As Halloween approaches again, I know the world will be filled with costumes, candy, pumpkins, and celebrations. For most people, October 31 will be a day of fun and laughter.
I’ve never loved Halloween. As a kid, there weren’t costumes that fit me, and dressing up didn’t make sense to me. When my kids were little, I did it for them because it brought them joy. But the distaste always came back.
On October 31st, 2024, I sat at a table in the Darke County Sheriff’s Office, alone, and finally learned the details of my son’s death.
When I think about those months between May and October, I also remember May 25th. Finn had last been seen on May 7th. That morning, my sister and I stopped at the police department to share more details about him with the officers. They told us to stay close, but that we could leave while they searched. It isn’t like it is on TV or in the movies. So we went to my niece’s house nearby to wait. I took a minute and went out to her backyard, and that’s when I prayed for Finn to be found.
Whatever found meant.
The phone call came just minutes later. Please return to the station. We have some news.
And that evening, God spoke one word to my heart. Mercy.
For a long time, I’ve understood that word through the suffering Finn experienced in his short life: the trauma he carried, the addiction he struggled with, and the difficult road he was traveling. But mercy wasn’t only for Finn. There was mercy for me, too. God answered my prayer that morning. My son was found, and while the news was devastating, I would not spend the next days, months, or years searching for him, wondering where he was or what had happened to him. I wouldn’t have to live with the lifelong uncertainty that so many families of missing loved ones endure. I knew where my son was, even though it was an answer no mother ever wants to receive.
What I didn’t know then was how long it would take to understand what had happened. In the almost six months that followed, I didn’t hear much from the sheriff or the coroner. I didn’t even have Finn’s death certificate. At some point you become numb, and you just do the things that need to happen.
Then one day at the airport, I saw the coroner. I walked up and introduced myself as Finn’s mom. I will never forget the look of empathy on his face. I’m so very sorry it has taken so long. You deserve answers. We will be in touch in the next couple of weeks. I said thank you, and we went our separate ways.
One week later, I sat alone at that table and learned how my son died. It was also the day I received his death certificate.
When I walked out, I carried the grief with me. But I also carried gratitude for God’s mercy that Finn had been found, and the closure of knowing what happened.
As I reflect on all of this, I think about how much of life happens beyond what others can see. The waiting, the unanswered questions, the responsibilities we carry when we barely have the strength, and the quiet ways we find our footing again. And the dates. A day that’s full of fun for one person can bring someone else right back to the hardest moment of their life. You never know what a date on the calendar holds for the person next to you. My hope in sharing this part of my story is that we might become a little more aware of the stories unfolding around us, a little more patient with one another, and a little more willing to extend grace without needing to understand everything someone has experienced. Because sometimes, even in the most heartbreaking circumstances, there are moments of peace we cannot explain and prayers that are answered differently than we hoped. God’s presence is not absent simply because life is painful.
Finn was so much more than the hard road he was on. As a little boy in Ukraine, he was known on the playground as Spider-Man, and his energy never stopped after he came home in 2014. He was a runner, an artist, and so smart we called him Fun Fact Finn. He ordered the most expensive thing on every menu. He tried every possible way to annoy his sisters. And he gave the best hugs.
I wish Finn were still here. I wish his life had been different, that the pain he carried had been lighter, and that we’d had more time together. I can wish all those things and still recognize the mercy I experienced. The mercy of my son being found. The mercy of not having to spend a lifetime searching. And the mercy, on the day I dread most, of finally being able to stop wondering.
I still hate Halloween and probably always will.
Mercy didn’t make losing Finn any less heartbreaking. But it meant that even in the heartbreak, I wasn’t left without peace.
Big Hugs and Love,
Stacy
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