Dear Eric

Dear Eric,

I wanted to take a moment to say thank you for allowing me to attend your funeral. I never had the privilege of meeting you in life, but I want you to know that your life has touched mine. I understand that your close friends called you “Shoe,” but since I’m not that close, I hope it is not too casual for me to call you Eric.

Earlier this week, a friend of mine, Deputy Moody from the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department honored me with an invitation to accompany him to the funeral of a fallen officer, murdered in the line of duty. I had heard the details on the news and said a hurried prayer for your family, but truly hadn’t given it much more thought, until Deputy Moody emailed me the invitation.

I joined him and about 2500 officers from all around Arizona and the Nation to honor your sacrifice, to cry with your family, and to mourn your passing. It really was quite a shindig, complete with tears, laughter, and nostalgia. From the descriptions given by your family and friends, I think you might have appreciated it, but probably would have chosen to be somewhere else, skiing, barbecuing, or hanging out with friends.

I have been to quite a few funerals, and I have figured out that some eulogies are merely lip service to a person who hardly mattered or worse, wasn’t liked by those around them. Other services, like yours, show that the person was truly loved, truly touched the people around them, truly made a difference in this world. The stories shared by your friends, family, and fellow officers told the story of a man who loved his daughters, loved a practical joke, and was a big presence in the lives of everyone he met. You lived a life of service and capped it off giving your life in the line of duty.

Speaking about your daughters, I cried for them. My heart ached to see them walk in looking stunned and unsure, living their own private nightmare in front of the world. I prayed for them. Your family shared a picture montage of your life, and it seemed that most of the pictures were of you and one or both of your daughters, smiling, playing, and loving. As a dad myself, I respect you for that, and I hurt that much more because a good dad was taken far too early. How can you put a price on the loss of a hundred piggyback rides that will never happen, thousands of hugs from daddy that they’ll never get, and never getting to be walked down the aisle by you.

I hope it helped your family some to see the processional. What an amazing experience that was; hundreds of police cars driving along with lights flashing on the trip to the grave side service. People lined the road, many stopping their cars to get out and watch, hands over their hearts. Many people had brought their children out, holding them up to wave as the police cars passed. Others waved American flags or held signs of respect for you and encouragement for your family. That is respect for a man who most definitely deserved it. It’s a shame that it takes this type of event for people to show respect to officers such as you.

I can say this much, policemen really know how to throw a hell of a funeral. Helicopters flew overhead in a missing man formation. They led a horse with the boots facing backwards in the stirrups. Taps was played, followed by the skirl of bagpipes and a 21 gun salute. An honor guard from dozens of police, sheriff, and fire departments watched over your family and your body on the procession to graveside. The American flag was removed from your coffin and given to your family. I cried again when they gave your final radio call. Thousands of officers wept for you and your family. It was sure something to see all those burly, rough-tough men and women crying and sniffling.

I’m hate that there are evil men in this world like the scum who shot you and shot at other officers that terrible night. It’s too bad that they were only wounded in the return fire. To quote the Sergeant who spoke at your funeral, “It’s too bad that the one who shot you didn’t die, but we all know that cockroaches don’t always die when you squash them.” I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a politically correct thing to say, but I’m glad he said it. We were all thinking it. The one shining thing in all of this is that there are men and women warriors like you, patrolling our streets, protecting the good people from the evil ones. Another appropriate quote in this situation goes something like this, “good men sleep safe in their beds because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.” Thank you for being one of those rough men.

The saddest part about all of this is that the world goes on. The ones who were responsible will go to prison and live on. Even if one or both of them receive the death penalty, it will be decades before justice is served. Your family whose hearts ache right now with raw sorrow, must keep going. Your girls will grow up with a hole in their hearts, but will have to make it, even if they don't see how right now. Fellow officers must keep patrolling, risking their lives daily, just as you did. The community keeps living, the world keeps turning, and you will be forgotten by most. That is the harshest injustice of it all. That’s why I chose to write this letter to you. Someone has to remember.

Thank you, Lieutenant Shuhandler for your service. 10-7, your duty is over. Your fellow officers will take up the duty. Your model of service will guide them. I only hope that I can live up to your example of fatherhood and of service. Thank again and rest in peace.

A Friend Who Never Knew You,

Rodger S. Loar

Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for another. John 15:13

If you are touched by this story and actually want to do something - please consider making a donation to the 100 Club of Phoenix that provides for the families of fallen police officers and firefighters.

www.100club.org

Also, if you see a police officer this week, stop and shake their hand and thank them for their service.