas”. The Marine sentry looked at my ID card and asked me what we were doing and I told him Nancy was going to have a baby. He waved us on and said “don’t drive too fast”. I said “sure thing” then proceeded to drive just shy of reckless as I wove my way through the canyons and valleys of Pendleton.

We arrived at the hospital and the nurses began their work. After awhile I was brought in to see Nancy. This wasn’t some nice birthing room, it was just a regular hospital room. She was mostly dilated and well on her way but she wasn’t quite ready so they put her in the room. I sat in a chair next to her bed and we talked quietly. Then with no sleep, fighting the flu and remnants of alcohol in my system I fell asleep with my head by her side. I was rather abruptly woken up with a no longer happy wife hissing “I’m about to have a baby and you want to sleep?!!” Needless to say I didn’t go back to sleep.

When it was time they wheeled her in to a regular surgery room. The Navy doctor worked quickly and efficiently. I watched with complete awe as the baby’s head emerged. The baby had hair and it glistened with the amniotic fluid. I held my breath waiting to see movement. One shoulder, then the next and quickly the baby emerged. I looked anxiously to see the baby move and learn the sex. A boy! A boy! I had a boy!

The doctor and nurses quickly cleaned out David’s nose and mouth and clipped the umbilical cord. They placed him in Nancy’s arms and she gently kissed him. David's first cries were so gentle they made me smile. Then the doctor said they were a little concerned about his color so they wanted to put him on a warming table. I stood and looked at David laying in the warmer thinking it was a little like how they put food under warmers at a restaurant. Quickly the bluish tint turned to pink and they wrapped him up in blankets and put a knit cap on his head. A nurse said “would you like to hold your son?” and she handed me the greatest gift I have ever known, a child.

I placed him gently in my arms with his head in the crook of my arm I put my face down and kissed him on the nose. I smelled for the first of seven times the most awesome of smells; the smell of a newborn baby. Then I said quietly “welcome to our world David, I wish you a great life full of joy and happiness”.

Soon after Nancy and David were whisked away. Unable to stay awake I went back to the apartment to get some sleep but the adrenalin didn’t allow me and I watched the football Cardinals lose their second and last playoff game in their history in St. Louis. Nancy still reminds me of the fact I watched football instead of staying at the hospital with her 25 years later.

New parenthood was soon met with a new life as I left active duty just three weeks later. Nancy and David flew to St. Louis where we moved in with my mom and I began a new life as a student. Every day was something new and in 1985 I enjoyed my first Father’s Day.

Last year was my last Father’s Day with David. As we always did we gathered around the dining room table as the kids brought gifts they or Nancy had purchased. But David seemed extra anxious. After the other presents were given Nancy said David had one last gift but we all had to go outside. I really had no clue what it was.

We piled outside and David lifted the garage door. There sitting on the ground was a huge box and I read the words “grill”. I was stunned. David knew how much I love grilling and how I was still using the same dilapidated grill I’d had for 15 years. He had overhead me tell Nancy how much I wanted a new grill and he had picked out a beauty, a massive wood fired grill with a smoke box. I looked at David and he was just beaming because he knew how much it meant to me. Nancy later told me he’d paid for the $300 grill with his own money and that it had been his idea.

By the next day he was bugging me “when are you putting the grill together?” Finally, after the third time he asked I got aggravated and said “right now” and I went outside and I put it together as he checked on my progress periodically. When I fired it up for the first time you could just see the joy in his face as he knew he’d brought me some happiness. He was always so generous and six weeks later he was gone. Yesterday, we used that grill to cook a fajita bbq for my nephew Charlie’s graduation party.

Today will be hard but I hope to find the same joys I’ve found in other hard days. A loss so deep can only come from having loved something so dearly. So on my 25^th Father’s Day, I love you David, thanks for the grill and yes…we did fajitas.

Small Moments

The loneliest I feel in a day, the most pain I feel is always when I’m alone in the morning at my desk in the study. Perhaps it’s because it is the rare time our house is actually quiet but perhaps because it was at this time that David and I spent so much time together. In a big family the moments of interaction with each child can be small so they tend to be small moments, the daily interactions that fill our days.

I have always been the first to rise in our house, usually between 5 and 5:30. I’ll grab a cup of coffee or tea and sit down to catch up on news or get a bit of work done before the crew starts getting up for the day. But, David was always next. The sound of David coming down the stairs was distinct to say the least; a heavy “thud” together with the creaking of the hand rails. I would look up and smile and say “good morning David!” He would say “hi” with a slight smile and usually walk to the kitchen to get some water before plopping himself on the couch for a rare opportunity to watch his “stupid” shows uninterrupted.

“What do you have planned today?”…”Does Frank have any work for you today?”…”Can you take Alex to football practice?”…”Are you and Nathan going to the movies tonight?” These were all questions I asked in some form on a regular basis throughout the day. “David go take a shower you smell like a trashcan” was one comment that would make the always happy David frown.

Even in the years that David was away in Colorado or Wisconsin we talked to him daily and he never felt far. He would call to give us gas price updates or snow fall amounts or to tell us what place of interest he was visiting that weekend. He was forever calling his mother to go over his finances or to ask me advice on how to cook up something he remembered me making. The anticipation of a trip home was not as wonderful as the moment he walked in the door (ok filled the door) usually with some Malta in one arm and a gun case in the other. The first thing he always did regardless was look for AJ and say “Hi Silly!” as AJ ran into his open arms.

With David it was truly the small moments that meant so much. Like how he would ask his mother out for lunch every week (he always paid) or he’d eagerly show me some new gadget he’d bought or asking me to give him a haircut. If you asked him to drive somewhere the answer was always “ok” no matter what, even if you got a big sigh or some light hearted complaint. It was how he always wore shorts even in the winter, how he walked on the outside of his shoes or how he always tugged at his t-shirts. How he recorded every dorky science fiction show on t.v. and watched “24” as if the world would stop if he didn’t.

But it was David’s shy smile that said it all. With that smile no matter how I was feeling I felt better. When David smiled the world was right. In the daily grind just seeing David sitting in his familiar spots at the computer or on the couch or at the dining room table with a glue gun made me feel grounded. Now I am reminded of his absence everywhere I look.

Now the mornings are mostly lonely as I am left with my thoughts. Sometimes in the quiet of the early hours I’ll look to the stairs and pretend I see him coming down and say “good morning David!” out loud because I don’t want there to be a last time I say it. I don’t want him to fade away from my memory in even the smallest way. I want him to be in my heart like he never left. I visit his grave nearly every day and talk to him but it’s not the same. Seven months without David, seven months of tears, seven months of loss and today feels like the first.

Protecting David

I knew from an early age there was something different about David. He was quiet and shy and while not a wall-flower he never joined in the mischief that is typical of young boys. Even as a boy he was less than worldly.

The first time I ever had to stand up for David was when he was 6. I was stationed in Yuma and we had him enrolled in PSR. One day after class I went to pick him up and the teacher asked me very gently "is there something wrong with him? Is he mentally slow?" I asked "why?" and she said because he would not respond to her questions. I answered curtly there was nothing wrong with David. I was hurt and angry because I knew even then that the world would be cruel to him and it would be my mission to protect him from these hurts.

His shyness was routinely an area of trouble at school at St. Lawrence, a small school where a kid like David stood out. David had his friends but one boy in particular, Adam, was his tormentor making David the butt of his jokes and cruelty. Through it all he just smiled that David smile, never betraying any hurt. I ached for him but I knew we could not intercede to every incident.

In the 90s we were very active in our small parish of St. Lawrence the Martyr. The biggest event of the year was the Fall Festival, an event that was cherished by our children as the event of events that was looked forward with great anticipation. In the week before the festival teachers would have to close the classroom blinds to keep distracted eyes from gazing at the rides gathering in the parking lot. Excitedly, kids schemed who they'd hang out with, what they'd eat and what rides they'd go on.

One fall day around 1996 I was working in the kitchen at the church during the festival when one of the ladies came looking for me. We had a bingo game going in the parish hall and it was filled with a couple of hundred people mostly elderly sitting at tables playing. Apparently, a friend of the bingo caller had become visibly intoxicated and was not only being disruptive and rude, he was helping himself to beer from the tap without paying. Having ignored others requests to settle down or leave they summoned me.

I walked up to the caller's table and said firmly "come on buddy let's go, you're outta here". He looked at me in his drunken stupor and said loudly "Get the hell out of here and take your fat ass son with you!". I whipped around flushed with anger as I realized for the first time that David had followed me into the hall. David was 12 at the time and if he had heard what the man said he didn't betray it but my reaction was swift and immediate.

I turned back around and reached across the folding table the man was sitting behind. I grabbed the man by his collar and with one hand unceremoniously pulled him out of his chair and across the table. Then in front of 200 stunned people I dragged him kicking and screaming across the gym to the door; picked him up by the collar and belt and opened the exit door with his head. Once outside I dropped him on the ground near two police officers. The man tried weakly to punch me and I pushed him back on his butt with my foot. The officers quickly escorted the man off the church grounds.

When questioned by police I told them exactly what happened and the police officer told me he'd have done the same thing though they did ask me to take the rest of the night off. The man reportedly wound up at the emergency room (though I doubt he really needed it). I have never been sorry for how I handled that incident and would do it again. David and I never discussed that day in later years but I'm sure it left an impression on him and I know he must have felt protected knowing his father would do anything for him.

At his funeral his cousin Gabe told me a story about David in grade school. He said that my view of David as a push-over was not quite accurate and he told me a story about David and Adam, his tormentor. One day after several years of problems David had finally had enough and at recess he summoned his cousin Gabe and Val Edwin. He told them about what was going on and asked them to take care of Adam once and for all. David did not have a bigger protector than Gabe and nobody loved a scrape more than Gabe. Gabe said David wasn't so much asking a favor as he was acting like a "Don" getting a task done without getting his hands dirty! I loved that image.

Gabe told me that shortly thereafter he and Val made it clear to Adam that leaving David alone for good would be the healthy choice. Apparently Adam got the message because David did not have any more problems after that.

Over the years I know there were other hurtful incidents but David never made an issue of it. When people teased him about his size or shyness and tried to provoke him he just smiled and ignored them. He chose to be above the meanness and pettiness of the world. As a result he had a wide circle of very loyal friends who loved him as he was and for who he was. Each was protective of David and yet I suspect he did not need as much protection as we thought.

Parents protect, it is the most basic of our duties. I feel like I did that and feel good that David felt secure in life. But I learned something from David as well. David taught me that his real strength was his fortitude and his ability to endure and deflect perceived harm and that the things I thought he cared about he didn't. He was loved by those he loved and that's all that mattered. David lived a Christian life.

An Acorn For Dave

It has been nearly five months since David passed away. The reality of his death hangs over our family like an unwelcomed guest. His absence in our lives is as large as his body was in life. We miss his smile, his laugh, his friendship and the calming effect and the balance he brought to our family. His birthday and the approach of Christmas brings these losses even more to the forefront as we confront the hole his death has left . Events, days, celebrations, traditions, moments, memories recalled. We miss David beyond words. We miss him privately and as family and friends.

When people ask me how I’m doing I explain that I don’t have good days or bad days, I’m still at the point of having good and bad “moments”. Our love comes pouring out every day in tears and laughter. It is in the loss of someone that you experience love at its deepest. It is here that you understand the pain of Christ on the cross.

We all mourn David’s passing differently but in sorrow there is so much we can learn from children. In a child there is an uncorrupted and unsoiled belief in God that shows us hope. Jesus said “Amen, I say to you, whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it” Luke 18:16.

AJ’s strength in the face of David’s death has inspired me. That he misses his brother is obvious. It is AJ who coined the phrase “driving cloud cars” and often talks about how David (whom he now calls “Dave”) is with us but invisible. He now proudly sits in David’s spot in the dining room and he routinely “hugs” his brother by holding his arms out in a big circle. These small moments give me hope and direction to be more accepting and trusting in my faith. But sometimes it is in the smallest of gestures that we learn the biggest lessons.

We visit David’s grave nearly every day, me in the morning and Nancy with the kids after school. While his mother and Alex pray AJ usually rolls down the hill above the grave, but he always spends part of the time looking for acorns which are like little jewels to him.

One morning recently I walked up to the grave as I always do and neatly sitting at the foot of the little cross we had placed were three little acorns. That afternoon Nancy and I asked AJ if he had placed them there and he nodded his head and said quietly they were for “Dave”.

We have decided to confront David’s death head-on. We talk about him, we celebrate him, we honor him. Some are quiet and introspective, some are full of tears but we are all full of love for the brother who awaits us in heaven.

An Empty Chair at the Table

When Nancy and I bought the house we are in we bought a large mission-style oak table for the dining room. Rather than anything fancy we chose sturdy and practical because we knew it was going to be the centerpiece of our family’s activities.

The first time we sat around it I assigned seats, oldest to youngest across from one another; David to my left, Andy to my right, Eric next to David, Ali next to Andy, Sophie next to Eric, Alex next to Ali and Nancy at the end. Because it seats eight when AJ was born we had to place his chair at the corner next to Nancy.

At this table we have shared many meals. At this table we have celebrated birthdays, graduations, done homework, conducted business, entertained, made models, carved pumpkins and held our famous Christmas Eve ginger-bread house making contests. We have shared some of our biggest family moments here. There are perhaps hundred perhaps thousands of pictures that revolve around this table.

I have very fond memories of walking in to find David hunched over in his spot feverishly gluing together popsicle sticks or some crazy contraption out of fireworks. The table area in front of his seat is filled with dings and stains.

For the last few years it has been infrequent that we are able to get everyone together for dinner at the same time. Once a staple, the busy lives of a growing family make it impractical but special. So on Thursday when Eric arrived from Webster U. as I was preparing dinner I realized we had everyone home for the first time in a long time.

We cleared the table and I began to pile on food; meatloaf, creamed corn, mashed potatoes, fresh bread. The dining room was filled with the sort of family noise I welcome. In David’s chair sat AJ with his adorable head of curly hair. Once seated we said grace like we have for many years, holding hands. I just smiled as the kids practiced the well honed art of appearing to hold hands while minimizing the amount of actual contact.

After grace, food was passed and the inevitable banter between kids. Eric quickly had Alex near tears as he tortured him over passing the butter until Alex said “please sir may I have the butter!” The entire table erupted in laughter. For 45 minutes we laughed and talked loudly about current and past events. But in my head I kept seeing David to my left. Quietly laughing in the way he did, closing his eyes. “How’s the food David?” I’d ask. ”Good” he’d usually reply.

It was also at this same table that Nancy and I had our last meaningful conversation with David. Just before we left for Arizona we called him to the dining room where Nancy and I were seated. We told him that if anything happened to us he was in charge and that he had to make sure the kids were taken care of and that he was to raise AJ and Alex. He just smiled that big proud David smile and said “ok”.

David loved family meals and although nobody said anything, the tears through our laughter said it all. Our table just isn't the same anymore, it's out of balance and incomplete. Sometimes a person’s true presence is known only through their absence.

God-tough

If there is a trait that defines our extended family it is physical and emotional toughness. We admire toughness, we reward toughness, we expect toughness from ourselves and one another. That has lead to our unofficial family motto “Suck it Up!” a saying often repeated and well known by my kids.

At 12 I fell 20 feet out of a tree and didn’t tell my mom until they had to take me to the hospital the next day. At 17 I played an entire football season with a badly broken thumb that to this day is disfigured as a result. I forever changed the pigment on my left arm from multiple bruises. I considered these a badge of honor.

I’m not sure where I learned this (my dad I assume) but it was a characteristic I honed in the Marines. There is no single word that defines Marines more than that word “tough”.Through many years I practiced and demanded toughness in myself and others. What I learned is you can and are able to push yourself further than you ever thought possible through the most severe adversity. It is what wins battles. Once as a Second Lieutenant I received 3^rddegree burns on both hands in a training accident and never missed a training day. I even debrided my own burns, peeling away dead skin through intense pain just to prove to myself that I was tougher than the injury. I went to war and faced danger, uncertainty, separation and loneliness with strength. I was not and would never show weakness to others.I then transferred this philosophy to my children.

When Eric was 8 he knocked out 3 front teeth and never cried. Andy dislocated his kneecap in a football game and missed 1 game. Ali has broken, dislocated or sprained nearly every limb in cheerleading and you'd hardly know. David faced multiple knee and foot surgeries in his teen years with just the kind of toughness I admired, rarely complaining. Through countless situations it is not only a common refrain from me but it is repeated to one another as a matter of family pride “suck it up!” I thought that it was a noble trait. I thought it would prepare my children for life. Then David’s death changed everything.

He had been sick for at least a week prior to his death that we knew and every time we asked how he felt he’d say “I’ll be fine I just have the flu”. Even when we became concerned he sought to reassure us. As his body went into crisis I believe he just dug into that Lozano bag of mental armor and belief that he would be okay if he just “toughed it out”.

How I wish now he’d been a wimp. How I wish he’d told me he was scared and worried and pleaded for me to take him to the hospital. How my heart breaks that he didn’t know how much trouble he was in.Instead it was “I’ll be okay Dad” as he told me the last time I ever talked to him. He was tough. How I wish I had never heard the word.

Now, I’m no longer tough, at least not in the way I thought I should be. Sorrow has ripped through every fiber of my body and tears fill my day. The pride I used to take as toughness now laughs at me. “You are not so tough” it says and I wholeheartedly agree. But my old prideful toughness is being replaced with a new toughness; humility. Through prayer I ask for God to keep me humble and give me the strength to accept the burden he has given my family as a sacrifice to please God.

With God’s Armor I will prevail in this final battle. Please God make me be the right kind of tough, God-tough.

Metalhead

If you ask anyone who knew David to describe him you would hear such things as “gentle”, “kind”, “selfless” “beautiful smile”. But, “metalhead”? Of the many joys in David’s life music may have been just below family in terms of importance.

David did not just love music; he loved heavy metal music to be exact. Metallica, Ted Nugent, Breaking Benjamin, Hailstorm and Chevelle to name a few. I really never thought about how much joy music brought him until I began to put some of his things away. I was surprised by the number of autographed pictures, posters, guitar picks and CDs I came across. Each of them representing a moment of happiness for David.

Like the movies, David always seemed to be at some concert, often by himself just enjoying the music. He would frequently travel miles just to see a favorite band and never failed to come back without some sort of souvenir.

Since David died I have tried to find ways to feel close to him. Not long ago I found his MP3 player. On this device was every song that was meaningful to David so I had to listen to it. I remembered from a picture of David with a singer that Breaking Benjamin had been one of his favorite bands. Knowing nothing about the band I put the first song on “Shallow Bay”. The music pulsed with crunching guitars. Though not of the same generation as Black Sabbath I recognized in the music the very things I had enjoyed about heavy metal as a teen. My head bobbed and I felt tears coming to my eyes. Then came the refrain…”do you want to f*** with me!?”

The tears stopped and the laughter began and then I realized that perhaps there had been a less innocent side of David that I had probably never looked at. Much of the music David loved had an edge and earthiness to it that contrasted with the way he was as a person. Music was present in David’s life everywhere, in his car, in his room on his computer and his phone. Clearly David loved music for the emotional release it gave him.

I asked David's best friend Nathan about the picture of David and Benjamin Burnley from Breaking Benjamin and it was classic. David had befriended the security guard at the stage door during a Breaking Benjamin concert. Afterwards the guard let him backstage where he wondered around until he found Burnley. They struck up a conversation and Burnley was so taken by David he spent 20 minutes talking to him like an old friend. At the end David asked for a picture with Burnley which is above. This moment became so precious to David his siblings told me it was one he could talk about for hours. David let music say what he could not.

As Nancy and I were talking about David’s MP3 player she told me about a favorite memory she has of David; headphones on, music blasting, eyes closed quietly strumming his air guitar. That is how I want to remember him. Rock on David.

Planting Grass

We were in the reception after the funeral when they actually lowered David’s coffin into the vault. But, I have visited his grave nearly every day for the last two months; sometimes with Nancy, sometimes with the family but mostly alone. Graves are jarring to the senses a jagged mound of dirt in a field of green grass. They are reminders of the newness of loss and the finality of death to our earthly bodies.

As I turn into the parking lot I look for the fresh dirt directly in front of the tree on the hill and I know it’s David. There are no other fresh graves around it. In the early morning cool I walk through the dew to his grave. Rarely do I make it to the grave not already in tears. Weeping has become a big part of my life but not without purpose. It is an outlet for pain that has no words. Here I lay bare my soul and weep as Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus. Clutching my rosary I pray for David’s soul and I ask David for his intercessions. I ask God to ease our sorrow and comfort us and to carry us in his arms.

The interesting thing of visiting his grave nearly daily is seeing small changes. David was buried in the heat of summer and today we are well into the onset of fall with its coolness and air of change. Last week AJ ran around and collected acorns while Nancy and I prayed. His grave has mostly settled and the flowers from the funeral are long gone. Nancy and I also bought and placed a small cross to mark his grave until we order a headstone. Before we placed it Nancy wrote “Our Angel David” on the back.

Standing at a grave can make you feel helpless. Other than pray there is nothing I can do for David. That’s what parents do, we care for our children. I lost the earthly responsibilities of fatherhood I cherished so much, taking care of David. That is until two weeks ago. I had grown tired of looking at the fresh dirt and decided I was going to plant grass. I didn't care what the rules were or even if there were rules nobody was going to tell me I couldn't.

We bought a rake, grass seed, a watering can and brought a bucket from home. One morning I brought everything to the grave and very carefully raked and leveled the dirt. I plucked the lumps and raked some more. Soon I realized I was preparing this dirt just as I had so many times at the baseball diamond around home plate. It seemed so appropriate given David’s love of the game. I carefully spread and watered the grass seeds. I smiled; I had done something for David and felt a sense of accomplishment.

Today for the first time as I turned the corner into the church parking lot I did not immediately see David’s grave. As I walked up to his grave I could see that the ground was now covered by thousands of blades of new grass. I still wept but this time I also laughed and joked with David. Planting the grass helped me feel useful again and in doing so I was able to feel the first sprouts of healing.

Before the Cross

God has a funny way of talking to us. I wrote this last night totally unaware that today was the feast of the Holy Cross.

"God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life -John 3:16."

_________________________________

It has been six weeks since David's death blew a hole through my soul. The grief still washes over me like an unwelcome and relentless flood. I have been tearful, I have been fearful, I have even been philosophical. I have also plead for God to help this make sense but nothing makes sense. I have shaken my fist at the sky in sorrow and screamed “why God?! Why God did my little boy have to die?!”

No words I can hear will bring me solace because my grief is beyond words. I have no idea how time will take away the pain because I do not miss David less as the days go by but more. We are overwhelmed with the magnitude of his loss. His presence, his laugh, his generosity and kindness but most of all his love. At Mass today I looked at the pew we sat in so many Sundays and pretended I could see him. So important was he to our family that Nancy and I used to say “What would we do without David?” never thinking once we would actually have to answer that question.

But, at my lowest moments (and there are many) I always come back to the Virgin Mary. If anyone knows suffering it is our Blessed Mother. Imagine how Mary felt as she sat at the foot of the Cross as her little boy was crucified and died? I am sure she cried the same tears we have cried and felt the sorrow we are feeling. How then did she find the strength to carry on?

There is faith and then there is faith tested in the fire by sorrow and suffering. Death forces you to get real. No more exalted proclamations, no more good feelings, Death is faith stripped to its roots. In our Blessed Mother we find strength and at the foot of the Cross we find eternal life. God did not create death, God created life.

So Lord, I place myself at the foot of the Cross in the Holy Mass and ask for the grace to accept our suffering with dignity and faith and the promise of eternal life.

David and the Mountain Lion

In a big family it is often hard to build individual moments with your children. But, when David was 12 he and I enjoyed the adventure of a lifetime that has become one of my most precious memories of him.

It was the Fall of 1997 and I decided to take David with me on an antelope and mule deer hunt to Wyoming with my friend Dan Slawski and his son Dan Jr. David had struggled with school so much and worked so hard I decided that perhaps what he needed was a lesson in life outside of the classroom. His beloved teacher Mr. Dickerson was all in favor of it and even helped David prepare for missing a week of classes.

The trip to Wyoming was long but enjoyable as each turn brought new sights and long discussions about history and the movement west. We took turns grossing each other out with farts and laughed at each other’s stupid jokes. I found out that for all his shyness David had quite a sense of humor and enjoyed making people laugh.

During one stop at a truck stop we went into the bathroom. As I was at the urinal I hear David say “Look Dad they sell balloons!” I choked as I looked up and he’s pointing at the condom machine. “Those aren’t balloons David” as I hurried him out of the bathroom. That led to my first “birds and bees” discussion.

After spending the night in Kearney with the Slawskis (who had moved there a couple of years earlier) we headed out for the final leg to Wyoming. In Sydney, Nebraska we stopped at the headquarters of Cabelas the mecca of outdoorsmen. For three hours we walked around and David just stared in awe at the amazing mounts of north American game.

Once in Wyoming David followed me everywhere while we walked mile after mile in pursuit of our game. Since he was not hunting he carried some gear but mostly he just carried a smile. When I spotted the antelope I wanted we climbed a hill and I took my shot with David peering over my shoulder. It was a magical moment.

The real adventure, however, started afterwards. Dan had finished his hunt early and wanted to take his son into Laramie, leaving us without a truck to traverse the vast ranch. Rather than not hunt I opted to take my Ford sedan, which turned out to be a bad idea. Blazing along a ranch road I hit a soft spot and bottomed out, tearing a hole in the radiator. With chewing gum and water from a cooler we were able to limp to a highway and flag down some help. We eventually were towed to the town of Douglas some 40 miles away. There I learned it would be 3 days to get a radiator from Denver.

For the next three days David and I hung out in our motel room. We watched Men In Black three times and laughed every time. We ordered room service and got some awesome hamburgers we liked so much we ordered them every day. I also learned his favorite chips were Sun Chips as we ate bag after bag. But most of all we just hung out and I got to know my son as a young man. The sweetness of his spirit always brought me joy.

Finally the car was fixed and we headed home. We met up with our friends the Slawskis in Kearney and spent the night. At dinner David recounted the adventure and then over pizza announced that he’d seen a mountain lion. In unison we all turned to him in shock and looked to see if he was teasing us, but he was serious. “A mountain lion? Are you sure?” I asked. He then told us breathlessly that as he and I were driving he’d seen one standing on the side of the road. We all looked at each other and stifled our chuckles and nobody had the heart to tell him it was unlikely he’d actually seen one. His sincerity was so endearing we didn’t want to interrupt his happiness. David ate his pizza with a look of contentment that said it all.

He and I would talk about that trip many times over the years and to his death he believed he’d seen a mountain lion and never once did I question him. That trip meant more to us though than the hunt, it represented a defining moment in our lives when I learned what it really means to be a father and he, to be a son.

Barfing the Rainbow

We spend a lot of time talking about how gentle David was or how kind he was but one of the gems about David was how unintentionally funny he was. Over the last month his family and friends have not only shared these stories with one another but have heard many new ones. Each one is a gift from David to help us in a time of sorrow. One such story was related to Andy this past weekend by two friends who played football with David.

When David was a sophomore he went with the Francis Howell football team to their camp at Mizzou. The June camp was famous for heat and mosquitos. Built for comfort, one evening David showed up in the dorms with six big bottles of Gatorade; each one a different flavor. In an effort to hydrate for the next day David began to drink his Gatorade; first one, then a second and then a third. His teammates urged him to stop but David had it in his head that if some was good, more was better. By the morning he had consumed all six bottles...two full gallons of Gatorade.

The next morning David arrived for practice but after only three plays he tapped someone on the shoulder and said he needed to step out, in obvious discomfort. He walked a short distance and proceeded to unceremoneously projectile vomit. But this was no ordinary vomit, it was colored vomit. Miraculously each episode produced a stream of colored liquid; first blue, then green, then red; matching the flavors of Gatorate he'd drank. After a moment one player turned to the others and said with awe "He's barfing a rainbow!". The group erupted in laughter and eventually David joined them.

Years later the story is still retold by that group as one of their favorite memories of high school, one even more cherished now that David is gone. David always had a way of making people laugh and hearing these stories today help keep him close to us and remember that much of his life was bringing happiness to others; intentionally or otherwise. He's still making us laugh.