Joe McSwain, 1972 - November 8, 2011

It was a Wednesday morning last year when I got a phone call from Joe's number. As per our standard procedure, I answered the phone as a high-toned British woman (an ongoing joke). I had to quickly adjust my tone as I realized it was Joe's sister, Theresa.

It was then I knew something was wrong. This wasn't the first time I got a call from Joe's sister, though. Around a year before that, I believe, she called because Joe was in the E.R. At this time he was having excruciatingly painful back spasms. He had a history of back issues and had a steel rod inserted into his back as an adolescent. This was part of his ongoing health issues related to Marfan's Syndrome. At any rate, at that time she called because Joe needed support and someone to be with him at home after he was released.

So, naturally, I thought the same thing when it was her that Wednesday morning. It was not. In a rather soft voice, she said, "Jason, Joe passed last night."

I remember being fully aware and in total denial at the same time. Joe had told me stories of his sister's history of dark jokes, but this was not something she would do. This was real.

I remember predictably stammering as I said, "Wha-wha-what happened...how did it happen?"

She told me that they think it was an aneurysm, but they weren't sure. His mom found him at his computer desk slumped over. I tried really hard to imagine this. In fact, since his death, I have relived that moment many times through her eyes. I honestly don't know how I would have responded.

And then I remember walking near the windows of my floor. I work on the 21st floor of a building in downtown Chicago. The entire floor is lined with those huge windows, top to bottom. I walked back and forth in front of the windows, mindlessly gazing on the people and cars below. I had conversations on the phone with Joe while looking out these windows as well. The cell phone reception  was better, and we were likely to get into a heated debate at any moment. Or I would have to do some ridiculous voice for him.

But I was just talking to Joe's phone. I wasn't talking to Joe. I was talking to his older sister, Theresa. And we were talking about funeral plans, arrangements, and the like.

I barely remember telling my co-worker what happened. And you know, as a 38 year old guy, it sounds odd to leave work because you lost a best friend. I mean, I kind of wanted to defend it and say, "Well, we were pretty close." It's not unusual to have a close guy friend at my age, but it is unusual to lose a close guy friend at this age. Joe was only one year older than me.

After I left the office, I called Heather and said I would take the next train home. I then called my mom and dad. They loved Joe so much. In fact, I would often call Joe while visiting them. I would put the phone on speaker just so they could hear his laugh. They loved his loud, echoing infectious laugh. He was the best laugh track ever. Everything was funnier if he was laughing. His spit takes with laughter often left me rolling on the floor.

I had never noticed how much of a hell it is to be downtown and at the mercy of mass transportation when you are in the middle of grief. Or sickness. But at this time it was grief. I had a 40 minute train ride home. And then I had a 15 minute drive home. And for some reason, I felt the need to hold my crying in until I got home.

When I got home, I hugged Heather and laid down on the bed. And I cried. I cried the coughing cry. Most of you probably know what I'm talking about. You cry and cry and cry and make ridiculous noises, moan and cough. And sometimes you sound like you are going to puke.

The whole thing was so incredibly astonishing to me. I was just texting him. We texted daily. Almost hourly on certain days. He made my days go by faster. We had a reservoir of in-jokes, quotes from movies, and lyrics from songs that we volleyed back and forth in text. And if we were hanging out, we continued this trend out loud.

Ironically, I remember now one that we quoted back and forth was from this cheezy Final Fantasy game. With really bad dubbing, one character just said, "You cried." When we first saw that and heard it, we couldn't stop laughing about how odd it sounded. So, sometimes if I lost a debate or something happened in a game and I died, he would say, "You cried."

This time I really cried.

His mom and sister wanted me to speak at the funeral. To share stuff about Joe. Of course I would. Yeah. Of course I would. I'm a wreck, but I think I can do it. And I did it. And I feel like I barely touched the surface of how much Joe meant to me. I shared some anecdotes, jokes, memories, and the qualities of his character, but it felt so forced.

After a year has passed since he died, I have realized something. I realized you spend the entire first year after a loved one's death formulating a proper eulogy in your head. And so, here I am. I'm trying to give a proper eulogy, but so far I'm focusing on my reaction to his death. I guess it still seems so close to me.

I have had countless dreams where we hang out, play games, talk, etc. The dreams are so real that I often have a hard time convincing myself he is buried in a grave it Galesburg, Illinois. I'm serious about this dream stuff, though. They are hard to shake when you wake up. In fact, the dreams have been the most difficult part of the loss. And almost inevitably, in every dream, I can't just enjoy being with him. Instead, towards the very end, I start to realize, wait a minute, he died. He was dead. And I want to tell him that. I want to ask where he's been. And I want him to make sure he takes care of himself this time.

I could spend some time telling you about Joe's health issues. He had many. Marfan's Syndrome just sucks. Due to this syndrome, Joe had been through more surgeries by the time he left junior high than I have been in my whole life already. He wore contact lenses and bifocals. He had a metal rod in his back. And for the past two or three years I've seen him suffer more from worsening eyesight, hearing and his energy levels were not improving. He didn't exercise or really watch what he ate.

Still, I don't want to focus on this stuff. He hated that. He once had to walk or jog a mile in physical education. And Joe did it. And pretty much the entire school knew it was hard for him. So the coach uses Joe as an example to his sports team. He said things like, you guys need to be more like Joe. He has a bad heart or whatever yet he overcame it and finished the mile. I didn't even know this story until his mom told me. That's how much he hated it.

And I can appreciate that. He wanted to be evaluated and viewed like everyone else.

But he wasn't like everyone else. However, it wasn't for those reasons. He was just an amazing and unique individual.

We met in a junior college Bible Study my freshmen year. This was probably in 1992. We hung out often between classes and on weekends. I went away to a college in Kentucky and we still stayed in touch, relatively well. We reconnected over the summers and winter breaks. Watched movies. Played more video games.

We really started to reconnect after Joe's best friend died. Joe lived with him and went in one day to wake him and found him dead. I think he died of a heart attack. I went to the funeral and spent some time talking to him there. And then he moved back to Galesburg to live with his parents. A few years after that his dad died after a long fight with cancer.

These things took the wind out of Joe's sails. It was sometime during this period, and maybe even before, that he really started to struggle with his faith. We would end up having many conversations about this. Despite his doubts and struggles, Joe was a great flint stone to be sharpened upon. He always asked difficult questions. He never liked easy answers either.

Joe took me to my first football game. He was a big Bears fan and got us tickets for a Bears and Lions game. Unfortunately he got tickets for a game in Detroit. We still ended up going and having a great road trip. We even went to a casino where we played some games and saw a Canadian Elvis impersonator (our hotel was right across the border in Canada from Detroit).

The Bears lost, but Devin Hester got a touchdown on a kickoff return. That was sweet.

I took Joe to his first baseball game at Busch Stadium. We went with two other good friends of mine and had amazing seats.

Joe once evaded the police by driving into a parking lot for a factory and ducking down. To be fair, the cop didn't have his lights on, but Joe knew he was after him.

Joe had a cat that he loved. He changed its name at least five times. When Joe died, I believe the cat was named Captain Kitty. He was an awesome fat cat.

Joe had also had a budgie at one point. The bird and him were pretty good friends. He would just sit on Joe's shoulder all the time and nudge against him.

Joe's favorite football player was Dan Marino. I don't think he ever had a favorite player after him, but he loved football. He watched the NFL Network year round.

His favorite movies were Das Boot, The Big Lebowski and Aviator. I believe. He also loved Star Trek: Wrath of Khan.

He probably quoted The Big Lebowski and the Aviator more than any other movie.

He loved the TV show Breaking Bad. His profile picture on Facebook was from the show.

He hated wearing sweaters.

He loved to scare the crap out of me. After watching the first Paranormal Activity, he came into my room one night and started tugging on the blankets like in the movie. I pretty much freaked out.

He loved Mountain Dew. He also knew I tried to keep a clean house and car. His favorite thing was to leave almost-empty Mountain Dew cans in my car and at my house. He really wouldn't go out of his way to place them in certain locations, he would just make sure he left them behind. In honor of him, I will be drinking a large Mountain Dew can this evening.

We often fought and bickered like a elderly men. Or like the Odd Couple. We were kind of like the Odd Couple. Most of our friends would say they were entertained by just watching us argue.

He was an incredibly loyal, caring and honest. I can't define his care or loyalty in the normal ways, like, by how much he kept in contact, or how much he inquired about my life on a daily basis, but just was a caring person. I always believed he would defend me. The biggest compliment he once payed me was that I was not like other Christians he knew. Even though he might later turn around and say I was a bit too wishy-washy/touchy-feely in another area.

But that was Joe. If you gave him enough time, he would argue with himself.

That's why I loved him so much. I don't think I ever told him that either. If you know me at all, you know I tell almost everyone I'm close to that I love them. But that's just not how Joe rolled. And I respected that.

I know this is cliche, but there are so many things I could still share about Joe. So many ways he was a great friend. So many ways he was just an awesome human being. I still find it astonishing and truly unbelievable that he is gone. We joked about our deaths. We talked about our surgeries and shared war stories. I still thought he would be there for a long time, though. And yet, I knew his health was declining. It's a paradox. I think maybe all of us with best friends secretly want to get married and lose touch. Or at least, grow detached. We may not admit that to ourselves, but I think it's a secret desire. We never envision losing our best friends while they are still very close friends to an early death. Or maybe any death. I don't know.

I know my body and soul has still not recovered. I still find myself looking down at my phone, waiting for a text message from him. I find many things I want to share with him. And when I get a new game for console system, I think of how this would be so much fun with Joe. But that's how a best friend is. Everything is more fun with them.

I will finish with one of my favorite moments with Joe. It was my birthday. Joe, me, Joel and Nickie, and my friend Rod were out for dinner at my favorite place, O'Charley's. Joe said he had a joke. He looked at me and asked, "What's the difference between crap and a tomato?" Expecting this to be some sort of debate-worthy question, I then began listing off differences. When I finished, I looked over at him, and could tell he was perplexed. We were all pretty quiet for awhile. The entire table was watching Joe while he just say there, chin resting on his hands and smirking slightly while he his eyes said he had no idea what to say next. He finally said, "Uh...uh...I have no idea what to say next." We all just lost it.

Basically, we both ruined the joke, or at least I know I did. I think he was supposed to ask, "Do you know the difference between a tomato and crap." And I was supposed to say, "I don't know, what's the difference between a tomato and crap?" And then he was supposed to say, "Well, if you don't the difference between a tomato and crap, remind me never to send you to the grocery store."

So glad to have known you, Joe. So glad you have a permanent residence in my memories.

Buddy Cat

Several years ago I owned a big tabby cat. He had dark brown fur mixed with some splotches of gold and white. I got him at a animal shelter outside of Charleston, IL on a cold winter day. I think it was right after Christmas, maybe right after New Year's.

I also believe my friend James was visiting from Pennsylvania. He took a bus all the way from Pennsylvania. That is how desperate he was to get out of his home. I was in graduate school at the time and had recently broken things off with a girl. We were still close, though. In fact, close enough that I drove up to her hometown an hour-and-half away to pick her up and bring her back to Charleston after she got into a horrible fight with her family. I think James was with me the whole time, too. Man, he had to spend a lot of time on the road.

At any rate, the three of us drove out to the animal shelter on a cold and blustery day. We shouldn't have been on the roads. The shelter was in the country, so the roads out there were still covered in snow. In fact, I remember driving around a curve and putting the car in a ditch. We were stuck for awhile before someone drove along and helped us out.

When we arrived at the shelter, we took a tour of the rooms with cats. They were good-sized rooms with half-doors on each one so you could peer in and check out the cats. It was like a mix between a zoo and a prison cell block. Maybe those are the same thing, though. The unspoken message between you and the cats is the fact that they were all pretty much on death row.

I went down the entire row looking in both rooms. I remember asking for thoughts or opinions from my friends, but they kind of gave me the "Are you really asking me what kind of cat you should get and live with for the next five to ten years?" It's a confused and pressured look.

I remember Buddy was sitting in the back of one of the rooms. He wasn't overly social, but he wasn't completely stand offish either. I guess you could say that he was a typical cat.

We brought him home that day.  He would still need a good vet check up, and later I would find out that he had FIV (Feline Immunodeficiency Virus). It's pretty similar to HIV for humans. The cats can live a pretty long time with the disease, as long as they are indoor cats. And Buddy was primarily an indoor cat with a few exceptions.

There were a few times I chased him outside, but he really just meandered. And then there was the time I  thought I would try to walk Buddy. Not sure if you have ever walked a cat, but it's just, well, it's just a stupid idea. Imagine walking a dog, but the animal is smaller, has greater will power and doesn't view "being walked" as the most awesome event of its life. In fact, I think the cat believes its walking you. When I have walked a dog, you jerk the leash and say, "Come on!" and the dog usually responds my moving on. Unless it senses that you have no idea what you're doing, then it just keeps on sniffing.

But when I walked Buddy, he, well, he would lie on the ground, growl and hiss, or basically twist himself in the leash so much that he almost asphyxiated himself. Cats are not meant to be walked. Cats are truly curious creatures. They are always exploring, prowling, and pushing the boundaries of known territory. If there is a room beyond a door, the cat wants in that room. The cat may have no idea what it's going to do there, but it will go for it.

A few years after I got Buddy I got another cat named Cynthia. She was a small female calico. She and Buddy were a good fit. A great fit, actually. But this post is about Buddy, so let's get back to him.

He was a great cat. I loved it when he walked across my legs while I was in bed. He would knead them for awhile and then lay across my calves. It was comforting. And then in the morning, he usually woke me up from my nice slumber by nosing me. I usually swatted him away the way I would hit the snooze button. But he kept coming back. He would meow and look at me. I would check his food and water bowl. Undoubtedly he almost always had food and water, but this was his way. Cats are mysterious creatures. They wake you up for no reason. They sit and stare at you for hours. They meow at doors and walls without any known reason. I can see why some of the puritans thought they were witches.

Then Buddy started to get sick. He started peeing everywhere in my apartment. He was even defecating in a few places as well. He wasn't coming upstairs to my bedroom either. I knew what it probably was. He was getting older, too. I took him to the Vet.

The Vet was incredibly nice. She told me what my options were. We could begin a grueling, weekly treatment that involved shots and intense hydration. And it would be uncomfortable for Buddy and expensive for me. And it still would probably only prolonging things for a few months, if that. I knew what I probably had to do, but I wanted to think and pray about it for a few days, maybe a week.

The vet gave Buddy some shots and fluids and sent him home with me. I was pretty upset. I knew how this was going to end, but I really wanted to give him a chance. I wanted to see if he would turn around. I didn't want to be a cat owner that gave up easily.

He didn't get better. He got weaker. So I made the decision to send Buddy to his Rest. I don't remember a lot about the day except that it was a normal day. I picked him up in the afternoon and took him to the vet. I felt sick about the whole thing. I took him into the patient room and waited on the vet. She brought in the syringe and other items she needed for this process. My first job was working at a vet clinic, so I was familiar with this process. Even then it was hard to be a part of the process of putting an animal down. You can't really communicate with the animal, or at least know if your words are getting through. They seem to look innocently the entire time. All the way to the end.

This is how Buddy was for the most part. The vet placed the syringe into his fur, petted him softly and laid him down on the table. I kept petting him and saying he was a good boy. Not sure why I said that. I told him I loved him. He started to growl, much like he did when I tried to walk him. Maybe he knew what was going on. Maybe he was raging against the dying of the light. I don't really know. I remember that I was crying. I remember the vet was crying. She was crying. I was really touched by that.

Buddy was a good cat. He had a great personality. He was a good friend to Cynthia.

The End.

Director's Cut Ending:

If there is a twist to this blog post, here it is.

I found out later that the vet who euthanized Buddy was involved in an apparent murder-suicide. Apparently she came home after work, shot her husband and then shot herself. The suicide note revealed there were some marital problems.

The End?

Love Drug

I'm pretty worn down today. I don't know if I'm coming down with something, or I didn't get enough sleep, or if I just feel rather emotionally drained from all the election stuff. And then there is a friendship that seems to be on the bubble. That makes me incredibly sad.

I'm pretty sure tomorrow will be a tough day for me. In fact, I'm pretty sure tomorrow's post will be difficult to write. It's one that's been forming in my mind for awhile now. Actually, it has been forming for almost a year now. And a warning, it will probably be sad. But I hope it's not depressing.

I've been turning over this phrase I read in a Stephen King short story called, Quitters, Inc. The character, Dick Morrison, has resolved to quit smoking. A friend passed a card to him about a company called Quitters, Inc. He guaranteed he would be able to quit with their help. Well, as Morrison finds out, their methods, while pragmatic and effective, are cruel, cold, and highly invasive. There is always someone watching him. If he slips once, his wife is kidnapped and placed in a room where Dick watches as she is shocked for 30 seconds. If he slips again, he is then in the room. And the punishments get more severe, including beating his mentally retarded child in front of him.

At one point in the story Morrison visits his son at school. He hugs him tightly.

Hugging his son tightly, realizing what Donatti and his colleagues had so cynically realized before him: love is the most pernicious drug of all. Let the romantics debate its existence. Pragmatists accept it and use it.

The phrase, "love is the most pernicious drug of all" really caught me off guard. I'm still processing it. I'm not sure why it stuck out to me, but I think it's because I believe love is always good. Love is not something that should be used or abused. Love comes from God, which is undefinable and unconditional. There is the love between human beings, but that is a different kind of love. As someone who has experienced and experiences this love, it's not necessarily appropriate to say it's a "conditional love. I think it's just human love. It's messy. It's broken. It ties us to one another.

The Walking Dead Voters

So it's the end of the world. You think you got bit by a zombie. On your hand. You believe it's only a matter of time before you become a zombie. But you aren't sure.

Do you cut it off? Do you do nothing and risk it? And you have two people with you. One of them is great with a knife, but the knife is dirty and rusty and could cause more infection, and they also seem pretty damn eager to cut.

Another one is more cautious; they don't want to do anything because they need better equipment, more time to assess the situation, and know there is a risk of bleeding out. So they tourniquet your arm to slow down the circulation.

And of course there is always someone who says you can just cut it off yourself, but you are not good with a knife and you will probably pass out in the process.

And this is what voting for a presidential candidate is like. It seems incredibly urgent, world-changing, life-saving and most of all, incredibly divisive.

But just remember, a zombie didn't bite you because zombies aren't real. It's not the end of the world. And no human being decides your future.

But still, you should vote.

Population: 438

From Chicago Tribune:

Late Sunday night, an intruder broke through the front door of Bariffe's Princeton Park residence and fatally shot him inside the kitchen, police said. His slaying marked a grim milestone: the 435th homicide in Chicago this year, tying the total number of killings for all of 2011 with more than two months still to go in 2012.

Less than half a day later and about six miles away, Carlos Alexander was returning home Monday from buying a newspaper and coffee when he was gunned down outside his apartment in the gang-infested South Chicago neighborhood, pushing the homicide total past the 2011 mark.

Two more slayings were reported Monday evening, bringing the total number of homicides so far this year to 438.

When I began this post on October 29, the death toll was at 435. Since that time this article was updated because the number of deaths escalated.

Since I have moved to the Chicago area, it has been hard to get used to homicides as a daily occurrence. I try to keep up on the news, so I review the Chicago Tribune almost daily as well as my local news in Skokie.  I even review RedEye's homicide map to see where these homicides are occurring. As you can see, most of the homicides are in south and southwest parts of Chicago. This really doesn't take into account the suburbs. I don't know if there is a map out there that does. In fact, I would wager that when/if murders occur in the suburbs occur, you hear about it nationwide. When many of the murders occur in the city, they usually, but not always, only make local news headlines.

The police are trying new tactics on dealing with neighborhoods that have a lot of gun-related violence, and I believe a lot of this involves working with the community, trying to oust the gangs. Chicago is still a gang town, though. In fact, I have done some web-related-research on the gangs. I came across a website devoted to Chicago Gangs, but I don't know how recently it's been updated. Here's a link to a map of all the gangs just on the north side of Chicago. If this page is old, the amount of gangs probably has not changed too much. Also, several police say there is a lot of splintering and in-fighting within the gangs.

I'm from a small town. It was like a cross between a John Mellencamp and Garrison Keillor vision of a small town. There were problems, but honestly, there was not a homicide rate to speak of. And usually any homicide was a domestic situation. Still tragic, but different from what I see or hear about up here. Now within the past twenty years, small towns are getting inaugurated into the drug world with meth. It has become the scourge and destroyer of small towns and small town families. Easy to make, cheap to buy, and completely and utterly devastating to the addicts, as well as their friends, families and communities.

With all that, any homicide in a small town is something that still stops traffic. It settles over a small town like a pallor of darkness for months and months. Hell, an untimely death of anyone in a small town is devastating to the community. I can still remember most people that died within the small town I grew up in. I even wrote a poem for the family of one of the victims.

So, when I moved to Springfield, Illinois, I felt like I was moving to a "big city." It actually had an annual homicide rate. I don't use this measurement for all things, but it seems to be a good if not macabre way to gauge the city you are moving to. There was actually more of every kind of crime in Springfield. More break-ins, robberies, vandalism, rapes, etc.

Yet Springfield was still a small town in many ways. Sure you had plenty to do, places to eat, places to shop and visit. But you still ran into people that you knew. Or if you didn't know them, you saw them often. I think Springfield also had a small town complex, but I won't go there now.

So, I get married to Heather who lives and works in Deerfield at the time. I land my first job in downtown Chicago. I was taking the train from Highwood to downtown every day. And every day I would visit the Chicago news websites and read about 3 or more murders a day. A day. At first everything was so incredibly overwhelming to me (read: small town guy in big city), that this sort of thing didn't stick out to me as much. It bothered me to read about children getting killed, but I don't think I fully comprehended it all.

But after we moved to Skokie, which is just a stone's throw away from the north edge of Chicago, I became more aware of the daily tragedy. Maybe it was because I was concerned for our safety. Or maybe it was because Skokie just felt like more of "the" city. I began reading about these incidents, trying to understand why or what was happening. Often feeling rather distraught or upset over the deaths. Many of these deaths may have been gang-related, but they were not just gang members that were killed. They were men and women just trying to live their lives who were shot in cross fire. I remember reading about a child sitting on his grandfather's lap. Both of them shot by a stray bullet. The other day a young man was shot by a stray bullet while sitting in his room playing xBox. Playing xBox! I play xBox!

It's easy to look at these events and see them as a number. A statistical problem. 438 is a high number, as the article says, even for Chicago. And it seems to happen mainly in certain areas of town. And for now, we live in a safe area of Chicagoland. So, I can remain safe and somewhat apathetic about this issue in Chicago.  And honestly, I really don't know what to do. To assume I could do anything is the height of middle-class arrogance. I think to assume that more legislation related to guns will help this is foolish as well. It's well-meaning, but it's foolish. I don't want to get into the politics of this, though.

I get angry, though. Anger at the gangs. Anger at the police who don't know how to stop it. Anger at myself for being so aloof about it all. Anger for my own prejudices and ignorant ideas about all of this. Anger at my laziness for not wanting to find out more.

So, I think it was back in March I decided to try something new. I often find myself praying for big things in the world, like peace in the middle-east, Afghanistan, for flood victims, etc., and my prayers often felt like I was sending a Hallmark sympathy card to the victims. They were nice and supportive, but I don't know if I expected them to do a whole lot other than to let them know "I was thinking of them." Well, God's been changing my heart in this area. I've seen some things and experienced some things that really show how effective prayer can be. And I was challenged by my minister to pray for something and not worry about how or if God will answer it. Believe He can and will, but it's not up to me.

So I decided to throw down the gauntlet to God.

I decided to start praying that there would be one day without a homicide. Just one day.

And then it happened. Actually, the first time it happened it was for three days. I asked for one and God delivered three days of no homicides in the city of Chicago. So I kept on praying. Later the number jumped up to nine days.

And then I read the above article about the number of homicides. On the surface I can look at it and say, well, the days that were peaceful were cancelled out by the days of multiple homicides. Was I not specific enough, God? I didn't mean for evil to work over time in order to make up for the peaceful days. I know that's not how it works, but it was disheartening. I am still thankful for the days God allowed peace in the city of Chicago. I will continue to pray for days of peace. For now. Just one day at a time. If more days happen, praise God for that.

I want to do more. And at the same time, I don't want to doubt the efficacy of prayer. God can and does perform miracles. I hope you can join me in praying for peace in Chicago. And if not Chicago, for the peace in your city or town. It may not be murder, but it may be domestic violence, molestation, rape, drug abuse, etc. Whatever it is, it's tragic and sad and someone needs a voice. We simply can't know or save all victims, but when we pray, I believe we give voice to the victims and oppressed. Jesus was brutalized, beaten and killed, and He suffered in silence.

Whether or not they threaten my safety or well-being, or if they live near or far away from Heather and I, or if they are perpetrators or victims, they are made in His image. Jesus is in all of them. He suffers with them and He dies with them.

I will leave you with this paragraph from the Tribune article:

In the city's 436th murder on Monday morning, Carlos Alexander, 33, a father of four, was returning from a quick trip to a local convenience store when he was shot from behind in front of his home in the 7900 block of South Escanaba Avenue, according to family members and police. Alexander's sister opened the front door and saw him collapse to the ground, gasping for air. He died later at Northwestern Memorial Hospital.

Please pray with an expectant heart.