Note for the reader: A year ago, our son, Gabriel Augustine, was born and died. On October 24, 2025, he was born and subsequently passed away within hours. We knew he had a genetic condition, Trisomy-13, that would not let him survive, so the fact that he passed away was not a surprise. Nevertheless, having him and losing him is the hardest thing my wife and I — not to mention our children — have ever experienced. I baptized him in the operating room, and Father was there to give him the Sacrament of Confirmation soon after. He spent his short earthly sojourn surrounded by his family, and we love him as much today as we did then. Catholics should understand that we believe that baptism saves, and because of this, he went straight to Heaven, having been cleansed of Original Sin, shortly before breathing his last. He is our family Saint, and we miss him. There are perhaps no words in the English language — or any language — that can provide the proper vocabulary for how much we miss him. I promised God and my son that I would tell his story, so on this, the anniversary of his birth into our realm and the Heavenly, I present to you here something I wrote to him. “Before I formed thee in the bowels of thy mother, I knew thee: and before thou camest forth out of the womb, I sanctified thee, and made thee a prophet unto the nations.” (Jer 1:5) Dear Son, That passage I just shared with you is from the Bible — which I am sure you well know — and it is etched into your tombstone. Now, I imagine you know everything I am going to write to you here, given that you are in the Beatific Vision; nevertheless, writing these words to you is something I have wanted to do for a long while. I have thought about what to write for months now, and it has been hard to formulate my thoughts because there are so many. Of course, I speak to you every day, and you have heard the aching of my heart and the longings of my soul to be with you, but writing those thoughts down has proven difficult. When we first received your prognosis about three months before you were born, I initially thought I would keep a journal and write everything down. I was inspired by C.S. Lewis’ work, A Grief Observed, wherein he kept a journal, which became a book, about the loss of his wife and his journey of grief and acceptance. However, that didn’t come to pass, at least not yet. In any event, since this is your birthday, and it is really a double birthday — both earthly and heavenly — I thought I would try to write something beautiful to you and share with you the wonderful things you have done for us. There is enough pain in this world, and Heaven knows — as do you — that your mother and I have carried enough pain in our hearts. So, since birthdays are meant to be joyous occasions, and despite the fact that I miss you more than I need air, let us do our best to focus on the wonderful, the glorious, and the mysterious. Those three months waiting for you to arrive after the prognosis were, in a word, excruciating. Time has never moved so slowly. We weren’t sure if you were going to make it to birth, given your condition, but you did. Oh, my sweet boy, you were so strong, and you fought so hard. Your mother has given me eight children, you being the seventh, and you were more active than all of them in the womb. The doctors told us that we should be prepared that you may not make it to birth, and that you might not move all that much, but you did the complete opposite. Mummy and I would joke that it was like you were having a dance party in there. As pregnant women do, she would rest a plate of food on her belly while enjoying a late-night snack in bed, and it was so funny to watch the plate bounce back and forth. We prayed so hard that you would make it to birth so we could meet you and baptize you, and your constant movement was a consolation amidst the uncertainty. You were so adorable when you came out of the womb, and so full of life. I had never seen a baby with a cleft-lip in person, and it somehow made you even more precious. Being handed your sweet little self from the surgeon and passing you to your mother will forever be one of my greatest memories, and it is a moment that stands in time at the front of my thoughts daily. We wept tears mixed with sorrow and joy in those first moments, and you clung to your mother with all the strength in your tiny body. We knew that time was precious, so within a few moments it was your time to be baptized. I must say, I have never been more nervous than I was in that moment. Sure, the formula for Baptism is so simple, but the occasion was the weightiest moment in my life. In a way, the nerves I felt were not dissimilar to what I felt the day that I married your mother. When you face a moment of such importance — a moment that will change your life forever — it is all you can do to keep your knees from buckling. I already loved you so much, like I already loved your mother before our wedding, but that moment meant that the love was, in some way, becoming more real. You lay there in the little bassinet the nurses had prepared for us to baptize you, and the sweet laver of salvation dripped across your forehead. I said to you, “Gabriel, I am your daddy, and I love you very much,” before I proceeded to give you the sacrament. I don’t think I will ever do anything more important for any of my children for the rest of my life. I have you to thank for that honour. While your mother was being stitched up, this being the seventh cesarean section she had gone through, you lay on her chest. Your heart started to slow down, and your colour started to change. The doctor listened to your chest and gave us a look that said, “He might not be with us much longer.” In theory, we knew that might happen, so we were prepared to accept your life being so short, but you kept fighting! Somehow — I think because of your mother’s love — you pinked back up, and your heart began to beat faster. We couldn’t believe it. Your siblings and extended family were waiting for you, along with Father Stannus, in the recovery room, and we wanted as much as anything to bring you in alive. I thank God every day that we were able to do that. There is a photo of me carrying you into the recovery room to meet your loved ones, with Father by my side. That moment was like a representation of what it must be like to enter the Communion of Saints. The anticipation, the longing, the joy, the triumph, the relief. You entered that room with your pure and spotless soul, like a hero returning from battle. You had captured our hearts, and spending even just a little bit of time with you was the greatest gift. Father Stannus gave you the Sacrament of Confirmation, which was another immeasurable gift. To think that our sweet little boy, with his ailing heart and short lifespan, would not only be baptized, but have the strength and glory of his soul increased as he prepared for Heaven. My mother, your Nonna, procured a cupcake and a candle for you so we could sing you Happy Birthday, and it was the most perfect birthday imaginable. But, in a way, it was you who gave us the gift, even though it was your birthday. You gave us yourself. You gave us your courage and your fighting spirit. You allowed us to feel your sweet little breaths and to hear your precious little sounds. You allowed us to touch you, to hold you, and to feel your warmth. You were so good to us. Of course, not long after everyone left, you breathed your last and fell into that deep sleep. It was 3:15 when your soul left the Earth, which was so fitting. “I will put enmities between thee and the woman, and thy seed and her seed: she shall crush thy head, and thou shalt lie in wait for her heel” (Gen 3:15). That prophecy from Genesis is, of course, about the role that Our Blessed Mother would have in the Salvation of Mankind — her seed being Our Redeemer. It was so fitting for your time of death to share in that numerical significance because Our Lady experienced the depth of that prophecy when she heard the words of Simeon, “And thy own soul a sword shall pierce.” Oh, my dear boy, your mother’s soul was pierced deeply. The prognosis was like a prophecy wherein she was told that her little child would be taken from her, and it was something she had to accept and could not escape. The strength of your mother knows no bounds. The trials she has been through and the courage she has demonstrated are difficult to put into words. She has given everything for her children and for me, and she would do it all again. It has been my honour and privilege to stand by her and take care of her through it all, and I would do it a thousand times over. You could not have asked for a better mother to bring you into this world, or a better mother to hold you as you left. I know you know that, but I just wanted to say it. She misses you, my son, as do I. But I think there is nothing on Earth that comes close to the pain a mother must feel upon losing a child, and to think that she had to live with that fact for months before it even happened. She is the most wonderful, courageous, and devoted woman I have ever known — not to mention gorgeous. I am the luckiest man in the world. For some, the loss of a child may cause discord, but not for your mummy and daddy. We have you to thank for that. Your little life and your departure brought us even closer together, because we both share, at the same time, a unique and deep sorrow and deep joy. You gave us a cord sent down from heaven that tethers us together in an unbreakable bond. Thank you for that. In any event, when you passed on, we both knew it had happened, and the doctor confirmed it. In that moment we did not weep, and, I have to say, there was a profound peace, even consolation, that came over us. The tears came later, but that moment was not sad. It was a grace from God, and certainly wasn’t from our own st
