They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.

I wish they were right.

Just sixteen months ago, our dear neighbors Chad and Sarah experienced the unimaginable loss of their son, Gabe, to suicide. Many of you helped their family then, surrounding them with love as they faced something no parent should ever have to endure.

(Gabe Rice with his dad, Chad Rice, at Gabe’s graduation)

The grief of losing Gabe was enormous for the entire family, and the last few months were especially heavy for Chad.

Last week, Chad took his own life.

Sarah has now lost her son and her husband to suicide within sixteen months. Their three children have lost their brother and their father. Their granddaughter has lost her grandfather. And our community has lost someone who was so deeply woven into our everyday lives.

I lived next door to Chad and Sarah for six years, and Chad was the first person I saw when I stepped into my garden in the morning. It is difficult to describe what losing him means because his presence was simply part of life here.

He was the person who showed up.

After a Vermont snowstorm, I would hear his snowblower outside my window and know that, without a conversation or a request, he was already taking care of the people around him. If someone needed help, a tool, advice, an extra pair of hands, or simply someone to listen, Chad was there. And he wasn’t like this only with me. This was simply how Chad moved through the world.

But what I admired most about him was not what he did for people. It was who he was with people.

Chad was endlessly curious, thoughtful, reflective, and an incredible listener. With him, you never had to pretend you were doing better than you were. He cared about understanding people. He cared about learning, growing, repairing things when they went wrong, and becoming a better human being.

And he loved his family enormously.

One of my favorite ordinary sights in our neighborhood was seeing Chad and Sarah walking with their granddaughter, blowing bubbles as they went, with Chad so visibly proud to be her grandfather.

My daughter understood something about our relationship with them long before I ever needed to explain it. For years, whenever school gave her an assignment to create a family tree, she put Chad and Sarah on hers.

Of course she did.

They belonged there.

That is the kind of place Chad held in people’s lives. His death is a deeply personal loss for me, but it reaches far beyond me. Our little community was built, in so many ways, around his presence. He was deeply, deeply loved.

Chad was the primary income earner for his family. Sarah is now facing not only an unimaginable amount of grief, but the sudden loss of the income their family depended on, funeral and memorial expenses, everyday household costs, and the enormous task of figuring out what life and housing will look like for their family from here.

We are raising this money to give Sarah some room to grieve before she has to solve everything that comes next.

Nothing we raise can replace Chad. But we can make what comes next a little less frightening for the people he loved.

If you are able, please donate.

If you cannot donate, please share this fundraiser.

Chad spent years quietly showing up for all of us.

Now it is our turn to show up for Sarah and his family.