Because of a traumatic brain injury sustained in a bicycle accident in 1989, my son and I were closer than we might otherwise have been. Jeffrey’s injury limited, somewhat, his physical abilities and his freedom. We, therefore, spent many hours together working on therapy, schoolwork and social acceptance, as well as teasing, laughing and enjoying each other. The injury did not take away from Jeffrey his love of nature, love or beauty nor his sense of humor.

Our conversations also included the gifts of God we so often take for granted, such as the beauty of nature. As we would drive out Nacogdoches Road toward Garden Ridge, we would always notice the beautiful park-like cemetery, Holy Cross. We admired the clean, well-kept grounds, the beautiful oak trees and the gorgeous blooming plants. It was truly a peaceful place – a retreat where even a tired English teacher, such as I was at the time, could have gone to quietly grade papers. On rare occasions, we actually drove through the grounds of Holy Cross. We "teased" each other about Jeffrey’s remembering to have me buried there when I grew old and died.

How were we to know that my husband, daughter and I would bury Jeffrey there when he was so very young – only 19? That heart-wrenching decision was thrown at us like a bomb when our world literally exploded on Jan. 10, 1996. That day, Jeffrey had gone across the street from our house to visit his friend, Lee, to pray and study the Bible with him. An assailant entered the house murdering Lee and Jeffrey. The relative tranquility of our world suddenly was shattered, torn to shreds. Yet, when we were asked where to bury our precious son and brother, Holy Cross Cemetery was the answer.

How were we to know before Jan. 10, 1966, there would be such a permanent link to the lush, green grounds of Holy Cross that we used to so casually pass or that Holy Cross could bring us a sense of peace, tranquility and closeness to Jeffrey and God? But that is another story!