Farewell, Dave

At 1:20 a.m. on September 1, my brother passed away. As former president Reagan so eloquently spoke, he “slipped the surly bonds of earth and touched the face of God.” He was 51 years young, and leaves a wife and four daughters. He also leaves a whole fire department.

Dave died as he lived, with a positive outlook. He firmly believed each day would be better than the next. And in this case, for him, it was true. What he lost in his battle with cancer has now been restored. What we have lost in his battle with cancer, we will have to wait for the restoration of all things.

Many continue to ask, “How are you doing?” To be honest, I simply do not know. Even if I do know, my emotions are so raw, that I am unsure how to tell you. We Stochl men have often been accused of having the emotional range of a teaspoon. That is by far too generous an assessment. We hold things pretty close to the vest.

If you ask me, and I do not respond, just know that I am grateful for your prayers, and your cards, and your calls, and your attempts to console my family and me. You have been very graciously supportive for the last 20 months since Dave’s stroke in January 2008. Know that while no single word can soothe the pain I feel. There are no magic words. But also know that just the act of asking has healing power.

Stories have healing power, too, at least for me. Allow me to share a few stories of Dave.

David John Stochl was born November 11, 1957 at Midway Hospital in St. Paul, Minnesota. And he was born backwards. He was the youngest of two sons born to James and Marian Stochl. Defying centuries of family tradition, Dave early on began pronouncing his last name as “Stoke-ell” rather than “Stock-ell”.

In first grade, Dave learned to write left handed. He imitated the teacher in front of him. Sitting at her desk, facing the class, she wrote with her right hand, and Dave used the same hand, obviously, his left. This caused people through the years to believe Dave was left-handed. Of course, in his unique way, Dave was right-handed, and only wrote left-handed.

He developed an early fascination with anything that moved and had wheels. An early Christmas present was a red Tonka fire engine, a portent of things to come no doubt. His favorite book as a kid? “Go Dog, Go” by Dr. Seuss.

Our childhood summers were spent at Lake Sylvia near Saint Cloud, Minnesota, at an old yellow fishing cabin our parents owned. After finishing summer school, we would spend the rest of the summer at the cabin. Our days were full of fishing, swimming, eating, cribbage, comic books, and Twins baseball on the radio. Dave was the better fisherman, and always caught more and larger fish than I did. I did happen to hook a large one once, it was about 5’ 2” and weighed 95 pounds.

While out in our boat, I let slip my casting thumb a little early, and heard a loud “thud” and then an “ow!” Sure enough, I turned to see my fishing lure, all three barbed treble hooks firmly embedded in the back of Dave’s head. So Dave was taken to the Buffalo hospital in a red fire department ambulance. Riding to Buffalo with sirens blaring and going fast must have appealed to Dave. And from that day forward, Dave was “hooked” on the fire department.

Sometime after becoming a fireman, he called me and said, “Stokes! Guess what?” I replied, “What?” He said, “I just bought a fire truck.” In my mind, I am thinking, “OK, you don’t get enough at work, you gotta buy one for home, too?” It was only much later that he told me that he had been sent by his department to buy this 4X4 fire truck from the State. Still, he loved being a fireman so much, I was not surprised when he said he had just bought a fire truck.

A few years ago, when driving across the Snake River Gorge in Idaho, we stopped for a look. The depth and sheer walls of the canyon were awe-inspiring for me. Suddenly, Dave blurted out, “That’s where Evil Knievel jumped!” And sure enough, there in the distance, we could barely make out a dirt ramp that had launched the motorcycle across the canyon some 30 years before. We were related, but we sure saw things differently. And I will miss that.

I will miss just picking up my phone and calling him, having him answer by saying, “Stokes! How are you?” And me replying, “Stokes, what’s going on?” I will miss his strength and confidence, and that he was a fan of mine, and believed the best about me.

Dave was a man of few words, except when talking about cars or NASCAR. He didn’t talk much about his faith in God. The introspective genes were passed to me. Dave simply lived out his faith every day. He trusted that God loved him, and that was enough for him. I believe Dave is now in a better place, no doubt looking for some 1963 Falcons to restore, just as his own wracked body is being restored.

While Dave’s death pains me, it drives me deeper into the arms of God. I believe ever more fiercely in the resurrection of the dead, and that one day, I will see Dave again. I’ll say, “Stokes!” And he’ll say, “Stokes!” And we will embrace one another. And Jesus will smile.

Thank you for your prayers, and kind words. May God be praised.

[SDG- JS]