Of loss and love

It's been a difficult month for our family. Two of our children, the generation of nieces and nephews, have died this summer. My generation calls ourselves "The 28," because that's how many first cousins we are, born of the original nine Stiebel siblings, all of them gone now, the last of them, Aunt Grace, departing only months before Covid shut everything down. The 28 first cousins refer to all our offspring as our nieces and nephews, though technically they are cousins, too. I wrote about my niece and goddaughter Christine who died in a car accident on the way home to Yellowknife in the far north of Canada at the end of June. She was only 33, her radiant being snuffed out by a drunk driver. 

Sadly, toward the end of July, we lost another of her generation, my nephew Jamal, Aunt Winnie's grandson, who contacted Covid at the start of the pandemic and whose lungs just never fully recovered. He had Down Syndrome, his lungs compromised since he was a baby. I recall so many visits to the hospital back when I was in college, and we feared we would lose him. But his mom Angie moved the very heavens to stabilize him, and he far outlived the life expectancy doctors tried to place on his head. Then Covid snared him, ravaging his weakened lungs irrevocably. For the past two years he landed in the hospital every couple of months, and on his last visit, he left us. He would have turned 49 this coming Saturday. 

Yesterday, we gathered in Brooklyn to celebrate his life. My cousins from Virginia traveled to the city, and stayed over with me the last two nights. In addition to all the family members who assembled in person, many more of us watched the service on video, which is the way things are post-pandemic. We all shared memories of our cherished son, brother, nephew, cousin, and uncle, who in life couldn't express what he was feeling in words, yet spoke eloquently of his displeasure and joy nevertheless. My own most moving memory of Jamal is the way he simply and graciously allowed others to express love for him unconditionally, through taking care of him, though sharing a bowl of his favorite vanilla ice cream, through the rocking hugs he gave, through shooting basketball hoops with him in the driveway for hours, even in winter. 

It seemed to me that one of Jamal’s most selfless purposes on this earth was helping others to grow in love by being of service. Even those of us who did not serve him as directly as his mom Angie did, as his sister and grandparents and others did, were able to learn from what we observed. Jamal showed us the meaning of service, he taught us to seek and foster his joy, and he showed us that joy and service just might be the very definition of love. Yesterday there were tears, but there was also much laughter as we told stories of Jamal, and relished being with loved ones who hadn't gathered in this way since my son's wedding last fall. These are our reunions now, weddings and funerals, reminding me always of the great gift that is our family. 

The photo here is of my son and me with Aunt Winnie's other grandson, a soldier who has just returned from a year in Iraq, where he earned military decorations for alerting the base to an incoming attack one morning, thereby saving many lives. We've lost so many, but our stories continue.