It is hard to believe that it has been a year since my grandson Julian died. While my wife and I were fortunate to be able to travel during COVID to France for his funeral that following week...it wasn't until months later that I was able to sit down and write a homily/eulogy to honor him. There was an intention that at some point we would have a memorial mass for him in the States...but not sure that will happen and if it does, I doubt I would be able to deliver these words. But I did include them in the award winning book of homilies that was published last fall - which can be found here: https://bit.ly/JulianTao831
Our extended family gives our deepest thanks and blessings for everyone in our lives who has walked this journey of grief past year with us, and grateful for all the donations made to the Fund that we established in Julian's name, and which we will foster over the coming years at UVA Children's hospital: https://bit.ly/JulianTao
And so, here is the eulogy, from my heart and soul, on the life, death and resurrection of my sweet Julian...
Over
the past four years, I have begun to realize the depth of love we can have for our
grandchildren. I have four sons, who are all married to wonderful spouses and all
of whom I love a great deal. But my grandchildren are different, as I can sense
and feel the Divine Flow move between us when we hold onto each other. Given
the nickname Buelo by my eldest grandson, I enjoy watching, with awe and
wonder, my four young grandchildren grow—and feel the deepest love I could ever
imagine.
But what I soon found out is deep love and deep grief are woven together from the beginning.
It
was on the morning of August 31st, as I was watching the sun rise in
Cape May, that I received the first text from my son in France that there had
been an accident on his family farm, that my grandson Julian was seriously
injured, and to say prayers as they rushed him to the hospital. It was not even
an hour later that the next text I received simply said, “He’s gone.” And with
that, our lives were turned upside down. A void opened in my heart and soul
that frankly will never fully mend.
Numerous calls were made, family notified, and heart-wrenching conversations shared with my son and his wife as we all tried to wrap ourselves around the loss of Julian. Wanton neglect on the part of a local French contractor led to the senseless death of a beautiful boy...leaving us with the deepest grief any of us have ever experienced.
Through a petition filed with the French consulate, my wife and I were granted permission to fly to France in the midst of COVID-19 pandemic so that we could be present for Julian’s funeral. While there, we also were able to celebrate the first birthday of Julian’s younger sister, Bloom...who spent a good part of the day looking around for her brother, who was now gone. No one should ever experience burying their own young child, or grandchild—and yet, unfortunately, this is an event that has happened before in our family. So, we know all too well that it is a loss that you never get over, or move on from, nor one that heals with time...although many well-intentioned people, looking for something to say, have told us so.
This death of an innocent three-year-old son and grandson is a death that changes you for the rest of your life, for there will be empty spaces at the tables of family gatherings, and holidays, and birthdays. Empty spaces in our family pictures. Empty spaces at graduations, weddings, and other celebrations. This is the kind of emptiness that lasts a lifetime—a ripple effect that seems endless. So now, nearing three months since his death, many of us in the family still wake each day wondering, “How will I live this day? How do I attempt to mend my heart and my soul? How will I interact with others?”
Perhaps some answers can be found in today’s Gospel, where, as we hear so often, Jesus invites a child to come forward and reminds his followers that to enter the kingdom of heaven, we must change ourselves. We must be transformed, so we will be like a child. It is a necessary reminder for all of us that it is the children who know what it is to love another without any strings attached, with no expectation for anything in return. It reminds me of one of my favorite Fr. Richard Rohr quotes, where he writes: “We are not human beings trying to become spiritual. We’re already spiritual beings—our job is learning how to be a good human.”
Even at his young age, Julian already had both the spiritual and the human aspects of life figured out. All you had to do was watch him with his mom and dad, or his baby sister, or his maternal grandparents (who lived next door to him), or even the short times he had with my wife and me—for you found yourself a recipient of an endless amount of his love, laughter, and kindness. Julian knew how to love, better than most adults I know—for he lived a life filled with much joy, which was expressed in so many ways.
This joy was really evident when his two cousins, who live nearby, would come over and visit. Even though they’re a few years older than Julian, they would spend hours playing with him. It would not take long before the three boys were down to their underwear, dancing around the room to one of Julian’s favorite songs, “Despacito.” There they would just be lots of laughing, singing, dancing, and enjoying life and loving each other.
Because of the pandemic, the last time my wife and I saw Julian was Thanksgiving of 2019, when our entire family gathered for a week at our Florida home. Then, barely two and a half years old, he announced upon his arrival that he would be sleeping by my bedside. So, every morning, about 45 minutes before the sun would rise, he would call out to me to come and cuddle with him. Soon after, we would go out on the porch and hold onto each other as we would wait for the sun to rise.
At the end of that week, on the last day he was with us, hours before he had to go, he was in the pool with my wife and me, sandwiching himself between us, with his arms wrapped around us and telling us that we needed to relax...just relax.
Then, the summer of 2020, Julian’s family, due to COVID-19, vacationed near to their home, along the western shores of France. During their stay, I received a few videos of Julian. In one, he was looking out across the sea, just calling my name, knowing that I was somewhere on the other side of the ocean, confident that I would hear his voice. In another, he let a feather go into the strong winds, watching it carry itself out over the ocean, assured in his mind that it would end up on my lap.
So,
in turn, I sent him a video back, holding onto a feather and thanking him for
sending me the gift, and reminding him how much I love him and always will. It
was soon after that his mom sent me a video of him watching my video (for the twelfth
time!) and beaming with joy over our connection, then telling me that he loves
me, “So much, forever time.” Little did I know that it would be the last video
I would receive from him.
When we arrived at the family farm in France for the funeral, it did not take long before we started sharing stories about Julian. Many were told, but there was one in particular that reminded me what an old soul Julian was—is—and how he knew what love and even resurrection were all about. For Julian had a deep connection with his maternal grandfather—Papé—who lives right on the farm, next door to my son’s family. The two were inseparable, every single day. But, a short time before Julian died, his conversation with Papé went something like this:
Julian: Papé, you are very old!
Papé: Oh Julian, I am not as old as
I look!
Julian: So, Papé, what will happen
when you die?
Papé: What did you ask, Julian?
Julian: What will happen when you
die?
Papé: Oh Julian . . . well, I will
no longer be here with you, but I will be up in the stars and shining down and
watching over you.
Julian: Well Papé, not to worry,
because when I am old enough, I will reach up to the stars and bring you back
to myself.
Not even three and half years old and, somehow, Julian already knew what death and rebirth were all about.
So, we are reminded this day—and every day—of the great love Julian had for all of us—and also reminded of the Gospel call for all of us to become like little children, which requires a change of heart. That is what conversion is truly all about. Such a change of heart will transform the way we live and love—a gift that Julian gave us each day of his short life.
In
his book, The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of
Grief, Francis Weller writes, “Grief and love are sisters, woven together
from the beginning. Their kinship reminds us that there is no love that does
not contain loss and no loss that is not a reminder of the love we carry for
what we once held close.”
The depth of our collective grief will allow us, one day, to experience joy like no other joy, for our love for Julian will never die, nor will his spiritual presence in our lives ever diminish. Grief and love are indeed interwoven, but it is we who are blessed to have had Julian in our lives for 1,220 days and to have learned from him what Divine Love looks like, and feels like and sounds like.
Julian
was cremated wearing one of his favorite shirts that read, “Live Simply.” So, I
encourage all of you to take the time to do just that: to be more like a child...to live simply...to dance in your underwear to your favorite song...to send a loved one a wish over the ocean breeze...and to hug
someone you love and tell them to relax.
Our days will never be the same, but we will always carry Julian’s love, a love we are called to share with each other, this day and always, “So much, forever time.”
