Farewell, My Brother…

Returned this morning from the funeral of Cathedral City, CA, police officer, Jermaine Gibson.  Officer Gibson was killed in the line of duty last week while attempting to apprehend suspects in a stolen vehicle.

The man was not quite 29-years-old and to make is sudden passing even more tragic, he left behind his first child, four-week-old Jermaine Anthony Gibson, Jr.

The church was packed and there were hundreds upon hundreds of uniformed officers and firefighters in attendance; each of them there to honor a fallen brother.

Officer Gibson was a two-tour veteran of the Iraq War, having, according to his brother, been awarded three Purple Hearts.  He had only served with (our neighboring city) Cathedral City’s department for less than two years, but his impact on his department and community were evident today.

I arrived alone at the service and stood outside, witnessing the row upon row of uniformed officers as they stood, saluting, at the arrival of Officer Gibson’s flag-draped coffin.  Somewhere in that ocean of officers was my oldest son, Mario.  I would have liked to have found him so I could have shared this sad morning with him and his brethren.

The group of family and friends made their way, right past me, into the church; the grieving widow on the arm of a clearly anguished Chief Connor.  The sorrow was palpable and I, like most, felt helpless to offer any solace.  How I ached for them and yearned to be able to reach out and remove their sorrow.  That ability, however, belongs to someone much greater than I.

Once inside, I took a seat by myself.  There were many men and women there who I knew, yet I was also feeling alone with my thoughts.  Soon someone came along, asking everyone to move towards the center of the aisles.  I then found myself next to a young Hispanic woman.  Someone from Forest Lawn was handing out small packets of tissue and she tried, to no avail, to get their attention.  She said to me, “I hope they come back.  I’m already having a hard time keeping it together.”  I nodded, “Me, too.”  I tried to flag one down for her, too, but unfortunately they never came back our way.

Eulogies from superiors, the State Attorney General, co-workers, friends and family drew laughter and muffled sobs over the next 90 minutes.

I had not had the opportunity to meet Officer Gibson.  I do, however, know many of his colleagues, and the pain of their loss as we sat, remembering him, sat heavily on my heart.

Having had once served my time as a Reserve Officer has made me a kindred spirit.  And though I was only a Reserve, and am now a civilian, I still feel a part of the fraternity.  My usual lack of self esteem pokes me once in awhile as to whether I’d still be accepted by those in uniform, but, my own feelings of inadequacy notwithstanding, they will always be my brothers.

So I came here today to pay my last respects to someone who had the courage, not only to serve our country, but also to then dedicate his life to serving his community.  A man who made the sacrifices that go with the job, including the ultimate sacrifice.

Does it weigh more heavily because my own son sat, in uniform, in this same church?  Of course.  We all bring our own circumstances with us.  And everyone there today dealt with his or her own pain.

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As the eulogies progressed, and the various friends and family members struggled to honor Officer Gibson, I, too, found myself fighting back tears.  They, at the same time, seemed to also elicit sighs or sobs from the young woman to my right .  Though we had not made eye contact, I suddenly felt as if I were not sitting there alone.

And, at the end of each prayer, as I crossed myself, I glimpsed her doing the same.  Again, it was a touch of connection for me, so I didn’t feel as if I was sitting there sobbing alone.

After the service, the Honor Guard and coffin exited first, followed by all uniformed officers.  When it came time for us civilians to exit, I touched the shoulder of the young woman, who turned back to me.  “Thank you,” I said.  “Because of you, I didn’t feel as if I was alone.”  Tears again filled her eyes and she offered a hug.  “Thank you,” she said.

Will I ever see this woman again?  No.  And if I did, our meeting today was so brief, I wouldn’t even recognize her.  But moments like this are easier to handle when shared with another person, even a stranger, and at least the hug was a way of getting to say thank you.

We were all feeling pain.

Outside I made my way behind the huge lines of uniformed officers, each standing in place, awaiting to pay final tribute to their fallen brother.  Just two rows in, I saw my son.  I tapped the shoulder of the man behind him, a sergeant from Ontario PD.  “Sarge, would you tap that officer?”  He did and my son turned around to see the sergeant point a thumb towards me.

“Can I stand next to you?” I whispered.  He didn’t say a word, but slid to the right.  I scooted up to stand next to him.

Welcome here or not, I did not know, but I wanted to join my former compatriots to honor Officer Gibson one last time.  And I wanted to stand next to my son.  If some member of the brass didn’t like it, they could berate me later.

“Uniformed officers… Aten-HUT!” Along with them, I clicked my heals together.  “Uniformed officers… PREsent ARMS!”  As they slowly raised their arms in salute, I raised mine to my heart.

The Honor Guard slowly passed, then the coffin.  Finally family and close friends and Police Brass as they physically and emotionally supported each other through this gauntlet of honor.  The only sounds that could be heard were a gentle breeze and the slight scuffling of a shoe or two.

Once the coffin made the trek past the seemingly endless line of brothers, and was loaded into the hearse, the officers were dismissed.

I immediately turned and tightly hugged my son.  He walked with me through the seeming-disorder of the breaking ranks.  Several of his colleagues came up and offered me a handshake and hug.  I also saw men with whom I used to work; each of us with a smile at seeing one another again, yet smiles saddened by the circumstances. And then I was in my car.  I was in line at Del Taco.  I was walking into my office.  And my life was back to (?) normal.

The family and friends of Officer Gibson were on their way to Riverside National Cemetery, a place I once stood a decade ago at the funeral for my father.  Then they will try and get back to their lives.  Lives now empty without their beloved brother, husband, son, friend… And a newborn son will grow to be a man without his father there to throw him a baseball, dust off a skinned knee, proudly stand beside at graduation and myriad other of life’s joyous moments.

And in my bed tonight, I will be alone.  But it will be nowhere as near as the lonely bed of the young Mrs. Gibson.

Thanks to Officer Gibson and men and women like him all over this country, I will sleep warmly in my bed tonight.  I will drive through Del Taco sometime next week.  I will hug my children and grandchild.  I will do all of these things because of the sacrifice of Officer Gibson and his family.  And I will continue to live a life of safety because men and women like Office Gibson are watching over my family and me.

How can I ever thank them?  How can I ever repay that sacrifice?  How can I ever repay the sacrifice of his family?  All I can do is live as honorable a life as possible, so their sacrifice and the sacrifice of others, who have given all for my safety and freedom, will not have been made in vain.

Farewell, my Brother.  I will live to never dishonor your sacrifice.