Losing Dave, AKA “Boston"
In the heart of the mission, every newcomer was embraced as family. They weren't just acquaintances; they became brothers, sisters, uncles, and aunts to me. Among them, Dave—affectionately nicknamed 'Boston' by us all—was someone I grew particularly close to.
Dave arrived at the mission, battling a severe heroin addiction. He had been directed to Alabama to participate in a rigorous Catholic recovery program located at a monastery in Cullman, AL. Despite attending numerous programs, Dave struggled to conquer his addiction. Ultimately, he chose to depart from the monastery, finding himself abandoned at a gas station without a cellphone or money. Fortunately, a compassionate local police officer found him and delivered him to our doorstep.
Dave initially intended to return to his hometown of Boston. However, as he learned more about the mission's recovery program, he chose to participate. On the day he entered my office, we immediately connected. We were peers in age and shared a passion for the Celtics. Dave spent time in my office daily, and together, we enjoyed playing pickup basketball. It was commonly believed among the others that Dave had certain privileges at the mission due to our friendship, and perhaps there was some truth to that.
Upon finishing his program, Dave received an opportunity to work with a program in Florida. Having maintained his sobriety for a year, he believed his purpose was to assist others struggling with addiction. His closeness to Christ and understanding of the gospel had given him a sense of liberation he had never experienced before, and he was eager to pass that on. I shared in his excitement. Dave and I stayed in close contact, communicating almost daily through calls or texts. He would share stories of the individuals he was aiding and often sought my counsel on various matters.
After several years, he made the decision to return to Boston. I felt a bit anxious about his return; he was going back to the place where he had previously battled with drug addiction. He was acquainted with the drug dealers there, yet he assured me that he had grown stronger. Our conversations continued after his relocation, and he seemed to be thriving. I was looking forward to visiting him in the fall of 2017.
The previous summer was exceptionally hectic at the mission. Concurrently, I was preparing for a much-anticipated family vacation. It dawned on me that I hadn't spoken to Dave in several weeks, a realization that only came as I was enroute to the beach. My intention was to reconnect with him upon our return and finalize our arrangements for the Boston trip.
While staying at in a condo at the beach, I received a text from a mutual friend inquiring about the last time I had spoken to Dave. I responded that it had been several weeks and mentioned my intention to visit him in the coming months. To my shock, the subsequent message from my friend contained a link to Dave's obituary.
The news of his passing hit me like a wave; disbelief washed over me as I struggled to accept that he was truly gone. Self-doubt crept in, haunting me with questions—had I been a good friend? Did my silence on the hard questions make me fail him? The gap in our conversations loomed large now, filled with regret. At the beach, I managed to keep my composure, but the moment we returned home, the grief I had held at bay broke through, overwhelming me.
The experience of loss is something that often catches us off guard, particularly when it involves someone close to us. Yet, amidst the grief, there is solace in the belief that Dave had a profound relationship with Christ. His love for the gospel and his faith in Christ's work were evident. This belief brings hope and the comforting assurance that I'll see him again.
