ANEW: How Fragile We Are
"For in this darkness love will show the way..."
Today’s piece is not about death.
The other week, I found myself needing more. I was staying around the corner at an Airbnb from the St. Louis Basilica, a beautiful and ornate Catholic church built decades ago as a testament to faith and devotion. I had been there once before on a guided tour with fellow educators. I am not Catholic, but I feel at home in just about anyone’s house of worship. I am not particularly religious either, though when I’m in Chicago, I make it a point to stop by my mother’s home church, Trinity United Church of Christ. That name might ring a bell; it’s the church where Barack and Michelle Obama were married, their spiritual home until Barack’s political journey necessitated a public disavowal of Reverend Jeremiah A. Wright, the church’s iconic and controversial minister.
Are you sensing a theme here? A lot of qualifiers. A lot of explaining. I’ve been diving deeply into what it means to be a person of faith. As a result, I’m seeing signs of it everywhere—or maybe I’m just more attuned to noticing them. This fall, I participated in four school accreditations, and every single one of the schools had a religious affiliation: Jesuit, Xaverian, Islamic, and Episcopalian. Each was profoundly different, yet each was deeply committed to serving its students and families. Beyond the work itself, these experiences seemed to echo a larger question reverberating in my mind: What does it mean to seek something greater than ourselves?
This question has followed me, even in the gym, where I’ve been listening obsessively to an artist called IamSon. His album—one I can’t stop playing—is filled with songs that wrestle with faith, perspective, and transcendence. In one track, he speaks about soaring above his circumstances to "see different." The phrase, though colloquial, carries a resonance: a longing to rise above the mundane and glimpse the infinite.
So, on this particular day, I decided to "see different" for myself. I walked toward the Basilica, ready to find inspiration in its grandeur. But as I approached, I saw a white hearse parked diagonally in front of its doors. A funeral. Groups of young men, solemn and impeccably dressed, were making their way into the church, some carrying hockey sticks. Across the street, a news crew was setting up. Curious, I asked a reporter what had happened.
“A young man was driving home with his dad after a hockey game,” he said. “A stray bullet hit him. His dad was driving.”
I exhaled sharply, involuntarily. “Oh, no.”
“Yeah,” the reporter continued. “The dad’s a retired sheriff’s officer. They pulled over downtown, and an off-duty EMT tried to help, but the bullet had done too much damage. It tore through the boy’s neck. He was brain-dead and passed away a few days later.”
The boy’s name was Colin Brown, a 16-year-old hockey player. He had been struck by a stray bullet on Interstate 55 while driving home. His teammates from the Christian Brothers School in St. Louis were there to honor him, some wearing their purple and gold jerseys. The NHL team, the St. Louis Blues, had honored him too, leaving a lone hockey stick outside their locker room. “Colin Strong,” their pins read.
I didn’t stay for the service. The family had asked for privacy. But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the weight of what I’d witnessed. Here were young men, barely more than boys, shouldering a grief so immense, stepping into a moment that demanded strength far beyond their years.
In that moment, my own grief and loneliness seemed to dissolve, replaced by something larger: awe at their resilience, their unity, their humanity. It struck me that, even in our darkest moments, we’re often given glimpses of something greater than ourselves. Sometimes it’s in the beauty of a shared ritual, like a funeral mass. Sometimes it’s in the quiet dignity of a community rallying around its own. These moments remind us—if we’re paying attention—that life’s seeming randomness is not all there is.
What if the meaning we seek isn’t something we discover but something we create? What if we fed our minds with images of connection and purpose, instead of chaos and despair? What if we chose to see life as a story being written, each scene building toward something greater? Shakespeare’s tragedies often end with a resolution, a glimpse of order emerging from the chaos. Perhaps our lives can, too.
As I walked away from the Basilica, I felt no bounce in my step. There was no sudden clarity or epiphany. But there was a quiet understanding: that seeking connection, meaning, and grace is an act of faith in itself. It’s believing that, even in the face of loss, there is something infinite at work—something that binds us to each other and to the larger story we’re all a part of.
One day, I hope to build a school where this sense of connection and purpose is woven into the fabric of its community. A place where dignity, love, and grace aren’t just ideals but lived experiences. For now, I’ll keep seeking—and maybe that seeking is, in its own way, enough.
Curated Listening (x2):
David Wilcox is another person whose music I have on repeat. Listen to “Show the Way,” one of the inspirations for this post HERE. The other inspiration is Sting’s “Fragile,” which was recorded at the Pantheon in Paris. Listen to it HERE.