Matt's Eulogy for Sam

My name is Matt Parks.

As long as I have known the Magees, they have had what they call an “open table” – a willingness to have others join them for a family meal. I’m sure that I have taken advantage of that offer much more often than any other person, but I have always received such precious love and encouragement from my many times with them. The whole family was a part of this, but I’ve often been struck by how Sam was especially protective of my place around their family table and as, in some sense, really a part of their family.

One of the great glories and mysteries of God is His particular love for His people – not because they are better than everyone else or more talented or otherwise worthy, but simply because He chose to love them. In years past, and certainly these last few days, I’ve thought a lot about the way that Sam taught me about this idea, especially during his high school years when I had the privilege of being around him so often. There wasn’t any good reason why he should care about me, but he did, or why he should be so protective of me, but he was. I suppose being 12 years his senior, I should have been like an older brother to him and perhaps I was in some ways, but there were other ways in which he was like an older brother to me. He was always quick with a greeting when I entered their home, eager to be hospitable, and warm in our conversations. Though we all know he had a delightfully sharp wit and he often amused us with it around the table, as harmless as his barbs were, they were never directed at me. He had a great ability to see weakness and vulnerability in those around him – and to compensate for it, rather than exploit it. There was such a degree of loyalty in Sam that if you were one of his people, then you knew he was looking out for you – and for some reason, in God’s providence, I was one of his people. What a privilege this was and what a blessing. Sam Magee made my life a whole lot better.

Probably because Sam was so loyal, he attracted a loyal following of his own. When our small school held a mock election for US president in 2004, he finished second, without, of course, being on the ballot. I remember chuckling to myself when I saw his first write-in vote, - if voters write in Mickey Mouse, then why not Sam? But when the next came in, completely independent of the first, it occurred to me that it wasn’t a joke. These were students who knew Sam well. They admired him and they recognized in him the kind of qualities that would make a great president and made a great man: He was wise in counsel – far beyond his years. He could see what was important and really mattered and see what didn’t. He was a leader. He loved his family.

Two Sundays ago, we had one more meal around the Magee’s table. In some ways for the first time, I could clearly hear the weakness in Sam’s voice and see the weariness in his eyes and I prayed that week that the Lord would give me the opportunity to help him now in his weakness. This is a hard answer to that prayer – but somehow it is an answer, from the same Lord who said, “I will not leave you or forsake you” and “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” and who promised, may we all be thankful, that a bruised reed He would not break and a smoldering flax He would not put out.

Candy's Message on Sam

I find myself in a very unique situation this morning, but for two very different reasons. The first is this: at the funeral home, at the graveside, and now here, I realize that all of you are crying more than I am. For any of you who know me, you know that I am the Queen of Tears. Sam might still hold 4 PCA school records in track, (notice how I still manage to brag about him…), but I am definitely the record holder when it comes to crying.

Secondly, this is a unique situation because I am standing up here, speaking to you, and Steve is not! And I have to say… it feels pretty good!

Over the years Steve and I have had the sad opportunity of attending the funerals of many people. Now we find ourselves at another one, this time coming to grips with the loss of our son. As we do that, I want to say from the depths of my heart that I firmly believe that God has chosen our family to undergo this very deep grief and that He chose all of you to be here today with us. Nothing else makes sense. There is no lasting comfort in believing in bad luck, or mother nature, or random tragedy. The only assurances we can have at a time such as this come from the belief that ALL things in life are for our good, and for God’s glory. The only real, lasting comfort comes from our loving, sovereign God who ordained, from before the foundation of time, that we would all be in this room, on this day, grieving together the death of my precious son, Sam.

As most of you know by now, Sam struggled the last year of his life with at least a Severe Depression, probably more. He decided early last Saturday morning to relieve himself of his agony by taking his own life. He hoped, I’m sure, to be rid of his pain and suffering. In some way he may have accomplished his goal, but it has only begun our misery. And yet, in the midst of these terrible realities, we turn to the Man of Sorrows and the God of all eternity for our comfort in this present affliction. Very often God calls to us in the words of dear friends.

One of Sam’s best friends from high school, a young man named Seth McQueen, sat in our living room on Sunday night with us. He and some others had spent the last hours of Sam’s life with him, and they had come to us to share their impressions of this night. At the end, Steve asked if any of them had anything else left to say. Seth had no way of knowing at the time the incredible insight and comfort that he ministered to us by expressing his wish that none of us “would forget the old Sam.” Many of us did indeed wish, in recent months, that we could have the “old Sam” back with us.

Sam had an incredible sense of humor. His voices, faces, and imitations of others were legendary. He affectionately referred to me in the last years as “Mop.” I don’t exactly remember how that tradition got started – although it probably just rhymed with Pop, and it stuck. Going through some of Sam’s stuff a couple of days ago I found a hand-made Mother’s Day card from Sam, given to me just a couple of years ago, that said on the front: “Happy Mop’s Day.” On the inside, along with a check, he wrote the following: “Here’s a little something for you. Feel free to squander it any way you wish.” That was my boy…

At our last Sunday brunch after church together, we somehow got on the topic of what we always wanted to be when we grew up. Someone mentioned that from the earliest days they wanted to be a teacher, or a nurse; then Sam, in his gentle voice, piped up, “and I always wanted to be a Portfolio Analyst.” It struck us all as incredibly funny, and that was his point.

The old Sam made an early confession of faith, and became a communing member of our church. While in recent months he became confused about what he believed, he became confused about ALL things that he previously believed in. My precious friend Leslie Ferwerda, reminded me the other night of Isaiah 49:14-16:

14 But Zion said, "The LORD has forsaken me; my Lord has forgotten me." 15 "Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. 16 Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands…

I am clinging to this hope that Sam’s name is engraved on the palms of God’s hands, and that he is even now in the presence of our Lord and Savior. I am clinging to the hope that, in the words of Seth’s dad Bill, God will “carry us through this veil of tears.”

I hope that all of you will take Sam’s last words to us to heart: he wrote “I pray that you forgive me. I never meant to hurt anyone.” Because of his disease, he could not see or think clearly how this would hurt Katie and Jonathan or Jeff or Kristin. All of us know that the “old Sam,” the one not afflicted with this terrible disease, would never want to hurt any of us.

Finally, I want to leave you with the hope that eventually we will all experience the “rare jewel of Christian contentment,” as defined by Jeremiah Burroughs in the book of the same name:

Christian contentment is that sweet, inward, quiet, gracious frame of spirit, which freely submits to and delights in God’s wise and fatherly disposal in every condition.

I ask for your prayers that God would lead our family toward this goal – that we would more and more submit to God’s will and experience His peace in this grief

When Sam gave his speech four years ago as valedictorian of his high school senior class, his theme was one of running races. I would like to follow his good example. I would like to leave you with this final comfort from God’s Word:

Hebrews 12:1-2 Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.

Jeff's Euology for Sam

Down the stairs and past the hallway
Through a closed door of a working man’s home –
The kind of door that seemed it might give way to the breeze from a loose knob that didn’t quite fit,

I heard my mother cry.
I hoped that beneath the muffled sound of my father’s voice was a truth that would carry her.
A truth that would carry us all through this mess of tears and sleepless nights.

Sorrow is attractive in its own way. When everything around us feels unreal our sorrow speaks to our soul, like part of a movie we thought we wanted to live through, only to discover that behind the makeup, the set, the script, the director - there were regular humans starving for attention, insecure and in denial. That is why I embrace this sorrow. It speaks to our soul. It is real.

So I walked through the grassy field not a mile from my parent’s home where a group of friends and family chose a place to bury the brother I loved. Not one plot, but three – and these three forever tied me to this place of sorrow, the sorrow that spoke to my soul in a way that no one ever had. Time is what I wanted – time alone with my tears and with my brother. My big brother.

With everyone gone I stood over the ground that would soon be emptied to make room for the body that I embraced in the hospital the morning he was found. On the grass I laid down for a short while before footsteps carried a friend my way who spoke to me with love and understanding.

“Just ask sometime,” he said. “Just ask, ‘God, are you there?’”

After a while, I was alone again. With shoes off on hallowed ground I stretched my legs and laid my aching head on the grass. When it was time I crossed my arms over my chest in a peaceful and reverent posture, preparing the place for Sam, who would soon lay beneath. Tired, my eyes rested and the breeze blew in a mist of tears from heaven and I remembered my big brother.

Merrimac, New Hampshire.

We played wiffle ball behind the condo. Sam and I were determined to go pro, but real baseballs were not allowed in the community yard. Still, we could practice our form.

Then we moved to Exeter.

It was our first day in the new home. We biked around the neighborhood and found a new friend. His name was Andrew. Walking into his room and finding his lego collection was like discovering Atlantis.

It was the fall. We raked leaves into a big pile on the yard and took turns running from the driveway and diving into the mess of brown and red and orange and yellow afterlife.

It was the summer. We took our bikes through the woods with Andrew and rode for miles and miles and miles.

It was winter. We went sledding at the country club.

It was junior high school. Mom and Dad took the time to teach us (we were home schooled for that time). They prepared us so well that Sam went on to become the Valedictorian of his high school class.

And then it was high school for Sam. I visited him one day and he took me to French class. I can’t remember for sure, but Phil was probably there, and so was Stef. Sam laid his head on the desk to take a quick nap as Madame went around the room asking questions in French. She came to Sam and scolded him, but he returned with a joke in French, and the whole class laughed. The laughing is all I understood, but Sam was off the hook. Sam was loved.

Then it was high school for both of us and he showed me the ropes. I got into trouble and he bailed me out, so many times.

Then it was cross country season. Sam was the fastest runner on the team, and I was without a doubt the slowest. The contrast is remarkable because I was the slowest even among the girls. But he kept track of my times and congratulated me for improving. He always won MVP at the end of the season.

Then it was college for Sam and Sam and I lost touch. And without him, I lost touch.

Then it was college for both of us and he showed me the ropes again. We drank Yuengling around a bonfire, many, many times with the young men we loved, standing against that wall – Phil. Christian. Tony. Gilch. Jimbo. Peter Rize. Hayden. Medaris. Sunny. Wyant. Klopsic. Trevor. Fournie. Those were the good times.

Then it was Senior Year for Sam and he got sad. He got really sad. We tried to help.

Then it was graduation day and we were all so proud that he saw it through.

It was the day he died. God, I miss him so much. God, I loved him, and I do. I still love him.

And on the grass I opened my eyes to the day we chose his final resting place. I opened my eyes and I opened my mouth, and I said, “God, are you there?”

The sun crept through the clouds and then hid behind them once again. I turned to my left and saw how the grass reached for the sky. All around the world green things were growing and I didn’t know why. I turned to the right and beside a tombstone were delicate purple flowers that tossed quietly in the wind, taking sudden descents towards the earth as tiny drops of rain landed on a stem. But they leapt back upwards toward the sky – how resilient.

I turned my face back to the hiding sun and felt something so familiar. It was the quietness in my soul that I was waiting for. It was the will of all existence, the will that was keeping Sam alive until August 4th. It was the essence of truth and of the life that we must live. It didn’t speak to me. It didn’t appear to me. It just was, and I am waiting to find out more.

I think that Sam was too.

I loved my brother.

Mike Shevenell's Testimony on Sam

Happy Memories of Sam

I was Sam's coach while he was a student at PCA. This means we ran together just about every afternoon for those 4 years. Now, I say "ran together" somewhat loosely, as he could be far ahead of me at some times. But, Sam, like all runners was a creature of habit and I'd like to share a few of his habits.

First, as we began each day's run and the athletes would bolt down Seaborne Drive at PCA. To be goofy Sam would break into a "walk" - race walk style. Amazingly, he could keep up with us while he was "walking".

The second habit repeated frequently was Sam's famous "Injured Runner Imitation". This was probably done to convince the coach that he was seriously injured and couldn't practice that day. But honestly it just made us laugh. If you can picture this (forgive my insensitivity) it looked like someone with polio trying to run a 5 minute mile.

Sam’s third habit was most memorable. For the 4 years Sam had a ritual after nearly every race he ran; whether it be Cross Country, Spring Track, or Indoor Track. He threw up - yes puked ! Honestly at first this ritual really bothered me. Sam puked on my sneakers a number of times - I finally learned to stand back at least 6 feet after he finished his race. The indoor track officials in our league instituted Rule #23 on behalf of Sam. It stated that if a runner throws up on the track the coach is responsible to see that it gets cleaned up. I now had my motivation. It was then that Sam became a legend in our league.

This past year I found myself retelling many of these stories to our current track athletes - believe it or not they all have come to know the "Legends of Sam Magee": his records as well as goofy habits.

Our Response

I want to ask many of you to consider something to keep these memories alive (except the puking part). Lets do a road race together. I know many of you have become estranged from your running shoes but you need to become friends again. Let's do the Rich McKeon 10K in Sept. Rich was a PCA teacher, coach, runner and friend of Sam's who died a couple years ago. Maybe we could do this race in memory of these great men.

To the PCA Class of 2003

Something that happened earlier this year that I didn't fully understand at the time. I began praying urgently for several of you by name. Originally I thought it was because most of you were graduating college, starting jobs, careers & married lives. But now I know it was for times like today. Know that God has not forgotten you. Take these times to draw closer to Him – you’ll never regret it.

In Christ’s Love

Mike Shevenell

August 8, 2007

Chris Robinson's Sermon

The "sermon" link on this page will bring you to Chris Robinson's sermon on Psalm 42-43.

Send me an email...

Did anyone else see the beautiful sunrise near Stratham, NH this morning?

Can you do me a favor? Please send me an email (pastor@exeterpca.org) if you did.

Yesterday was a beautiful day. I will post some of the testimonies (Mike Shev., Jeff, Candy, Matt) over the next few days (Lord willing). I will also post Chris's message on the sermon link on this blog.

Thank you for your love at this unusual time of loss for all of us.