A Father's Reflection

What I have Learned from the Death of my Son

Dear Reader,

As many, perhaps not all of you, know, my son Gabriel Augustine Hall was born and died on October 24. He lived for just over two hours outside the womb, and he died sleeping on his mother’s chest. We knew he was going to have a very short life; he was diagnosed via sound genetic testing with Trisomy 13, which is a genetic disease incompatible with life. He was baptized and confirmed soon after birth — I baptized him in the OR — and the Mass of Angels was celebrated for him on October 31 — All Hallows Eve — which was so fitting for our little Saint Gabriel.

We had received the crushing news about two months before he was born, and because of this, we had time to prepare. That time was excruciating, and at present I am writing a book — or at least trying to — about our whole experience, which I hope will one day be useful to parents grieving the illnesses and deaths of their children.

In any event, my intention here is not to drag out the more tragic realities, but instead to share a brief reflection on what this episode has taught me.

Perhaps it will seem cliché, but I have learned that life really is short. I know, I know, we hear that all the time, “Life is short!” But it does feel awfully long at times, especially during times of mourning and grief. Gabriel’s short sojourn in this Vale of Tears was indeed short. To put it in perspective, the time he spent breathing with us was shorter than a broadcast of an NFL game. However, in that short time, he lived a complete life. I say this because he was born, and he was incorporated into the Mystical Body of Christ, and died in the company of those who love him most. Is there anything else that matters?

Do our earthly successes mean anything if we do not accomplish that most fundamental and basic necessity of dying both in communion with Christ and in loving kinship with our loved ones? All the money in the world could not buy sainthood, which Gabriel achieved in less than three hours. Our lives will be over at some point, and that point could be as soon as you are done reading this, or while you are reading this! I could die while you are reading this, and so could anyone else you can think of.

What will that moment be like for you? For me? Will we be in a state of grace? Will our most beloved companions be there with us? Will heaven rejoice when we enter Eternity, or will our Guardian Angel mourn the loss of a soul who thought he had more time?

Two hours, two decades, two half-centuries are all just measurements of chronological time that evaporate when our souls enter into the timelessness of the Eternal. Heaven knows, in the wake of his death, that I regret innumerable moments of time wasted on meaningless things. I do not mean time spent doing things that are seemingly “unimportant” like hobbies or recreation, but instead, wasted on things that bring no peace to my soul, or detract peace from it.

Another thing that Gabriel taught me is how to suffer. Now, I recognize that in saying this, there are many who have suffered more than I ever will, and I do not mean to pretend that my lot in life has been the hardest or any harder than yours. Nonetheless, the suffering found in waiting for his arrival was excruciating. There was no guarantee — even less than normal — that Gabriel would make it to birth. Until the moment he arrived, we had to be mentally prepared that he would die in the womb, and when the time came for him to arrive, we knew he would die quickly. Those months spent waiting and praying for him were like a prolonged period of mourning, knowing that the mourning of losing him for good was still to come. And during that period, we suffered. We suffered the heartache that only parents can understand when a child is sick or dying, and it was that suffering mixed with the suffering and anxiety of uncertainty about what would come to pass.

It was the greatest — and still is — trial I have ever been through. It is said that God sends only the crosses that He knows can be handled by his subjects. This cross has been immense, and in a way, I have felt like Sisyphus, although, with the happy consolation that I am not carrying the heaviness by my own power.

Lastly, because I intend to keep this reflection short, I have learned to desire Heaven more than ever. Releasing a child into the arms of Eternity is different than losing another loved one. Of course, we mourn our parents, etc., when they pass, but when a child passes, it is as if so much unlived potential and promise dies with him. Surely we must remind ourselves that the greatest thing for our children is to go to Heaven, and I rejoice in the fact that my son was not made to suffer in this Vale of Tears.

But, selfishly, I miss him. I miss him like I need air. I ache when I consider I will never watch him take his first step, or say his first word, or wrestle with his brothers and annoy his sisters. My heart skips a beat when I consider I will never again kiss his cheek on this side of the Divide. But this is a great mercy from Our Blessed Lord. I am a wretched sinner, and God must have sent us this saint because He knows we need all the motivation we can have to be with God for all Eternity.

Message received, Lord. I would give it all away to see him one more time, and as God — and my saintly son — is my witness, I will do whatever it takes to be with Him and him, for all Eternity.

Praise God.