David Bendickson has worked here at St. John’s as a building assistant since 2018. His fiancee, Gerri, also worked here as a building assistant for a couple of years. Her vibrant spirit and love of nature and animals endeared her to everyone that met her.
Tragically, Gerri died in December just a few weeks before she would have been eligible for a liver transplant. Today, March 4, would have been her birthday and David asked to share his eulogy with us all. We are grateful and blessed by his honesty and vulnerability, allowing us to surround him in community, to grieve with him and to celebrate Gerri’s memory with him, too.
by David Bendickson
This hurts. It’s a strange kind of pain—how you were my world and are suddenly and unexpectedly gone. It feels like an unnatural ending, dreams never realized, joys never felt. I have not made peace with this yet.
I have learned that love isn’t tidy. I have learned that love can be hard. Now I have learned loss is difficult too. I would love to have just one more conversation, just hear your voice one more time.
Geraldine, you had a calming effect on me. No matter what was said, what was done, what didn’t happen… in your presence, I felt peace. Now I need to find a different kind of peace.
For over a decade, you shared moments of your life —most were positive, some were beautiful, unfortunately some were bitter—and those moments are etched into me. None of these moments can be undone, nor should they be undone. These moments are your story.
I wish things were different. Sometimes we’re powerless against the tides that pull people away. This is one of those times. I am grieving. Sometimes I feel angry, confused, even nearly broken.
Then I remember the last conversation you had with someone you care about. It was a positive conversation. There was no negativity. Geraldine, I know you have suffered in the past, I wish so hard that you didn’t have the pain of your past. I feel this pain robbed you of a beautiful future. The entire conversation was forward leaning, future focused. It was full of optimism. A kind of optimism that I haven’t seen you show in a long time.
At the end of the conversation, I told you I would see you again, you said you will see me again. I told you, “Geraldine, I love you.” (I am probably the only person that got by with calling you by your real name). Your response was “I love you too”.
I had no idea this would be the last time I would hear your voice. I know you didn’t know either. I know you felt both loved and cared deeply about those close to you. Your memory, those moments, even the last ones, are not a burden, but a reminder. A reminder of who you were and what might have been. I feel like those who loved you the most will never get what we want.
Then I remember your last words. “I will see you again. I love you too.” Sunday night, although you were in pain, although you were frustrated, you were full of hope and optimism. I have learned from you one simple lesson. Don’t take your friends, your family, or your life for granted. Life is short, you never know when it will end. Thank you, Geraldine. I will see you again. I love you.
Perhaps someday, through the memories of your moments, we will all find peace.
