Making Room for God

‘D addy is sick.” That is what Cecelia, the two-year-old daughter of Ian and Kelly Lindquist, told me and my wife when we came to visit them at their home in May of last year. Even at that age, Cecilia grasped the meaning of her father’s absence and felt obligated to explain it to us as well. We spent the better part of the afternoon playing with the Lindquist children in their backyard, to assist Ian’s parents, who had effectively moved in while Kelly, pregnant with her and Ian’s seventh, attended to her husband in the hospital. As the afternoon stretched toward evening, the children assembled together as a chorus on the back patio to sing for us “Black and Red” from the musical Les Misérables, which they had adapted into a new song about their father’s heroic battle against cancer.

Ian was already several months into his fight against an aggressive form of leukemia, which proved ultimately fatal. Chemotherapy, a bone-marrow transplant, and a clinical trial did not stop him from going home to the Lord on May 5, 2022. He was 35 years old and is survived by his wife, Kelly, and by their seven small children — Benedict, Sophia, Abigail, Evelyn, Theodora, Cecilia, and Victoria. My wife and I had the privilege of attending three of their baptisms.

I loved Ian very much, perhaps more than he realized. He was important to me as a model of marital love, fatherhood, and Christian masculinity. Many others similarly loved and admired him — even those who did not know him well. He had that effect on almost everyone he met. With an athletic build, baritone voice, and fair features, Ian had a presence in every room he entered. What defined him most, however, was his genuine interest in almost everyone he met, a disposition that afforded him many friends. As Erasmus of Rotterdam said of Saint Thomas More, Ian likewise seemed “born and made for friendship, of which he is the sincerest and most persistent devotee.”

Ian’s natural ability to connect and empathize with others made him a gifted educator, which was his passion and professional calling. He began as a teacher at Great Hearts in Arizona, a charter-school network fitting to his interest in classical education. It was at Great Hearts that Ian would flex the intellectual muscles he built at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Md., where he studied the Great Books. In addition to becoming assistant headmaster at Great Hearts in Scottsdale, he coached boys’ soccer. Before age 30, he was already a well-known mentor, educator, and coach when he and his young family moved to the Washington, D.C., area in 2015, when I met him as a colleague at the Public Interest Fellowship.

As a fellow, Ian was head and shoulders above the rest of us in both maturity and outlook. He possessed a powerful intellect and was self-assured but humble, a blend that would shine through during our Socratic-style seminars. Whenever Ian chose to speak or weigh in on an important point, his comment was always measured and carefully considered — and because he commanded deep respect among his peers, no one ever dared to interrupt him. It was therefore a delight, but hardly surprising, when he was asked to run the entire organization and serve as its executive director.

Before we were married, Becca and I would occasionally visit Ian and Kelly at their home in Hyattsville, Md., a suburb of D.C. They moved to Hyattsville because of the intentional Catholic community that exists there — a community that proved instrumental during Ian’s sickness. We would help out with dinner and then stay up late into the evening after the kids went to bed, talking about anything and everything, as friends are wont to do after drinks and a good meal. To us, Ian and Kelly were model spouses and parents, and visiting them always felt like an apprenticeship into the life we wanted for ourselves. We continued our occasional pilgrimages to the Lindquist home after we married, the most recent of which was supposed to be in February of 2021. Ian and I would either text or email weeks in advance to find a good date, as our lives were always busy. We had to cancel our visit because he shared that he was having what he thought were strange and painful back spasms.

I now wish that is what they were, but we soon found out it was something much worse. After Ian was diagnosed with leukemia, Kelly bravely took on her spousal duties — attending to her husband while keeping family and friends updated on his condition. Through their prayer life, Ian and Kelly introduced us to the story of Józef and Wiktoria Ulma and their seven children. The Ulma family were devout Catholic Poles who were murdered by the Nazis in 1944 for hiding Jews. George Weigel from the Ethics and Public Policy Center wrote a beautiful tribute about the communion between the Lindquist and Ulma families. Kelly reminded us often to pray for the intercession of the Ulma family, whom she described as her and Ian’s close friends.

It is natural to ask why God would let someone like Ian suffer and die. But that is not the right question. Ian knew this better than anyone else, even before he was sick. In December of 2020, I shared with him an article that touched on the topic of suffering. Both of our parishes were still navigating Covid restrictions and the many frustrations that came with it. In reply, he texted: “Something like this struck me today at Mass — which our parish now has to hold outside. Suffering is a part of the Christian life. Not only do we need to embrace it, we need to recognize that it is that life we’re called to. Suffering is not a privation, it’s making room for God.”

I saw and spoke with Ian for the last time on March 23, 2022. Kelly invited friends and family to attend a Holy Hour the day before he would return to the hospital. It was the same church where I had seen Ian’s children baptized, occasions of great joy. We were now there for a distinctly different event which made manifest for me the cyclical role of the church in our lives. It was also the last day of the Ulma Family Novena and the night before their feast day, the anniversary of their death, on March 24.

I had not seen Ian for over a year and did not expect to see him that evening. But as the Holy Hour began, in he walked with his entire family. Moments before I had watched his daughter Sophia lay flowers at the feet of Mary and offer a prayer. As the hour drew to a close, I approached Ian and kneeled beside the end of his pew. There was so much I wanted to say to him, but the only way I knew how was to simply tell him that I loved him. He replied in kind, and before I could ask him anything else, he asked about my son. I in turn asked about Victoria, he and Kelly’s baby who was born soon after ours. He replied simply, “She is healthier than me, and that is all that matters.”

Ian’s life overflowed with a sense of love and duty, especially to his wife and children. He suffered greatly but was spared pain during his final day at home. Inside, his family held him, prayed with him, and sang songs as he peacefully slipped away. I stood outside their home that evening, joining several families from Hyattsville to pray the rosary. As we lit our candles against the creeping darkness, I wondered whether I could accept the call to suffering with as much nobility and greatness of soul as did my dying friend. Ian Lindquist made room for God, and in doing so showed us how we may do the same.

Should you feel moved to make a donation to the Lindquist family during this difficult time, you may do so through their GoFundMe page. All donations will go to funeral expenses and help Kelly and the children.