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On April 5, 2021, Luke’s mind failed him. In a moment, he lost sight of the light.
We will never understand it. But we have to live it.
 
It is impossible to believe three years after losing Luke, we are facing this day without Kyle, too. Losing Kyle on March 3 to a heart attack has brought a new darkness to our lives. That is why Liam, Jax, and I know, with certainty, we need to speak out today and ask you to share and shine Luke’s light.
 
Be a Light for Luke.
 
We ask that on April 5, on the darkest day of our lives, you help light the way.
 
Be a Light for Luke.
 
A random act of kindness to let someone know you see them—a smile, a coffee, a simple text saying “I love you.”
 
Be a Light for Luke.
 
Check in with those you love—your kids, a friend, a coworker, your mom, your spouse. Check in regardless of how things look on the outside. 
 
Be a Light for Luke.
 
Help light the way for those struggling to see through the darkness, for survivors left to pick up the pieces, and for our Lukey.
 
Be a Light for Luke.
 
During the first days after losing Luke, Kyle and I vowed that people would know Luke and say his name, that his story of life and death would be shared, and that his incredible Lukey light would always shine bright.
 
We see and feel the stigma and shame that continues to exist around suicide and mental health. Please help break down these barriers.
 
Be a Light for Luke.
 
Today, we ask that you pause and remember our Lukey. Say his name and shine his Lukey light.
One simple yet powerful act.
 
Be a Light for Luke.


We believe Luke’s light has and will save lives.
 
Love,
Jeanette, Liam and Jax
❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
 
If you are thinking of suicide or know someone who is, please call 988.

“Be a Light for Luke”

This is our final video of Luke.

It was taken just a few days before we lost him to suicide.

A counter full of his most loved treats.

He asked, and his dad delivered.

Kyle went to three stores to buy his favourites.

Lukey LOVED banana milk.

The empty banana milk container still sits in his room. We can’t take it out—not yet, maybe never.

Our sweet 16-year-old was here one moment and gone the next. 

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