Thomas Christian Anderson, 1970-2013
Toad Chronology is an unfeeling taskmaster. It didn’t do any good to procrastinate: the twelfth of April, 2013 did come around. Valerie and I were both on duty at the Temple. I was conducting a sealing session in Sealing Room 4, when the coordinator knocked and entered with another sealer, to take my place. I was wanted in the President’s office. No, I wouldn’t be returning.

Valerie had been summoned from her duties in a similar fashion. Rick was there to make it known that Mary Beth had come home from work to find Chris hanging in his den.

What can you say? Even now, seven years later, what can you say? We had no idea he was so sad, nor on what grounds.
A week later, his funeral coincided with the terrorist bombing of the Boston Marathon across the river. We stayed with the Maitlands, just a few blocks from the Harlow Street abode of the grieving widow. Hardly noticed Patriots’ Day.

I stood by his coffin and said a few words to a larger crowd than Keefe Mortuary had been expecting. Recalled that I’d presented seven babies before congregations to give them names and blessings. And that Chris’ was the only one of which I retained a specific memory: I’d blessed him to be a peacemaker. And now, I told Mary Beth that even though she’d never chosen to take the name, she would always be an Anderson, as far as we’re concerned. And that continues to be so.

Afterward, somebody asked for a copy of my remarks. I opened my iPhone and showed what I’d prepared, to wit: “Chris funeral: Strangers—MB—Blessing—Tears—Home—Carl—Heine—Dylan”.
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