My name is Jen Neville. My pronouns are she/her. I joined FUSF somewhere around 2018. I first came here to find a place where I could bring my daughters and have them grow up in some sort of spiritual tradition, but I certainly did not want their upbringing to be like mine: full of guilt and fear. At the very first service I attended, Michele shared a song she had written, and I left in tears. I brought my family the next week and eventually joined FUSF as a member. We were regular attendees, but not very active outside of the services. Then Covid hit, and we disappeared. We stayed away well after things had reopened. The impetus behind our return was one of my daughters asking, “Hey Mom, why don’t we go to church anymore?” We started attending the next week.

This time, everything was different. There was a new new minister, the church had gone through significant growing pains without us, but the girls loved it and wanted to attend. We occasionally volunteered, the girls made great friends, and we were happy with how things were going.

Then, on February 16, 2025, my mother called me early in the morning. My niece, who had turned 14 the day before, had died by suicide. Nothing was okay. I didn’t know what to do, so I emailed Rev Bev, and even though it was her day off, she came to our house and sat with us for several hours. She let us talk and cry and was there.

The next day, I had to leave to help my sister and her family, but we needed help. It was winter break at school, and my husband still had to work. So, in desperation, I sent out a text to the parents of the girls’ FUSF friends to help. I dreaded having to do this since it forced other families to confront the realities of suicide and have a conversations about what happened to my niece with their children. But I shouldn’t have worried. Everyone was eager to help, and support poured in. No one I spoke to shied away from helping us deal with this terrible, terrible loss. 

At the next service, I lit a candle of sorrow for Amalia, and after, people I’d barely spoken to before approached me offering support. People sent cards, offered meal trains, gave unlimited hugs, and let us know that they were there if we needed them.  Many people reached out to me, checked in on us, and were just there. Even though I find it difficult, I learned to accept the offers of help. I also learned not to shy away from conversations that might make other people uncomfortable.

This is an amazing community that I am so thankful for. This is why I support FUSF.