He never really cried much.

Stephen was loud. You could hear him the moment you entered a room; his laughter and his voice were distinct. I’m certain my children’s lack of vocal modulation is entirely genetic.

But he rarely cried.

Back in 2017 he let me listen to “Seven years” by Lukas Graham. He had relapsed a few months earlier and just couldn’t shake off an infection. We had his bags packed and kids dropped off at my moms, he was just postponing another hospital visit. “Come listen to this song.” When the song began, he hummed along. As the song went on, he didn’t have words then, just tears. This was the only time I saw sadness in his eyes.

I didn’t see tears again until last year after I called 911 because he had a seizure and collapsed. There was a loud crash in the kitchen. I ran down and found him surrounded by broken glass, seizing on our floor and frothing at the mouth. I called 911 as he came out of his seizure; he sat up and was bleeding and delirious. I told him the ambulance was coming and that he was going to be ok. He looked at me, and his eyes filled with tears. This was the only time I glimpsed defeat in him.

The day after, we had our last “date”. In between an appointment with his family doctor and routine blood transfusion, we went to a local park and shared a sandwich on a park bench. There was a fundraiser happening that day for his next round of treatment in Mexico. The organizers were our good friends and they called him while we were at the hospital waiting for his blood results. He teared up that day during that phone call. These were tears of gratitude and hope.

A few days later, after a cardiac arrest, he was on life support in the ICU. The doctors told us he couldn’t hear us anymore and that his organs were shutting down. They said every movement he made was simply a reflex and no longer part of his consciousness. And yet, he jerked his arms when Lena kissed him. He squeezed my hand throughout the night. And when I whispered, “You are so so loved,” tears fell. Those were perhaps “goodbye.”

In today’s first reading from the Acts of the Apostles, St. Stephen was sent to take care of the widows. That’s right. St. Stephen was sent. To take care. Of the widows. Let me let that sink into my soul. It’s as if God is reminding me that Stephen is still taking care of us, and that He has plans larger than our minds and hearts can fathom. It’s humbling.

Say a prayer for us tomorrow.

364 days.