(spoiler alert: this is a somber post dealing with neither knitting nor running, but they are words I am compelled to say)
Last week a friend I know from my running club lost his 18 year old son, a senior at our town’s high school. The child’s death was unexpected and ruled an accident (a fall). I knew this child when he was small, as he played with my son (who is a year younger).
Today we buried that child, and my heart is aching. For his father–a parent should never know the pain of burying a child. For his classmates and teammates and friends–teenagers are supposed to feel invincible, not vulnerable. For our town–this boy was our ‘mayor.’ He knew everyone. He transcended social groups and age categories. He was pleasant and rambunctious and athletic and kind.
His funeral today was amazing. His father spoke eloquently, crediting his friends and teachers, coaches and other families with making Jeremy the great kid he was.
I can be overly critical about my town sometimes, but to see the church filled with maybe over 1,000 people made me realize that I’m in the right place. Every person in that church had interacted with Jeremy. Every mother in that church at one time had probably scolded him, and then walked away shaking her head and laughing because of his big goofy smile. It takes a village to raise a child, and I’m so glad that the Duncker family raised Jeremy in my town, and gave everyone the opportunity to know and love that kid.