In the photograph, there is a boy—young, thoughtful, his shoulders squared in that way that suggests he’s carrying more than his own weight. His name was Devante Burris. He was a student at Lincoln Hall, the residential school where I once worked—a place meant to offer young men in the juvenile justice system something most had never truly been given: a second chance.
This Christmas, I find myself reflecting on his story.
Devante had a presence about him. Serious. Focused. The kind of look that told you he was thinking beyond the moment in front of him. He spoke about the future. He told me he wanted to join the military. For him, it wasn’t just an escape from the past—it was a path toward purpose, discipline, and belonging. A way forward.
Wanting to give that dream every possible chance, I connected Devante with two men who understood service and sacrifice firsthand: Colonel T.J. Farrell and Captain Pete Sciabara—both longtime friends from my Xavier High School days. Neither hesitated.
Between them, they gave Devante something rare: time, attention, and respect. Long conversations filled with honesty, encouragement, and lived experience. They didn’t talk at him; they talked with him. They spoke as men who had worn the uniform, led others, and understood exactly what Devante was reaching for. They treated his aspiration not as a fantasy, but as something worthy of serious consideration.
In doing so, TJ and Pete honored what we were taught at Xavier—that the Holy Spirit asks us to show up, to use our talents, and to place them in service of others. No spotlight. No obligation. Just presence. Just care. Just the quiet belief that one life, given a little guidance and dignity, is worth the effort.
After those meetings, Devante sent me a thank-you note. It was gracious and hopeful. You could feel it in his words—he believed a door had opened. For the first time in a long while, the future felt possible.
But life has a cruel way of interrupting hope.
Not long after Devante was discharged from Lincoln Hall, he returned home. And then—suddenly, senselessly—he was shot and killed. We still don’t know who took his life. His murder remains unsolved. No answers. No accountability. Just an empty space where a future was supposed to be.
There’s no way to wrap that in meaning. No neat conclusion that makes it okay.
What remains is this: Devante tried. He wanted something better. And for a moment, he believed he could reach it. Colonel Farrell and Captain Sciabara helped ignite that belief by simply showing up, and I will always be grateful for that.
Devante Burris mattered. His story matters. His life mattered.
May his soul rest in peace—and may we never stop working toward a world where young men like him are given the chance to grow old.
The Valley Viewpoint 