Who Has Dried Your Tears?

Healed by Words or Deeds?

Say “Thank You”—Out Loud

When Rabbi Kushner Opened His Mouth to Speak,

All Frailty Was Gone

He is large man, well over six feet tall, but for all his height, he seemed frail. His steps were slow and measured as he walked across the stage and took his seat. When it was his turn to speak, he again used deliberate steps to move to the podium. All frailty was gone, however, when Rabbi Harold Kushner, age eighty, began talking. The rich powerful tones of his voice dispelled any notion of weakness and instead radiated strength.

I’m not Jewish and I’ve never seen the inside of a synagogue, but Rabbi Kushner and I have a history. He didn’t know about our history until Sunday, November 22, when he finished his talk at the Miami Book Fair. Rabbi Kushner has written a new book, ­­­­­­­­­­Nine Essential Things I’ve Learned About Life, and he was speaking at the Book Fair to tell people about that book, but also to speak of God, the God he knows, the God he got to know more deeply after his son died at age fourteen from progeria, a rapidly aging disease. When Kushner spoke of God, it was almost like being in church, which was appropriate, because it was Sunday morning: “God does not send the problem. God sends strength to cope with the problem.” In Kushner’s view, the one he shared in his book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, God is neither the cause of nor the cure for the aches, pains, and sometimes-agonizing experiences that tend to break us. As Rabbi Kushner shared again Sunday, God gives us the strength to carry on after such experiences challenge us. Each of us will continue to meet sometimes-heartbreaking situations as long as we live. According to Kushner, asking “why” when we are faced with heartbreak “is not a question. It’s a cry of pain.” I felt better about God after listening to Rabbi Kushner speak earlier today. I felt better about life. I also was reminded of my history with Rabbi Kushner.

When Rabbi Kushner completed his talk, the microphone in the Chapman Center at Miami-Dade College was open for audience questions. I’m not one to jump up in a conference room of several hundred people and speak in a spontaneous manner, but I did. I was first to step up to the microphone:

“I have a comment for Rabbi Kushner,” I said.

“In 1986, my daughter died from brain cancer. Her name was Alexa Provo and she was seven and a half years old. After Alexa’s death, many people said some things to me that made me sad and angry. I also read many things about death and child death. Some of the things I read made me sad. Others made me angry. It was your book that began my healing. Through my healing, I have been able to reach out to others and help them heal. I never dreamed I would have the opportunity to thank you in person. Thank you…”

My voice started breaking, so, to the sound of applause, I returned to my seat. The woman sitting next to me wiped tears from her face. Rabbi Kushner thanked me for my comment and spoke of the many, many parents and other grieving people who have told him that his words have helped them in their grief journeys.

* * * * *

I remember my days of being steeped in grief and how Dr. Kushner’s book was one of the life rafts that held me afloat. When I once had so many questions of why God would let such a thing happen and I received only glib, useless, or painful answers, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People gave me permission to stop asking questions and accept that bad things sometimes just happen. Much as we want to believe that our lives, our world, our universe, have order, often they do not. Receiving the gift of strength to keep walking through that chaos and find joy in life is where we often find help from God.

I have purchased more than a few copies of When Bad Things Happen to Good People. At one time, I kept them on hand to give or send to people who were hurting because I knew that Kushner’s words would not further their hurt. I hoped that, as they did for me, Kushner’s words would help them heal.

Thanking Rabbi Kushner was an honor. My gratitude was and is heartfelt. Gratitude is the watchword this month and especially this week. I am grateful for the chance to thank Rabbi Kushner for helping put me on the path to healing. As Rabbi Kushner said on Sunday, you can “find God in the willingness of people to hold your hands and dry your tears.” Who in your life has held your hand? Who has dried your tears? Who has helped you heal? Whose words or actions have made the path toward healing an easier one for you to walk? If you have such a person in your life, thank them—not in a text message or an e-mail, unless you have no other way to reach them. If you can, speak to that person. Use your voice to let them know their voice mattered, that their voice healed, just as Rabbi Kushner’s voice healed and continues to heal.

Vigils—A Path Out of Darkness

Vigil

A Path Out of Darkness

Days Pass By in What Once

Was a Long, Sad Month

October 16, 2014

October once was my longest, saddest month. During October, I am writing about the challenges we face during anniversary days, weeks, and months that mark extreme loss—or any intense, emotional life events. My child spent her last days on Earth in October of 1986. Memories of that time have affected not only October, but much of life since my seven-year-old Alexa died. Today, I share how we honor the memory of those we’ve lost during vigils.

Extending the olive branch of peace and healing.
(Stained glass window in Gracepoint Church, Ft. Lauderdale, Florida)

Candlelight flickers in a dark room, in a sanctuary, on a street corner, in groups gathered with a common purpose—to remember, to watch, to wait, to sit in silence and awareness. Warmth from the flames provides only scant heat to loosen the sometimes-icy grip of grief on the hearts of those who meet to remember.

Light, precious light, illuminates each event to ward away the darkness that can overwhelm when life’s events are too much to bear. Vigils are times of gathering in the light and provide the gift of being in community with like-hearted people. People share the same depths of the soul at the vigils they attend.

We have vigils because when marking times of sadness, loss, and grief, we don’t want to be alone. We hunger for the company of those who understand and welcome those who wish to be understood. Loneliness can weight the emotions of loss and make them too heavy to bear. Emotions immediately following loss often spur people to act. What can they do? How can they process the event? They gather at a designated time and place memorials, light candles, stand in solemn prayer. Such gatherings do not change the nature of life’s unhappy events, but they often answer the question: “What can I do?” Meeting with others can be the beginning of healthy mourning.

Fear of forgetting loved ones can haunt those of us left behind. We know time will pass, life will change, and the face of our loss will change. But some things we don’t want to change. We don’t want to forget. We’re afraid that in forgetting, we stop loving. Vigils give us an opportunity to say publicly, “Yes, I remember. Yes, I still love.”

Annual vigils, not unlike pilgrimages, give us an opportunity to hold each other up. In the community of a vigil, stories can be shared. Hope can be shared. Healing can be shared. Guilt can be soothed. Frustration and a sense of failure can be diminished.

Following a vigil, rather than being overwhelmed by sadness, participants often remember not only what they lost, but what they loved. That love continues to hold them long after the last candle is extinguished, the lights have come on, and everyone goes home. It’s the light of love that carries us through that journey and the journey we take each day—a new journey, a different journey, but one of hope and healing after loss.

♥ ♥ ♥ 

My dear friends Chris and Darrell Smethie lost their beautiful son Courtland almost three years ago. Saturday evening, October 18, they are hosting a NOPE (Narcotics Overdoes Prevention and Education) vigil in Ft. Lauderdale to honor the memory of those lost to and suffering from substance abuse. Please join us and bring light and healing to your own life and the lives of others who struggle with this problem. NOPE vigils are held throughout the country this month.

Information regarding the NOPE Candlelight vigil in Ft. Lauderdale follows:

October 18, 2014, Reception 6:30 p.m., Ceremony 7:00 p.m.

Gracepoint Church

5590 NE 6^th Avenue

Ft. Lauderdale, Florida

Contact Chris Smethie: chrisstruther@hotmail.com

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Vigils need not be public. Nor do they need to be held on a certain day. Anyone can light a candle when life seems too dark. Anyone can contribute to or volunteer for organizations that help bring light to the world: Compassionate Friends, Children’s Miracle Network, St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. Such organizations abound and can help us find our way out of the dark by bringing light to those still here.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Loss will touch each of us. That touch can sear our souls. As a healing balm, I present a new October. Rather than become snared in the dread of loss, I intend to spin a circle of compassion. I loved Alexa. I lost her. What did I love that made the loss so keen? What do I do, and what will I do to keep from stumbling—through October and every day, week, month? By sharing my journey, I hope to make yours easier, to offer a hand when you stumble, to keep you from falling. If you fall, I want my hand to be there to help you up and back into life.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Do you have a “long, sad, month” or do you know of someone who is stuck in the depths of grief? Please feel free to share your concerns, struggles, victories in the comments. I welcome private correspondence at mysistersgarden@gmail.com.

Life Gets in the Way of Mourning

Life Gets in the Way of Mourning

Days Pass By in What Once
Was a Long, Sad Month

October 14, 2014

Loss never ends, but we still must wash the dishes.

Life gets in the way of mourning.

October once was my longest, saddest month. On October 1, I wrote about the challenges we face during anniversary days, weeks, and months that mark extreme loss—or any intense, emotional life events. My child spent her last days on Earth in October of 1986. Remembering that time affected not only October, but much of life since my seven-year-old Alexa died.

Because such anniversaries are difficult, I decided to focus on healing this October in hopes of furthering the healing of others—not only those who have lost a child, but also those who have lost anyone they loved.

Loss comes to all of us, but we still can experience beauty and joy.

Life gets in the way of mourning.

In the 28 years since Alexa died, the face of my mourning has changed, as well it should. Early on, when dealing with profound loss, our hearts are tender; grief—day in and out—wears on us. Our nerve endings are sensitive. On this day, October 14, 2014, I have tender spots, scars that mark those places of fragility, but they are not apparent to others—and even I sometimes am unaware of them. Fourteen days into what once was a month of mourning, I note that I am not mourning. I think of Alexa several times as day, as I do all my children, but the raw spots have healed as much as they probably ever will. Life gets in the way of mourning with the passage of time. That’s a good thing.

In some ways, I liken early mourning to an illness that is virulent, all-encompassing in its early phases. As a young adult, I had hepatitis. My liver isn’t damaged and I made a complete recovery. However, a blood test will reveal that I had the disease. I cannot donate blood or organs. I’m not sick, but it’s there.

I’m not actively mourning most days, but the pain of loss is there. Like the hepatitis marker in my blood, the pain of child death is a marker in my heart. I don’t often think of the hepatitis, except when a too-persistent blood drive volunteer tries to badger me into giving. I say, “You don’t want my blood.” I can also say, “You don’t want this low-level ache in my heart.”

Like the minute quantities of virus in my blood, I’m grateful that my mourning has reached a level where, for the most part, I live without deep grief, as I live without liver disease.

I’m also grateful, these 28 years later, that I’m not crippled with grief. I’m grateful that life gets in the way of mourning—that most of my days are filled with the ordinariness of life—work, dishes, laundry, carpet cleaning, gardening.

Loss comes to all of us but we still must do the laundry.

Life gets in the way of mourning.

Early on, when suffering extreme loss, mourning gets in the way of life. Those of us who have reached the phase in which life gets in the way of mourning have a responsibility to other mourners. My responsibility is lending an ear, lending time, lending heart to those currently living the deepest days of mourning. By doing so, I show gratitude for the child who gave so much love during her short life. It’s my turn to help those who are hurting get to the point in their lives that life gets in the way of mourning.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Grief has no time table. However, deep daily grieving several months after a loss might indicate a need for help stepping toward life. Please consult a trained counselor, spiritual advisor, or bereavement group if you need such help. Google bereavement or grief counseling for resources in your area.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Loss will touch each of us. That touch can sear our souls. As a healing balm, I present a new October. Rather than become snared in the dread of loss, I intend to spin a circle of compassion. I loved Alexa. I lost her. What did I love that made the loss so keen? What do I do, and what will I do to keep from stumbling—through October and every day, week, month? By sharing my journey, I hope to make yours easier, to offer a hand when you stumble, to keep you from falling. If you fall, I want my hand to be there to help you up and back into life.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Do you have a “long, sad, month” or do you know of someone who is stuck in the depths of grief? Please feel free to share your concerns, struggles, victories in the comments. I welcome private correspondence at mysistersgarden@gmail.com.

Once Upon a Long, Sad Month

Once Upon a Long, Sad Month

October 1, 2014

October once was my longest, saddest month. Child Cancer Month—September—ended yesterday. Families who have lost a child to cancer don’t walk away at the end of any month. Their awareness does not shift to another disease or cause. Throughout September, I read about children fighting cancer, those who are winning, and those who lost. Photos revealing the ravages of the disease haunted me. Photos of those mourning the loss of a child to cancer resonated with me. Photos of children smiling in spite of their near-Sysyphean challenge gave me—give me—heart, because each one reminds me why this illness cuts so deep and stings to the quick of our souls. Children—their smiles, their innocence, playfulness, bright spirits, and hope for and dreams of the future—reflect everything we hold dear about children.

However, for those navigating the alien paths of child cancer, the tremendous challenges they face anchor them in the present. The future is too uncertain. Their razor focus is on the daily realities of living with, treating, and managing the illness. Advances in treatment mean that day-to-day reality of child cancer sometimes ends. Children go into remission and many are healed.

Other families and their children aren’t as fortunate; remission and healing are elusive and a child dies. They then are faced with navigating the alien path of how to live after child loss.

Not just during Child Cancer Month, but every month, I navigate that path over which I began stumbling on November 2, 1986, when my seven-year-old daughter Alexa died.

I still fall often, but not as much as in the early days, weeks, months. I’ve devised ways to plant my feet in a more secure stance. I look ahead before stepping. I also have devised ways to pick myself up when I fall. I don’t stay down as long as I once did.

One stumbling area that kept me down—keeps me down—too long is October—the anniversary month. I say month rather than day because the worst grief is not always on the anniversary of the death. For many, the days, weeks, and, for me, the month preceding are fraught with emotional and psychic peril. On this day, we were at Shands Hospital. On this day, Alexa had her last chemo. On this day, she made beautiful cards for a friend’s new baby. On this day, I hid from trick-or-treaters. On this day, our dear pediatrician said . . .

The first year, October smacked me in the face. I crept through it, the memories of that last month hobbled me. As more years passed, a vague sense of unease washed over me during October as I remembered where we were and what we did “on this day…”

Hardest were the Octobers I lived in the northeast away from my home state of Florida. September’s killing frost decimated my garden. October days meant trees barren of leaves and often-gray skies. Less light, less sun let the cold seep into my bones, reminding me of a deeper chill from that 1986 October. In an odd twist, and a blessing, by November 2, I often was not crushed and broken as I was in the preceding days. I had survived another year of loss.

It’s not always the anniversary that hurts deepest. Often, the days preceding an anniversary cut the most. Because of that, I want to further my own healing during these October days. In the process, I hope to further the healing of others—not only those who have lost a child or loved one from any cause, but also those who have lost a sibling, mother, father, friend, spouse—anyone they loved.

Loss will touch each of us. That touch can sear our souls. As a healing balm, I present a new October. Each day, rather than become snared in the dread of loss, I intend to spin a circle of celebration. I loved Alexa. I lost her. What did I love that made the loss so keen? What do I do, and what will I do to keep from stumbling—through October and every day, week, month? By sharing my journey through October, I hope to make your journey easier, to offer a hand when you stumble, to keep you from falling. If you fall, I want my hand to be there to help you up and back into life.

* * * * * * *

Do you have a “long, sad, month”? Please feel free to share your concerns, struggles, victories in the comments. I welcome private correspondence at mysistersgarden@gmail.com.