A Eulogy for Vincent

Vincent Baran’s Mass of Christian Burial was held at St. Mary Catholic Church in Hudson, Ohio, on Nov. 14, 2020. Immediately afterward, his interment was held in a small private ceremony at Markillie/St. Mary Cemetery in Hudson.

After the formal aspects of that ceremony, Vincent’s father, Ben, delivered a eulogy for his son. Many of those present subsequently requested a copy of Ben’s words.

The video below is a recording of that eulogy, as it was delivered at the gravesite on that brisk, sunny November morning. Below the video you will find the full text.

Vincent William Baran blessed this world with his life for seven years, nine months, and 30 days. But in those seven years, nine months, and 30 days—this beautiful life cut short—he did more than most of us can dream to do in our lifetimes.

Words fail to describe Vincent. But when I think about Vinny and his life, I think about his joy, his unusual empathy, and his fierce passion for life.

Vinny was joyful.

He learned very early on that he could make people laugh. Usually he did so by making silly jokes, dressing up in funny outfits, or dancing. He once played on a basketball team that was officially just the “yellow team” but he named them “the bananas” and cheered on his fellow bananas, win or lose. He told me that it was a toss-up between naming them the bananas or the mangoes, and that he went with bananas after talking it over with his dear friend, Santino.

He made friends so easily. Even when he was in kindergarten, he would come off the bus, with his backpack bumping the back of his little legs as he walked, and then he’d start saying goodbye to everyone. And he knew their names—even those of the eighth graders—and they knew his.

Vinny was joyful, but you had to catch him at the right time. In the morning, he was a grumpy little creature. You had to approach him quietly, with slow movements like one of those people in a nature show stalking a wild animal—or a wild Vinny. We all agreed that our Vinny was a fine specimen of a wild Vinny, identifiable most clearly by his dot-covered blanket, what he called his “dot bibi,” or more recently, just “his dots.” He frequently left it downstairs when he went to bed, and would demand that someone get it for him. On the Friday night when I put him to bed for the last time, he looked up at me with his little smile and gave me a direct order: “get my dots.”

Vincent was empathetic.

This was one reason why he was so good at making people laugh. He cared how other people felt, and he would try to make everyone feel better.

He used to cry when other people got hurt, especially if it was one of his siblings.

He was one of the more willing participants in Adelaide’s many creative shows that they would put on for the family. He was a wonderful friend to Cecilia and knew exactly how to make her happy—and, sometimes, exactly how to annoy her. And Damien, he was your little brother. He looked up to you in so many ways, and he always wanted to run like you, hit the ball like you, and play chess like you.

Vincent was fierce.

Even though he was small—he was only in the second percentile for height—he was mighty. He loved his toy swords, and he had so many of them. He could often be heard throughout the house jumping around, slashing the air, and bringing justice to the universe by defeating imaginary foes everywhere. He was one step away from earning his black belt in Taekwondo. At one of his recent belt tests, the head instructor told him he had a punch like a sledgehammer.

Even though he was unusually funny, he was often focused and serious. We were worried when he started school that he would try to be the class clown, but he proved us wrong right away. Distracting him while he was doing his homework was often just as bad of an idea as was talking to him too early in the morning.

Vincent had strong opinions. He loved—and spent much of his time anticipating—dessert. He hated cheese. Which is weird—for so many reasons—but he still kind of liked pizza. He made that work sometimes by sliding all of the cheese off and just eating the saucy pizza crust.

Whatever was before him or in his mind, Vincent tackled it with a fierce passion for life. While he was with us, he thrived. He thrived like few people ever do or ever will.

And that makes me wonder even more why he was taken from us so soon.

A few days ago, Dad, you reminded me how the prophet Isaiah tells us, “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, my thoughts higher than your thoughts.” Simply said, God’s ways are mysterious. We will never fully understand Vincent’s death.

In some ways, Vincent’s life was small. He was a small person, even for his age. He was born about 300 yards from right here, in our bedroom on the second floor of our brown house on Blackberry Drive. He lived there and at our current house, which is also only about 300 yards away from this very place. This town is where he played, prayed, and went to school. This town is where he lived his short life, and it will now be where we lay him to rest.

Vincent’s life was small but in so many other ways, Vincent’s life was massive, and his work isn’t done. We know that because Vinny, you’re still doing it. You have inspired me, your family, this community, and people all across the country who knew you, or are getting to know you now.

My solemn vow to you, Vincent—in front of you and Almighty God—is that I will honor your life and your memory. And I ask that all of you do the same. Do that by being more joyful in your daily lives, by being more empathetic with each other, and by being fiercely passionate about flourishing in this life with our fellow humans.

We have been gathering—and we will continue to gather—to mourn and to remember Vincent. But most importantly and specifically right here and right now, we gather to send Vincent onward with our prayers, embracing our faith in the glory of the resurrection. Vincent doesn’t need faith anymore. That’s because Vincent is face to face with his creator.

And Vinny, until our time comes to pass from this life and join you in the next, we will love you and honor you always, never forgetting the light that you brought to this world for seven years, nine months, and 30 days.