A fitting eternal reward for an innocent child
They came to the cemetery on a broiling afternoon to mourn a little boy most of them had never known.
They came to the cemetery on a broiling afternoon to mourn a little boy most of them had never known.
They came one by one and in groups. They came out of anger and sadness and grief. They came, they said, because they felt as if they had to do something for a child so many had failed - and this was all there was left to do.
They came to honor Ethan Okula.
I wrote about Ethan's short, sad life last month. About how the sweet, intellectually disabled 10-year-old foster child died in February after he fell ill at school. How he writhed in pain for hours in a wheelchair in a school hallway while a nurse and teachers at Julia De Burgos Elementary failed to dial 911.
How his foster mother refused to pick him up and sent a friend who berated the sick child. How he was dead by the time someone finally called an ambulance.
How Ethan had repeatedly slipped through the cracks while in the care of the city's Department of Human Services.
How the city buried the child without a headstone, like a pauper.
On Sunday, Merion Memorial Park held an unveiling for a headstone it donated after reading Ethan's story. So he would be remembered, the cemetery owner said. She asked me not to publish her name because she didn't want publicity for her kindness.
The sad, solemn ceremony served as a reminder of the needless loss of a child who loved singing and dancing and hugs. It was a reminder, too, of the essential goodness of people. Strangers, mostly, but also teachers and foster care workers who had cared for Ethan before he was lost in the system.
"To honor him," said Jose Sanchez, a retired project manager from Tabernacle, who said he has a grandson who shares Ethan's name and is haunted over how the little boy died.
"To apologize on behalf of society - we let him down," said Judie Schultz of Lansdowne.
"As a reminder to be better for all those in our life whose pain we may overlook," said Doug Eschbach of Schwenksville.
And this: "I just need to feel like I did something," said Diane Hirsch, who came with her daughter, Grace, and 8-week-old granddaughter, Lola.
The crowd of about 60 mourners stood in the shade of a plum tree across from Ethan's grave. The cemetery had set up a tent to shade them from the sun and the unrelenting heat, with chairs near the grave, but the mourners stood under the tree, hesitant, waiting.
Soon, the Rev. Stephen India, a friend of the cemetery owner, arrived. The mourners swelled around the grave, the new headstone still covered by a white silk cloth.
No one sat in the chairs near the grave, the ones typically reserved for family. They did not feel it was their place.
A hot wind whipped through the tent. A man who releases doves at funerals had volunteered his services. The bird flapped in its flower-covered cage. The priest began.
"Ethan's life was cut short," he said. "He is now in heaven with the Lord looking down upon us. It is our concern today that there are other children who are in Ethan's circumstances, who are abused and not cared for, and that the Lord takes care of them."
After prayers, the man with the dove cupped the bird in his hand, and some of its feathers fell to the grass around the grave as it flew away.
In time, Father India said, people will forget Ethan, just as in time, we are all forgotten. But now the stone bears his name.
"It is a fitting eternal reward for our innocent child," he said. The silk cloth was pulled away.
The stone bore the inscription "God's special child." And a porcelain photo of Ethan - a man who repairs the cemetery equipment had paid for it, wanting to do what he could.
Another stranger, who had left white roses for Ethan, had asked the cemetery about the tree stump next to the grave. The tree had been struck by lightning in a storm and had to be cut down, the woman was told. She is paying for a new tree, so Ethan's grave will lie in shade.
As the service neared its end, and the crowd began to walk away, some of Ethan's relatives arrived. They sat in the chairs nearest the grave. They felt it was their place.
After a while, everyone had gone. And it was quiet again. The vast, peaceful, terrible stillness of a cemetery.
A hot breeze blew, rustling the leaves of the plum tree and the fresh flowers left by the grave of Ethan Okula.
mnewall@phillynews.com215-854-2759