10/23/2023 

Dear family and friends,

Together, as a family, we made the decision to bury Cooper. He was laid to rest next to his grandfather, Poppy Jack, and his great-grandparents, on October 20th. 

Victoria and I purchased two plots next to Cooper’s, and someday, we will be buried next to our son. When we next visit the cemetery, I will get the latitude and longitude coordinates and send them. If any of Cooper’s friends or family decide to take a road trip, let us know, and you can stay with us. The cemetery is 1.5 hours from our home.

The funeral∗ was a small graveside service with immediate family present. I delivered the service. I aimed for a Christian, experiential, affective service. An invocation for God to be with us was made. Family members were anointed with oil for healing. We read Psalm 23 together: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” We borrowed from the Quaker tradition and spent time in silence. Cooper was eulogized. The gravesite was blessed with holy water. We circled the casket, holding hands, and prayed the Lord’s Prayer together. Each of us placed a handful of dirt on top of the casket, symbolizing ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The song “Memorial” by Ike Ndolo was played.

We can’t say why exactly we chose burial over cremation. As we joked, ‘the little man inside us’ (Seinfeld) was simply telling us it was more appropriate for our family to bury Cooper. So we followed that still, small voice.

We didn’t do embalming, no vault, and we opted for a biodegradable casket. We imagine years from now, Cooper will quite literally become the grass, the trees, the insects, and the birds of the air. The full circle of life, playing out on a little hill, on a prairie, in the Midwest—with the blades of grass waving their prayers and the bugs reflecting the sunlight as it slices through the trees.

Before Cooper was buried, we took Snoopy, his dog, to see him. Snoopy sniffed a lot, placed his paw on Cooper’s arm, but didn’t seem distraught. We just wanted Snoopy to know that Cooper wasn’t coming home. We had one last chance to anoint Cooper’s body with olive oil, frankincense, rosemary, and cinnamon.

We are learning that trying times bring out the weird. We talk to Cooper as if he’s still with us, sit in his living room, touch his guitar, books, and wallet. We smell the room like we’re drawing him in. We light candles every morning, crack the back door so his soul can enter, and so on. We imagine this is normal? 

The first week was a traumatic madhouse. Our foundation gave way. Things have calmed down; we’re doing better. Today is the second day all family has been gone—now it’s me, Victoria, Grace, and Grandma Lois. It’s obvious Cooper is missing; the void is palpable. We stand at the window with long, blank stares, barely noticing the trees changing colors and the leaves falling.

Did the change of seasons factor into this?

I remember hiking in the mountains once. I sat in a beautiful clearing and wanted my life to look like that—beautiful. Shortly up the hill, I came across a mangled gulley where water and lightning had left a mess. I stood there for a long time before I could see it, but I finally did. Despite the devastation, there was life—moss, bugs, birds, new growth.

Already, we’ve seen beauty in this tragedy. Our family, friends, and coworkers (especially from my wife’s local school community) have shown us great love and care. Your condolences, wonderful food, flowers, cards, art, candles, and the general compassion you’ve shown us have held us up when it’s been difficult to stand or function on our own. For this, we are grateful.

With gratitude,

Kelly & Victoria, CJ & Em, Carse, Grace

– and Cooper