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By: Samantha McGinnis,
on 4/12/2016
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Today’s guest blogger is Emily Townsend, an Elementary School Counselor at Lowrie Primary School in Wilsonville, Oregon.
Last year I worked daily with a fourth grade student whose father passed away right before Christmas break. He grieved mostly internally, and became increasingly distant, disengaged, and behind in school.
After feeling like I had tried almost all the tools in my toolbox, I remember setting a velvet poster in front of him – one of the Melissa & Doug Sea Life Reveal posters I purchased from First Book.
I think I was hoping for a calm moment when we could both color and just spend some no-pressure time together being mindful. Although this student had never mentioned any affinity or affection for art, as soon as he picked up the markers to begin filling in the poster he started talking about his father and his feelings for the first time ever at school.
He and I made paper airplanes, learned how to draw jungle animals using the Kids Art Series: How to Draw book I ordered from First Book, and made intricate tangles of doodles while looking at the Draw What! Doodling Book I received in the same order. And he talked. And eventually started feeling better.
The post How Arts & Crafts Created a Space to Talk and Heal appeared first on First Book Blog.
When mum died in December last year, I thought I would be broken forever. I tore through the house shouting and screaming, howling, begging for her back and making several million deals with the Devil and threatening to kick God in the nuts*. I thought I would never be able to cope with the pain of her loss.
I turned to the internet googling marvellous things like 'mum died' and 'when does grieving end' and found an awful lot of despair. The main theme seemed to be that even a year later the grief was still as strong, that these poor people broke down every day and couldn't cope with their lives. My reaction to reading these posts was that my grief would not lessen, that I would be that desperate forever. Those posts did not help me at all.
I couldn't have lived like that. I wanted to read that people were desperate at the time but that it got easier, not that it stayed the same. No one was telling me that it got better and that's all I wanted to hear.
You will get through this. It will not be this painful forever. Those words would have helped immensely.
At the time, I wanted to climb into my brother's house and not leave. I wanted to be with my family all the time, only I couldn't be. They had their lives. I felt I'd lost mine. My boyfriend was amazing, so understanding, and he spoke so much sense. I don't know if his counselling training helped or if he's just naturally awesome like that. He'll tell you the latter. He told me it would get easier.
He was right.
I still miss her. I still cry at times, but nowhere near as much, and the times that I do are short and I manage to shrug them off, although I don't think shrug is the right word. I cope and I can smile and look forward again. There are moments. Last night I heard of someone who had just lost their mum. It brought it back. The difference was, four months on, I shed a few quiet tears but then I fell asleep and when I woke up, I carried on living my life. I didn't rage at the ceiling and send the neighbours cowering under their beds thinking I was going to tear through the walls.
This new life is different, it's the same, it's a million different things, and I'm okay. My hope for this post is that if someone grieving finds it they might find a tiny bit of hope that they will be okay to.
*and I'm supposed to be agnostic.
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Donna Earnhardt,
on 9/29/2014
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Death. Grief. Sorrow. Those aren’t words that any of us like, especially when they involve those closest to us. I don’t pretend to understand sorrow, though I have experienced it many times. I experienced it when my grandparents died. I experienced it when my own father was in a car accident, and again when my…
So many of us are grieving the death of someone close to us.
Grief comes in waves, receding, then roaring back to engulf us and batter us till we feel the tide might take us out and we will never return. It's not wrong to grieve. When recounting the scene of Jesus approaching the burial site of his good friend Lazarus, John tells us simply, "Jesus wept" (11:35). Jesus wept. It's the shortest verse in the Bible and it needs no explanation. I'm thinking today of my family and the family of John Wilbanks. I'm thinking of Rodney Wilbanks and his sister and brothers. I'm thinking of my daughter, Brooke Haworth, for whom the loss has hit hard. My mom, whose grief is a weight pressing down on her.
I am thinking of my close friend, Sima Taylor, her wonderful brother, Mohammad Mojdehi, whom she was so close to. I'm thinking of her daughter and her husband, Peter.
I am thinking of my own brother who died too early, and whose death brings daily grief to me.
I am thinking of Shannon Hitchcock and all the friends of Cynthia Chapman Willis, who recently succumbed to lung cancer.
God knows your grief and he cares about you.
This is what the LORD, the God of your father David, says: I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you (2 Kings 20:5).
You have kept record of my days of wandering. You have stored my tears in your bottle and counted each of them (David, writing in anguish. Psalm 56:8, Contemporary English Version).
And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain (Revelation 21:4).
Some of our friends who didn't know the one we grieve don't know how to handle the new, sorrowful version of us. If you are one of our friends, here is what you should say: "I'm sorry." or "I'm so very sorry." or "I'm sorry and I am thinking and praying for you." You can even say, "I don't know what to say."
Send a card to your friend's home. Write some version of the words above. Send flowers to the funeral home, if you are moved to do so. If not, that's okay, but the very least you can do is send a card. Your friend is in a very hard place right now, and though a card seems an impossibly frail comfort, it actually lends a great deal of comfort.
If you live near your friend, bring a meal or two over. Make cookies or banana bread or muffins--breakfast and easy snack items are generally overlooked but would be welcomed by the family.
If you can alleviate your friend of certain chores, do so. Can you pick up the kids? Take them to practice? Mow the lawn? Babysit while your friend conducts death errands?
Kids are in pain, too. Offer comfort to them as well.
Hug your friend.
If you have sweet or funny anecdotes about the person they're grieving, share those stories. They mean so much. Hand write the story even if you've told them, and send it to them in the mail. They will keep it forever.
Let your friend talk about that person when they need to. If they suddenly need a topic change, allow it. Don't be hurt. Grief works in swells; your friend needs to talk but also to be free to escape the swell. Let them.
Acknowledging your friend's pain tells them that you care about them; their pain is valid; you care that they are in pain; the person they are grieving for was valuable. I encourage you to not be afraid of your friend who is hurting. If you don't know what to say or do, I hope you find the words above helpful. Your friend is in an extremely vulnerable place right now. Rise above your discomfort and help them; however, a few things can actually hurt your friend, so be wise, choose your words and actions carefully:
Do not avoid your friend. Their sorrow makes you uncomfortable; your avoidance makes them feel that you do not care about them; you don't think their grief is important; you don't recognize the value of the person they grieve.
Do not offer platitudes. "It was God's timing," "You can still talk to him; he's watching you from heaven!" "He's in a better place now." These are throwaway lines. They have no power and they do not help.
Do not interrogate your friend on the details of the death. If your friend doesn't mention the cause of death, you don't need that information. When or if your friend wants to share that with you they will.
Do not mention and then launch into your own grief story. Your friend is suffering NOW. Be selfless and pay attention to their grief. This is not the time for you to claim your crown of grief. This is your friend's time. Let them have it.
I hope anyone grieving has found some words of comfort in this post. And if you are a friend of someone grieving, I really do hope you've found this post helpful. Many people don't know what to do when their friend suffers a loss; the best thing you can do is to be there in simple, quiet ways.
There comes a time during every vacation when I decide I'm ready to go home. Vacation is great--new adventures are great--but home... It's just home. Home brings comfort and routine; I spend less energy at home and can focus on other things. Damn I love those mountains, but until I buy my cabin, home is in Lawrence.
On Sunday night in Estes Park, while packing for home, I sank into a recliner in our rented cabin. A heavy weight pressed against me--it wasn't exactly the "grief landmine" feeling, but something close. I suddenly understood the easy comparison between losing my spouse and homesickness.
The only problem--when your partner dies, you can't go "home" again. Not to the same home.
Aimee has been gone for nearly three months now; an eternity in some ways (half of Elliot's life), but a blink in others. The first few weeks of April were muddy and slow and painful. Part of May vanished beneath "endings" (school, soccer, etc., etc., etc.). June has clipped along with my deck building project, Colorado, camps, art classes, and trips to the swimming pool. Day by day, the new normal takes root. It digs deeper. But this isn't quite home. It's a new place. A move without moving.
Baby steps...
Yes, this is why you learned the Pythagorean Theorem in high school: so you could build a deck. It's also handy for laying tile. I'm well beyond this point (attached the joists today), but I thought my students need to know that math is real. Look--I'm doing math. Math is helping me guarantee a square corner. Yay, math!
(Somebody tell me to bend at the knees next time. My lower back is killing me.)
Today, Aimee and I would have been married for eleven years.
Eleven years ago today, in my room at the Holiday Inn, I dressed in a tuxedo. I drove with a carload of groomsmen to the bed and breakfast to pick up a key, and then on to the church. I stood in the sacristy and munched on Scooby Snacks. A lump clogged my throat as I watched Aimee walk the long center aisle of St. Pius the V Catholic Church. Words swam in my mouth as I recited our vows.
It was, simply, one of my best days on Earth.
Here are three of my favorite pictures from that day eleven years ago, each scanned and coated with a tiny bit of dust. Nothing passes time without a little wear.
Two of my best friends, Aaron Ouelette and Jason Wollenberg, while I'm "faith-healing" on the dance floor at the reception.God, I look so boyish.
We thought it would be a brilliant idea to have champagne poppers instead of seeds or bubbles. Damn those little gunpowder-propelled wads of paper propelled hurt like hell.
My favorite picture from that day--maybe from any day. Give me a million bucks, and I still won't tell you what I whispered in her ear.
Miss you, Aimee. Thanks for ten + years of adventure.
Last June, Owen had a chance to sign up for Premier soccer (sort of the top-shelf league in Kaw Valley Soccer). Coach leaned pretty heavily and Owen wanted it. Aimee and I discussed... We talked about our as-yet unborn child, the strain on the family's budget (Premier is fairly costly) and time (most games are in Overland Park--45 minutes away by car).
We decided--as a unit--to wait. Too much travel, too much stress on the family with a baby due. Owen was disappointed. Aimee and I felt like we made the right decision. Parenting is hard sometimes. Damn hard.
Tomorrow, Kaw Valley is hosting Premier tryouts. Owen isn't attending--his decision. He wants to play club at least one more year. I told him it was his choice. I'm proud of him, regardless of what he chooses and how he plays. He's a great kid. So is Max... and Elliot. (Elliot's only six-months old and just popped his first tooth--how can he not be "great"?)
But damn, it's hard doing this alone.
I need my partner.
Miss you, Ziggs.
(a vintage shot of Owen taking a shot... back when he used to play forward in recreation league)
And yes, if you're keeping score at home, I'm alluding to Langston Hughes's poem, "Let America Be America Again"--read it. And yes, I did do the proper thing by adding an apostrophe and "s" to the end of Hughes. Firefox spell check be damned!
Anyway, I feel the weight of too many expectations these days. I'm "that guy," the one whose wife died in April, the one who has three kids, the one we feel sorry for but don't talk to for long in the line at the store because, quite frankly, we don't know what to say to him and it makes us uncomfortable to try. I recognize there are expectations for a grieving husband, even though every single book on grief I've touched states each individual's grief is unique, not some perfect lock-step schedule. The books started sounding like a legion of broken records, so I set them aside in late April.
I'm taking two classes at the Lawrence Arts Center. The first, Silkscreen, met on Monday for the initial session. I've always enjoyed creative outlets--and once upon a time I spent a year as an art student on my way to a career as art therapist.
Here's what I enjoyed about the class:
I was just another dude in the room. I didn't recognize anyone, and if they knew me (or Aimee), I was none the wiser. How refreshing.
I'm tired of being "that guy." Aimee and I carried each other in many ways during our 10+ years of marriage. Any relationship has a public and private side--a good friend once told me, quite directly, that I am "that guy" whether I like it or not. He's right, but I still weary of it. I know I will always be "that guy," at least in a small sense. I will always be the guy who loved Aimee and tried to do the best by her, tried to care for her in her darkest times.
No--take out the "try". There's no space for "try". I did the best I could for her; I cared for her through some dark, dark days. It's a little red badge of courage and love and commitment and I'll wear those scars with pride until I fly away one day.
But part of me must eventually move forward from here. I need to be more than that guy--I am more than him.
The dream will never be what it used to be, but it can be more. It can grow, fertilized well by my time with Aimee.
Every summer, I go through a period of "existential crisis." Not a big, scary crisis as in "life has no meaning," but a baby one, as in "I no longer have a job to do and feel lost." I'm sure it's a common feeling for many teachers, although most might not choose the term "existential crisis."
Again, I defer to Wikipedia if you're unfamiliar with the phrase "existential crisis." While the wikis have their shortcomings, it is a good source of group think and common knowledge. Let's examine the first line of the entry:
An existential crisis is a stage of development at which an individual questions the very foundations of his or her life: whether his or her life has any meaning, purpose or value.
I'm not very fond of the word "crisis." It sounds too much like "emergency," as in, if you don't resolve this crisis, bad sh*t is going to happen. Soon. Guess what... Bad sh*t has already happened.
I doubt there is any way to be truly prepared for a loved one's death, especially a spouse. Aimee and I chose not to include a unity candle lighting at our wedding because we both felt the idea of two people becoming one was a bit old-fashioned. Here's what I learned after nearly eleven years of marriage: you will become pretty damned entwined with your partner. If not exactly "one" flesh, the you learn the other's moves before he/she makes them. Losing Aimee has caused a major rift in my thinking about myself and my place in the world--in addition to the pain and grief of her death.
All relationships change over time, regardless of how intimate the relationship. But most changes are gradual, even if at times marked with periods of sudden, but small shifts. A death is a sudden, violent change. Think a football thrown to a receiver--the ball follows a perfect, arcing path to its target, and then a defensive player reaches up to tip the ball, sending it into an awkward, end-over-end spin out of bounds. Or think of what might happen to a planet should another object knock it from its orbit.
I'm out of my orbit. I'm the football tumbling out of bounds. Sure, I have plenty of meaning in my life--right now my boys, especially Owen and Max, need me to be emotionally present. Elliot's needs are fairly simple (although ever-present). Fortunately, he's going to day care during the summer to keep a consistent schedule. The other guys really need me right now.
And that is good--it is as it should be.
But my life, my meaning, is more than father to those boys. I've spent so long as Aimee's friend, lover, partner, and yes, caretaker, that I have to reexamine myself. And by "have to" I mean I have no choice. The change has come, regardless of my wishes, and here I am.
So this year's existential angst (a little more accurate than crisis) brings a good measure of "who am I, now?" with an eye toward the future and "what will my life be like a year from now?"
Baby steps, Aaron. Baby steps.
Yesterday, I checked out of my classroom for the year. I put away all my materials, removed my personal items (photos, books, etc.), and carted them...
To my car.
The outgoing counselor still occupies my future office, and my "replacement" (how I hate that word) has already come to make my old classroom hers. I'm without a home at school.
The rest of my life feels the same... The last two weeks have been obscenely busy, what with end of the year/season parties for soccer, kindergarten (Max), and graduations. But even beyond that, I've felt like a bit of a vagabond since Aimee's death. I've been reeling, readjusting, redefining what my life is, how it will be, what paths I will walk now...
Our principal is retiring. He's had a wonderful impact on school, and I'll miss him especially because his philosophy aligns with my own. From day one, he's been about relationships--you can be the biggest "content expert" on the planet, but fail as a teacher because you fail to make a connection with your students. On Wednesday, he said, "We aren't a factory taking in raw materials and producing a single product... We take in unique materials and produce unique products." How true.
He also went "singer-songwriter" and played/sang a tune with guitar accompaniment. As an ex-band teacher, he's done this before. Sometimes, the songs have been tongue-in-cheek about the budget, angry parents, and government regulations. This time, it was serious--the chorus repeating, "will they [the students] remember my name when they tell their children the story of their lives." He choked up a little when he sang, and I appreciate his honesty.
Those words hit me in the chest, the biggest grief landmine I've found in the last two weeks. I thought of my own kids and how I'd share stories about their mother, and I couldn't stop my own tears. I wouldn't want to.
Here's the nice thing about being a vagabond: when you're on the road, you notice things you wouldn't standing still. A lot of people talk about the "next chapter" of their lives. I don't see the chapter breaks, just a hiking trail with me wondering what lies beyond the next corner. My boots are laced, my bag packed, and a song circling my head.
Let's go.
Evidently there is a bit of controversy as to whether grief comes in loose "stages" or not. News to me. I'm not really operating on anyone's schedule, as my own grief is my own, regardless of what this smart fellow might say (Dr. George Bonanno). Sure, you've studied thousands of people--and not one of them was me. (this, my friends, is a fundamental flaw in most of psychology--it can speak to trends or general behaviors, but not much to individuals) I know what I feel and how I'm working through my experience. I know I miss Aimee. I know that losing one's wife sucks at 37, and would most likely suck at any age.
Emotions are what they are. I can't help but cry--and, during the last two days, shout and howl at the universe. Yes, I've been angry lately. Is it a stage? I don't know, but it's real. I'm angry.
As in "HULK SMASH" angry. I feel it in my bones. My skin itches with it.
The thing about this anger, the really tough thing, is that it isn't directed at anyone or anything in particular. I'm just angry. Angry my life is what it is right now. Angry I don't get to hug Aimee again, or give her another back massage, or just laugh with her. Angry my kids don't have a mommy (in the physical sense). Angry people have to spend their sympathy on me (although I appreciate every good thought and all the help). I'm just angry.
Anger isn't fun. It's not my natural place. I don't want to be angry for long, and that's why I'm writing about it.
Stage? I don't know. I do know it won't last forever.
Nothing does.
Yes, Dr. Bonanno, I will rebound. I am resilient, as all healthy adults can be.
Right now though... right now I'm pissed off.
How do you talk about death with your kids, especially if their mother--mommy--died?
I've wrestled with this quite a bit lately. The boys are doing okay, but I don't want to completely shelter them from their feelings. I don't want to hide my grieving, either, because they need to know it's okay to cry and be angry and sad and...
Aunt Heather loaned me a few books about death/children the other day, one of them being a parable about water bugs and dragonflies. You can find a copy on Amazon or simply read the parable for free online. It's a nice story, and one which I hope reflects how the universe really works. Of course, I have no idea how the universe really works. I wish I did.
Those of you who know me well know how much "existential questioning" I do. Now that Aimee is gone, those questions are heavier. They really pull at me, especially at night when I'm trying to go to sleep or wake up at four AM expecting to hear Elliot (and don't--that kid is a world-champ sleeper).
Last night, I thought of a story I'd written several years ago, "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". It's still one of my favorite stories, originally published at A Fly in Amber and reprinted (in slightly different form) in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow--
I like the way it reads at A Fly in Amber... No explanation of what is beyond the doors. That's where I am right now: on one side of the door. Aimee has stepped through and I can't follow. Not yet. I've got more murals to paint before I join her... Too many to count.
And yes, that is a metaphor from the story.
I frame my world with metaphors.
When I wrote the "The World in Rubber..." I wasn't thinking about death. But it works. It fits perfectly how I feel right now.
I miss you, Ziggs.
By: Lauren,
on 8/9/2011
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By Phyllis R. Silverman, Ph.D.
It was with some excitement that I read the article on men and grief in the July 25th edition of the New York Times. It mentioned Widower: When Men Are Left Alone, which I had written with Scott Campbell, a text that is now 20 years old and still very relevant. I was pleased for another reason that took me a while to recognize. The article
Sorry that I’ve been absent from this blog for most of this week. I’ve been absent from most things.
My husband and I had a loss Wednesday morning when our dog passed away. It was quick, which was a good thing, but it was a terrible shock for us.
My husband and I don’t have children yet, but Newton was our child, our boy. He acted like a very hairy five-year-old with a limited vocabulary. He even loved opening presents at Christmas. He went just about everywhere with us that dogs could go, and his absence has been very difficult to deal with.
Newtie is also the inspiration behind my Sir Newton books, and when he died, I couldn’t imagine working on another book. I had a lot of plans for these books. During the last year, I’ve focused on my novels in an effort to get those moving along with an agent and publishers, so the next book in the series, Sir Newton’s Color Me Florida, has been sitting in my computer mostly done. I planned to finish it when I had more time, and I planned to expand the series to every state in the U.S. as well as every Caribbean island and then the world, each one following the same pattern as the first two and providing funds to local children’s charities in each area the books describe. With my real Sir Newton gone, I couldn’t imagine doing another book. But my husband said, “You have to keep doing them for him.”
You see, one of the amazing things about Newtie was how happy he was. He was always wagging his tail, even the day before he died, he was wagging his tail, bright eyed, tongue hanging out. The amazing thing about this is that Newtie had a lot of health problems throughout his life, but, to quote his vet, “to look at him, you’d never know he had been sick.”
Newton was born with a herniated diaphragm; part of his intenstines rested in his chest cavity, keeping his right lung partly closed. When we adopted him, Newtie had been on the streets of South Central, Los Angeles, for a few months, we estimate. He had horrible mange and a rotting ear (we have pictures and they’re not pretty). He was three days away from being euthanized at the pound, because no one would adopt a dog in this state, when a rescue worker with the Much Love organization picked him up. The group paid for all his vet bills to get him fixed up then found him a foster home, which happened to be some friends of ours. I went with our friend to pick him up, a hairless dog except for a little white mohawk with the best and most friendly personality of any dog I had ever met in a situation like that. I was immediately smitten.
Newton quickly became a part of our family, and was with us for around five years. He enlived our lives more than I can describe, and everyone who met him called him “the happy dog.”
Last year, he was diagnosed with cancer. I prayed and prayed for him, for my boy, and God answered my prayers. After his first round of chemo, Newt was in remission the following morning. He had had tumors the size of golf balls under his mouth, but when we woke up the next morning, they were competely gone. Our vet had told us it would take a couple weeks to see a difference, best case scenario a few days. But he was in full remission the morning after.
We continued his full treatment and, as happens with chemo, Newtie lost a lot of hair again. But he started growing his hair back two months before he was done with his chemo treatment, which the vet kept saying was “amazing.”
His vet continued to be impressed with Newt’s recovery, and his follow up tests since he finished chemo were clean. Then a couple weeks ago, Newtie started to show signs of something being off. He was still wagging his tail and squeeking his toys and running up and down the stairs like a puppy, though. On Tuesday, I took him to the vet for some tests. They thought maybe his cancer had returned, and the next day, I had planned to get the results and see where we went from there. That night, I prayed again. I prayed and prayed that God would take care of him, to take care of my boy. After Newton passed away around 6:30 the next morning, my husband said God did answer my prayers; He did take care of Newton. He made it quick and relatively painless. That is a comfort. Newton was a very special dog — and I’m quoting my vet, so you know I’m not being biased (although I don’t mind if you think I am biased, because I am) — and he had had enough problems in his life. He didn’t deserve any more pain.
Comfort as it was, however, it’s still very hard to so suddenly have him not in our lives.
So, I’ve been pretty much feeling in a coma for the last few days. I had emails sitting in my inbox waiting to be answered. I haven’t done anything on my books. I haven’t even looked at my blog. Then, yesterday, my husband and I were talking about Newt — again — and remembering how happy he was all the time despite all the hardships he had to deal with during his life. And it was then that I realized that Newton was much better than me. I have none of the health problems he had, and although I’m generally very happy, I have my worries, concerns, over really small things. When Newton died, I didn’t feel like doing anything, not even one of my favorite things: writing. I want to be a novelist full time, to tell stories all the time, but when he died, I didn’t care about it. It just seemed like it didn’t matter.
But remembering Newt’s tail swinging back and forth, and his shining eyes as his pink tongue hung out of his mouth, his running around and squeeking his toy even though he only had one and a half good lungs, I realized that remembering is much better than mourning. Remembering all the wonderful things he did is the best way to honor him. And to aim to be as happy as him no matter what is the best way to be.
My husband encouraged me to return the emails I needed to return today, some from prospective agents, so I did, with images of Newtie wagging his tail at my feet.
Things will never be the same without our Newtie, our Sir Newton (who often lived up to his pen name), but I’m getting back on my horse, so to speak, and trying to remember that he wouldn’t worry or be sad; he’d smile and wag his tail.
This blog post is for him.
Write On
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That Walmart comment. It happened to me last night at my parent’s house. I stepped outside to take garbage to a compost pile and thanked God for the privilege. And the tears came. I won’t get to do that task forever. My mom is gone. My father will go. The house will be sold. I want to treasure every moment in that place. The vacuuming of floors, changing of beds, cleaning commodes. And especially the chance to care for my father.
This has been a year of grief for me. Somehow I hadn’t expected to have more sorrows with age although I guess it makes perfect sense. Thanks for sharing your heart. I am sorry for your losses, too Donna.
Beautifully said sweetheart.
Donna, my thoughts and prayers go out to you and your family. I lost my Godfather in January and I am losing my father through mental illness. I completely get the crying for no reason. I have done a lot of that in my car lately. It is so comforting to know that no matter how tear streaked I may look or how angry I may be at a situation, God is still willing to hold me-even if I don’t feel it at that moment. Thank you for this moving post.
Lovely post. The first anniversary of my father’s death is looming and I have been thinking a lot about grief. Thank you for this great way to think about the process.
Grief has a life of it’s own. that’s what I learned after my first husband died over 30 years ago. ANd subsequent griefs can rip open that wound– unexpectedly. But as Joyce said, being raw to grief also can help us treasure the present. Because we never know when we might lose it. I am sorry for your losses; but understand your grief. But even better–the Lord, who has experienced ALL our pain and sorrow–understands it.
Thank you… and AMEN!
It is so hard, all those ‘firsts” after those we love are gone. I am praying for you. And if you need to talk – you know where I am. :)
I love you. :)
Thank you for sharing, Kathleen. Losing someone to mental illness is a hard, hard sorrow to bear. I’m so sorry. I’m praying!
*Hugging you* I’m so glad you have these moments right now, and the ability to take care of your daddy. And thank you for sharing your heart. I am praying for you, my friend.