Words. Words. Words. Words.

 

We’ve heard some beautiful words this morning.

 

Thank you Archbishop Rigali, Chief Henderson, Julius Hunter.

 

I traffic in words. I’ve been collecting them since I was a kid – first as a precocious youngster, then as a juvenile smart aleck, wise guy. I graduated to the high school debate team, then journeyman trial lawyer, later neighborhood gadfly.

 

Need some pithy, off-the-cuff commentary on any subject, for any occasion? I’m your man. I’ve got a pocket full of words. All you have to do is ask. You don’t even have to ask. Just lean forward like you might be about to ask.

 

Then Chief Henderson and Lt. Col. Pollihan asked if I would give the talk for the Police Memorial Breakfast.

 

It took my breath away. Like nothing in all my 42 years.

 

My glib self confidence gave way to ambivalence, doubt, the guilt of inadequacy. Suddenly, my pockets were empty.

 

I resolved to bow my head, search my heart, and do my best.

​

*

 

Since the time of the ancients, spoken words memorializing fallen heroes have had two elements: “extolling the dead and exhorting the living”; “praise for the fallen and advice for the survivors.”*

 

To the extent I have any standing to embark on these daunting tasks, it is not grounded in the chance, temporary station of stewardship I now occupy as a member of the Board of Police Commissioners for the City of St. Louis.

 

Rather, you see, I am a citizen, a neighbor, a son, a brother, an uncle, a husband, a father. Some of these things, I have always been; all of these things, I will always be.

 

I have been moved and shaped in countless ways by the dedication, courage, and sacrifice of others, many of whom I have never met. I have suffered the loss of people I love, and witnessed others lose those they love. I have faith in a just and compassionate God.

 

These are the kinds of things that, for each of us, help define our humanity. These are the only things that can give us the gift of compassion and the power to discern meaning and light out of tragedy and darkness.

 

Were this, simply, an informal gathering of friends, neighbors and acquaintances meditating on the untimely loss of loved ones, the ordinary life experience I just described would support my participation, and make me comfortable in doing so.

 

More was required here.

 

Because today I stand before the extended “police family” – a community whose understanding of and support for one another is so complete it conveys a collective power and spirit unlike any I have witnessed.

 

And because today I stand before that “police family” on the occasion of its annual rite of remembrance, a rite that, itself, has a power and spirit unlike any I have witnessed.

 

It is a ritual that, while familiar in many of its themes – sacrifice, selflessness, bravery, dignity, discipline, gratitude, loss, and lament, does not simply dwell in the past; while largely unspoken, the ritual brings with it, because of the nature of this calling, the ominous, highly personal recognition of day-to-day peril and prospect of future loss.

 

To account for the complexity and power of these things, and to offer any hope of insight in my remarks, I had to draw closer. And, so, I did.

​

*

 

I called and met with survivors of Detective Greg Erson and Police Officer Todd Meriwether, two fallen members of the police family.

 

Detective Erson – Greg – was shot and killed on June 19, 1980, while working as a undercover decoy in the midtown area known as “the stroll.” Greg was 29 years old and is survived by his wife Charlene and two children, Robert and Laura, and his mom and dad, Betty and Roy.

 

Police Officer Meriwether – Todd – was 27 years old. On September 11, 1994, he was shot and killed when he interrupted a car theft in front of his parents’ home on a quiet street between O’Fallon and Penrose Parks, the home in which he grew up. Todd is survived by his mom and dad, Luella and Charles, his sister, Brenda, and his fiancee, Margie.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Meriwether and Mrs. Erson invited me into their homes. They agreed to share with me what they could.

 

I spoke with each for an hour or more. Much of what I lef with was not about words, though – it was about grace.

 

Grace in nuanced gestures, the beautiful home environment, the lovingly kept scrapbook, mementos, remembrances. Grace, softened by sadness, but bright of eye and clear of voice. Grace that offers hope and peace.

 

There were words, too.

 

Mrs. Meriwether spoke, as only a mother can, of the cheer brought to her by a caring young man’s subtle glance and broad smile.

 

Mrs. Erson spoke of a life of happy chaos with Greg, of a police family’s household filled day and night with young children, husbands and wives, laughing, helping, coming, going, cooking, caring, looking after.

 

Each spoke of the fateful day:

 

First, stoic commanders at the door, in their homes, with white shirts and reddened eyes full of tears and bad tidings.

 

Then their homes overcome and overwhelmed. By a flood of blue and white. More and more and more and more. Blue and white packing every room, spilling down the stoop onto the yard, filling the yard onto the sidewalk, off the sidewalk and onto the street, and more and more. Within minutes, one police vehicle after another, after another, after another, pulling up from all parts of the city parked two deep, three deep down the block as far as the eye could see.

 

All staying. None leaving. The police family. Standing vigil. For each other. For then. Forever.

​

*

 

“Love is strong as death,” Solomon wrote in his Song of Songs. “Love is strong as death,” he wrote. “Love is strong as death.”

 

Death is strong. Terrible and strong. Confound death!

 

But love is strong as death. It confronts death and draws its poison, making love stronger.

 

That love, in remembrance of and in tribute to those who died, who gave their lives for us – Greg and Todd and those before them – can guide how we treat one another, how we perform our duty, how we serve our community. Indeed, in their name and with that love, we are empowered to reach reconciliation with those whom we have not served well, so that all can recognize and remember, at all times, for all time, the power and nobility of their sacrifice.

 

And with such love, those who sacrificed like Greg and Todd and the families they loved can be at peace.

 

And so can we.

 

Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Meriwether, Mrs. Erson, Greg and Todd, for showing me how love is strong as death.

 

Thank you, all of you, for this privilege.

 

God bless you.

​

________

 

*  Gary Wills, Lincoln at Gettysburg

 

(“Love is strong as death” was written and delivered by Eddie Roth at the St. Louis Police Memorial Breakfast on May 16, 2000.)