These are the words we will recite later in this morning’s service as we commend Ian’s soul back to God. I find the words comforting in times of loss—today Ian is at rest in the company of all the saints. He has taken his place in the great cloud of witnesses who surround us at all times and in all places, forever, no exceptions.
For Ian life has not ended, it has changed. And for those of us who mourn, life has not ended, it, too has changed. We carry on, holding our memories and love for Ian in our hearts.
All that said, and knowing that many of us here have great faith, this is really tough.
How could Ian, who battled depression for so long, yet seemed to be coming out of an exceptionally dark period in his life, feel so hopeless that he couldn’t, in this life, find a way to escape the pain?
It begs the question: Where was God in all of this? Where is our Lord when one of God’s beloved children is in such desperate circumstances? Where?
Right in the middle of it.
I have no doubt that, as Ian went about his day last Sunday, when he made the decision—impulsive or long thought out—to end his own life, Jesus was right there. Urging, cajoling, begging, hoping, praying that he wouldn’t do it, Jesus was there. I envision Jesus weeping; knowing all too well the pain that Ian felt, as well as the pain that would befall Craig and Joni and all who loved Ian-- the same pain our Creator God felt as Jesus himself died on the cross.
Jesus knew this to be a pain that may dull a bit over time, but would never leave. Hence, Jesus wept.
And then, once it was over and Ian’s life on earth ended I also know that Jesus, tears streaming down his face, opened his arms wide and brought Ian home, into that place where sorrow and pain are no more.
Today, Ian is free.
Ian is home
Ian is safe
Ian is happy.
We, on the other hand, have a lot of adjusting to do, a lot of grieving to live through, a lot of questions to ponder.
Let me be clear, suicide is a horrible tragic end to life. But, it’s not a sin, it’s not selfish, it’s not a cop-out. Suicide is the solution employed when someone reaches the end of what they can bear, a final outcome to a bad disease. No amount of love from or for other people could make its way through the desolation of Ian’s mind. It’s no one’s fault-- it’s a tragedy, it’s awful and it makes no sense.
But we know, in sure and certain hope of resurrection living, that today Ian is at peace. May that be a source of consolation, a balm to soothe the souls of all the bereaved.
Ian Michael Libglid came into this world with a bit of a flourish after an emergency c-section. He spent some time in the NCIU, but once home, you couldn’t find an easier, happier and sweeter baby than Ian. Joni told me that he just soaked everything up---learning all he could about whatever was in front of him.
Ian was bright…that may have been hard for some people to see after his depression took hold and he became even more introverted than he already was, but Ian was smart and he was quick. Just last week he received a commendation at work for a job well done. He worked hard and well at the tasks he was given here at St Paul’s. Nick tells us that if he had any problem with technology, Ian would take care of it for him.
When he was younger, Ian loved being an acolyte. When Ian was on the schedule you knew that things were going to get done right.
I think compliments meant a lot to him…but boy was it a challenge to get him to accept one. Each and every time someone would say to him, “nice job, Ian,” he’d put his head down and blush. I pray he heard each one of the compliments he was given and that somehow they soothed his soul.
This is something a lot of you might not know—Ian was funny. He loved movies and could re-enact scenes line for line, getting the inflections and mannerisms “just so.”
I remember a time—it had to have been 5 or more years ago—and Mother Liza, Ian and I were in the sacristy and Ian made a joke. Now this was not something any of us were particularly used to-Ian joking around—but it tickled us to no end. When Mthr. Liza threw her head back and began to laugh, Ian, at first, looked stricken-- as if he had done something wrong—but when he realized that we were delighted, he beamed from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.
As Joni and I spoke this week she told me about a favorite picture she has of Ian as a toddler. He was sitting in his room surrounded by his toys with an open book on his lap.
Ian loved books.
As a child, his favorite was “Good Night Moon.” You know the story—in the green room there was a telephone, a red balloon and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon….good night room.
Good night clocks, good night socks..
Good night stars good night air, good night noises everywhere.
The noises of Ian’s life became too much for his mind to bear last Sunday, he needed to say good night and farewell.
We’ll forever hold Ian in our hearts, we’ll forever hold Joni and Craig, Linda, Virginia and the entire family in our hearts and we thank God that Ian is finally and forever at peace.
Good night room, good night brush, good night old lady who says hush.
Good night fear, good night pain, good night to a son a nephew, a cousin, a friend, a child of God. Good night Ian. Rest in the eternal, glorious and wondrous peace that is God, watch over us and know that you are, forever and ever, loved. Amen.
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