Luke M. Perez

Today is one month since my beloved son, Paco died unexpectedly. Feels like a blink, like an eternity. His siblings are only now starting to be agitated about it all. His mom and I get by a day at a time.

The morning after Paco died, I turned to the opening of Ecclesiastes, that great caution against earthly pursuits:

… vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?
A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains for ever.

The wisdom of this book cautions against the toil of earthly pursuits because in vain do we strive and toil: for when we are gone, we will eventually be forgotten. Forgotten not to God, but to time and humanity.

Today I toil, but not in vain. I pray my words will speak well of my beloved son, and your beloved friend, Paco.

Francisco Alfredo Perez was born on October 9th, 2017, two days before his older brother’s birthday. I was in the final year of my doctorate in Austin Texas. Lucia and I were broke, living in graduate student housing. In the months leading up to his birth I lost count of how many times she asked me if were stupid for having another child. I often told her that because no time was a good time to have a kid, any time was a good time.

Paco brought joy and laughter to the house during a time of sadness—he was our rainbow baby, the first child after a miscarriage. He became the light of our world, the lamp set high within home to provide light to the house and to our hearts. Chiefly he became a wonderful little brother. Nacho had his best friend.

When he got older, Paco could not wait to share with me at the end of each day what he did. He found the most creative ways to console his sister if she was sad. He was the chief game organizer for his brothers. He would often interrupt his mother with the loudest scream just to say “I love you.”

Before he was seven, Paco matched and then exceeded his older brother in height; he surpassed both his brother and mother in strength. His physical strength was outmatched only by the strength of his heart.

He was never at a loss for how to help people with his strength.

Paco was not without his troubles: He had ADHD that at times could debilitate his decision-making and overwhelm him with emotions. “I have big feelings and need your help,” he would regularly ask us.

Last summer I signed Paco up for Jiujitsu. I knew it would it be good for him to get him exercise and teach his ADHD brain how to focus. I knew he would enjoy it. I could not have known how much he would love it. Over these past six months, Paco came into his own. He and I bonded over it. At least once a week, he and I would have a conversation along these lines:

“Dad, how did you know I would like jiujitsu?”
“I’m your dad, I’m smart.”
“No, it’s because you love me. That’s how you knew.”

Paco was not wrong.

Jiujitsu is not easy. Paco would would often say to his coaches, “it’s hard.” With kindness and patience, they always replied to him: “you can do hard things, Paco.”

At home he was slowly internalizing it. Regardless of the cause of his frustration or “big feelings,” we could remind him that he could do hard things. “I can do hard things,” he would say to himself as he calmed down and reset.

Other than his jiujitsu class, there was only place that brought him peace of mind: the children’s liturgy at this parish. He loved Jesus and strove to understand Him. At bed time, his favorite stories were those that exemplified the heroic virtues of the Christian faith.

A few weeks ago, after one such story, he asked his mother about heaven. He announced to her a couple days after that he was ready to go to heaven. “Not for a long-time, kiddo,” his mom replied. Without a skip, he rebutted: “But you said it was perfect happiness.”

Paco was not wrong.

Paco died on March 5th 2025, on Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday is the day we Christians begin our preparation for Easter, our celebration of Christ’s victory over sin and death. That morning, Paco received ashes from the hospital chaplain.

In hindsight we cannot help but wonder if—as painful as it is to lose him—his desire for the heavenly reunion with Christ was so pure, so pure that God brought him home to abide with Him in the Fullness of Truth.

Now it is our turn to do hard things. We have to go on without Paco. Lucia and I lack the strength to do it alone. But we have Christ and we have all of you. Just as Simon helped Jesus carry the Cross to Calvary, so too will you help us—indeed you have already helped us. But while Simon was compelled to help by Roman force, you freely help out of your love for Paco.

Do hard things. But do not toil in vain. Instead remember that the greatest toils are those that bring life and light to the world, just as Paco did.

* These were my prepared remarks for the eulogy delivered at my son’s funeral mass today. Requiescat in Pace, my kiddo.