Along with many of you, I have witnessed and
mourned the recent deaths of three men – my
age or younger – who left this earth far too
soon: Brian Channell, an MHS student we
remember for his smile and athletic talent;
Scott Forney, a craftsman who is with his
mother and brother now; and Luke Scipione,
a kind athlete and friend of many who
belonged (and still belongs) to my own
extended family.
Talking with Kate Forney (Scott Forney’s
sister), hearing the grief of the schools, and
seeing my own family mourn all give me
pause, particularly because Brian, Scott, and
Luke are so close to my age. Because I am still
here and they are not – as you are too if you’re
reading now – I remember my own mortality,
and, knowing that there are now three fewer
young men whose kind smiles brighten the
days of those around them, I feel a heightened
awareness to honor and serve, in their
memory, those who are troubled or saddened
or vulnerable by life’s many anxieties, choices,
and tribulations.
Thomas Lynch, funeral director and author,
has said that “when we bury our young, we
bury the future… our grief has no borders, no
limits, no known ends.” He is right. I don’t
understand and might never understand how
a parent or friend or grandparent or anyone
can fully move on from saying goodbye to
such kind and promising lives, all too soon.
But I do know that in times of mourning and
sorrow, we need friendships, family, and love
more than ever. The love that we show to
ourselves, the bereaved, and the dead might
not summon the ability to overcome the grief
in its entirety, but it can certainly give us the
power to endure it together.
When the young die, we are reminded that
human pain abides without end, but together,
we must also remember: so too does love.
With sorrow and hope on this Good Friday,
Grant Underwood
