No one plans for a loss like that. Tom's death was sudden, and the grief it left behind was the kind that doesn't resolve cleanly or quickly. His family was left holding the weight of an absence that couldn't be filled — along with the very human need to do something that honored who he was.

Tom had loved young people. Not in a general, well-meaning sort of way, but with the kind of specific, invested passion that leaves a mark on everyone it touches. He believed in the next generation. He showed up for them. And when his family gathered in the early, raw days after his passing to think about what to do with their grief, they kept coming back to that. They wanted to do something that looked like Tom.

A scholarship in his name was established for Apostolic college students — young men and women pursuing their education and their calling at the same time, often on shoestring budgets, often wondering if anyone sees them. Every year, when that scholarship is awarded, Tom's belief in young people gets handed forward one more time. His name is spoken in a room full of people who never met him, attached to an opportunity that changes a student's trajectory. His passion didn't end. It just found a new vessel.

Grief can be paralyzing, or it can be redirected. Tom's family chose to redirect it toward something eternal. What began as loss became legacy. And that scholarship will be awarded until the end of time — long after the sharpest edges of sorrow have softened, long after those who loved him most have joined him.

The people we lose often leave behind the clearest picture of what matters. Is there a life, a passion, a name worth honoring in a way that outlasts all of us?