GD Featured Articles Why Rituals Help Us Mourn…and Heal Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.
4-5
Your Choice
6-8
Illusions
10-11
By Elaine E. Stillwell, M.A., M.S.
By Susan Adams
Saturdays at Six B
y
Kimberly Berg
Discovering Something Greater Than the Answer to
12-15 18-20
“Why?” BY NAN ZASTROW
Writing & Remembering:
22-23
9 Healing Gifts for the Grieving Jan Groft
CHANGING TRADITIONS
24-25
Julia Sullivan
7 Grief Strategies For the New Year----Or For Anytime
26-27
By Brad Stetson
A Note from the Editor What gives this magazine its heart and soul are the contributions of the people who know the path of pain. Your stories and experiences and insights bring hope and encouragement to others who may be just beginning their journey into the world of grief. We encourage you to write and share. Write from your heart about what you know because you’ve been there! We like to keep the stories about 1200 words (but we are flexible), and we prefer that you use first person (I, me) rather than (“you should…”) etc. Send your contributions via email (preferred) or snail mail (acceptable) to Janet at editor@griefdigestmagazine.com or mail to 7230 Maple St, Omaha, NE 68134. We’ll ask you to read and sign our writers’ guidelines (our permission to print) and we’ll need a recent photo of you and a one- or two-paragraph bio about you. If your material is published, you’ll receive complimentary copies of that issue, and we offer you a full page in that issue to promote whatever resource you’d like to share with our readers. Happy writing! editor@griefdigestmagazine.com
Contributors Alan Wolfelt
Dr. Alan Wolfelt is a respected author and educator on the topic of healing in grief. He serves as Director of the Center for Loss and Life Transition and is on the faculty at the University of Colorado Medical School’s Department of Family Medicine. Dr. Wolfelt has written many compassionate, bestselling books designed to help people mourn well so they can continue to love and live well, including Loving from the Outside In, Mourning from the Inside Out. Visit www.centerforloss.com to learn more about the natural and necessary process of grief and mourning and to order Dr. Wolfelt’s books.
Elaine Stillwell Wife, mother, grandmother, educator, author and speaker, Elaine E. Stillwell, M.A., M.S., shares her gifts of hope and inspiration with the bereaved, simply telling what she has learned to cope and survive following the deaths of her two eldest children, twenty-one-year old Denis and nineteen-year old Peggy, in the same 1986 automobile accident. In addition to being Founder (1987) and Chapter Leader of The Compassionate Friends of Rockville Centre, Long Island, New York, (along with her husband Joe), she is also a Charter Member of Bereaved Parents/USA since 1995. Elaine shares her unique gifts of caring and humor with audiences across the United States at workshops and seminars, in radio and television appearances, and through her numerous magazine articles.
Brad Stetson Brad continues to write on the psychology and spirituality of bereavement, as well as on topics of social and religious concern, in both nonfiction and fiction formats. Brad Stetson is author of Living Victims, Stolen Lives: Parents of Murdered Children Speak to America (Baywood, 2003). He is a writer and funeral chaplain in Southern California. See www. bradstetson.com. He’s published ten books on a wide range of religious and social topics, including Tender Fingerprints: A True Story of Loss and Resolution (Zondervan, 1999). His work has been critically reviewed in academic and popular venues.
Dr. Susan Adams Dr. Adams has been working with clients for almost 20 years, and she was a corporate executive for almost 18 years prior to becoming a counselor. She has been married to the same man for almost 50 years, and together they have raised four children. Her husband was in the ministry and pastored churches for more than 15 years.
Nan Zastrow On April 16, 1993, Chad Zastrow, the son of Nan and Gary died as the result of suicide. Ten weeks later Chad’s fiancée took her life. This double tragedy inspired the Zastrows to create a ministry of hope. They formed a non-profit organization called Roots© and Wings. Through workshops, seminars, group presentations and other methods, Nan and Gary create community awareness about grief experiences. Additionally, they host an annual Spring Seminar and Holiday workshop. They also facilitate a Sudden Death Learning Series. Nan is the author of a book, Blessed Are They That Mourn, and over thirty Editor’s Journal Articles in Wings and other publications. The Wings non-profit organization is the recipient of the 2000 Flame of Freedom Award for community volunteerism.
Kimberlye Berg Author of Schema of a Soul, Kimberlye Berg lives with her husband, Jim, in the Linden Haus in Lincoln, Nebraska. Kim and Jim are parents to Michael, Tyler, and Megan. She enjoys refinishing, repurposing and remaking old, interesting things. www.schemaofasoul.com
Jan Groft Jan Groft is the author of the awardwinning book As We Grieve: Discoveries of Grace in Sorrow and the memoir Riding the Dog: My Father’s Journey Home, a firsthand account of helping a beloved family member pass from this life to the next. An MFA in Writing graduate of Vermont College, she has taught Creative Nonfiction Writing and has also been a featured speaker for Vermont League of Writers, New Jersey Hospice and Palliative Care Organization, Pennsylvania Funeral Directors Association, among others. Jan was formerly an advertising agency President/Creative Director and recipient of more than 200 awards for creative excellence. Married to graphic designer Randy Groft and the mother of two daughters, she lives and writes in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
Judith Sullivan Judith Sullivan grew up in southern Minnesota, received a B.A. degree from the University of Minnesota, a M.A. in Counseling Psychology from the University of St. Thomas and has worked at a major urban hospital in Minneapolis as a psychologist for many years. Since her daughter’s death in 2001, she has written about her bereavement as it evolved over a decade. Profoundly affected by specific forms of support received throughout this experience, she was inspired to write this book and share these life-enhancing lessons with others.
N e W f r O m D r . A l A N W O l f e lt
Ot h e r c O m pa S S I O N at e B O O k S B y D r . a l a N W O l f e lt:
the mourner’s book of hope this beautiful little hardcover gift book offers Dr. Wolfelt’s thoughts on hope in grief interspersed with quotes from the world’s greatest hope-filled thinkers.
“The keys to love also unlock healing in grief. Just as you opened your heart to love, you must open your heart to mourn.” —Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.
Loving from the outside in, mourning from the inside out
“Your capacity to love requires the
heaLing your grieving heart this flagship title in our 100 Ideas Series offers 100 practical ideas to help you practice self-compassion and teach the principles of grief and mourning.
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eight CritiCaL questions for mourners... And the Answers that will Help you Heal this book provides the answers that will help you clarify your experiences and encourage you to make choices that honor the transformational nature of grief and loss.
on to live and love well again. ISBN: 978-1-617221-47-7 96 pages | hardcover gift book | $15.95
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e-mail: books@centerforloss.com
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understanding your grief Dr. Wolfelt’s most comprehensive book, covering the essential lessons that mourners have taught him in his three decades of working with the bereaved.
Why Rituals Help Us Mourn…and Heal Part One of a Two-Part Article by Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D. I often say that when words are inadequate, we should turn to ritual. Nowhere is this more true or important than after someone we love has died. In this two-part article series I will explain why rituals are essential and how you can continue to use the power of ritual to help yourself and your family heal, even long after the death and funeral.
What is a ritual? Rituals are symbolic activities that help us, together with our families and friends, express our deepest thoughts and feelings about life’s most important events. Baptism celebrates the birth of a child and that child’s acceptance into the church community. Birthday parties honor the passing of another year in the life of someone we love. Weddings publicly affirm the private love shared by two people. What do such rituals have in common? First, they are typically public events. Families, friends, church members, villages, even nations—any group with strong emotional or philosophical ties—may create and enact a ritual, providing a support system for common beliefs and values. Rituals unite us. Second, most rituals follow an established, cultural-specific procedures. American high school graduations, for example, begin with a procession of students in cap and gown, include one or more speeches and culminate when the graduates march across a platform to accept their diplomas. As with all rituals, the details will change somewhat from graduation to graduation, but the general pattern always remains recognizable. The predictability of ritual helps participants feel at ease. It also lends a sense of continuity, of the distillation of generations past, to those events we find most meaningful. Finally, and perhaps most important, rituals are symbolic. Wedding rings, christening gowns, mortarboards and gold watches all symbolize important life transitions and commitments. Not just the objects but also the very acts of ritual are symbolic, as well. We blow out candles at birthday parties, for example, to symbolize the completion of another year. At a graduation ceremony’s end, the graduates toss their caps into the air to symbolize their newfound freedom. What words could we possibly utter that would capture so well our feelings at these moments? The symbol of ritual provides us a means to express our beliefs and feelings when words alone will not do those beliefs and feelings justice. Grief Digest Magazine, Volume 12, Issue #2 4
Funerals and other rituals after a death
Like the other types of ritual I have mentioned, the funeral is a public, traditional and symbolic means of expressing our beliefs, thoughts and feelings about the death of someone loved. Rich in history and full of symbolism, the funeral ceremony helps us begin to meet a number of our fundamental needs as mourners. Funerals help us: • acknowledge the reality of the death • give testimony to the unique life of the person who died • encourage the expression of grief • provide support to mourners • embrace our faith, beliefs, and questions about life and death • find hope for our continued living I hope you were privileged to experience personalized, meaningful funeral ceremonies for the people in your life who have died. But whether you did or did not, here is the wonderful news: You can still marshal the healing power of ritual as you continue to mourn and heal. In Part Two of this article series I will offer ritual ideas that you can use anytime in your ongoing journey through grief.
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Your Choice By Elaine E. Stillwell, M.A., M.S.
Attending a local bereavement conference recently, I loved the closing remarks of the keynote speaker when he said, “Remember, the goal of grief is not acceptance, but to live.” And I realized how grateful I was to have made that choice when my two oldest children, 21 year old Denis and 19 year old Peggy, had died in a car accident four days apart, when we had planned and celebrated two separate funerals in one week. From the very beginning, I wanted to tell the world how much I loved Peggy and Denis. I wanted my children to be proud of me as their mother, and I did not want to waste that special love I had for them, but wanted to spread it around. Broken hearted and in shock, in my own way, I had unconsciously chosen to live.
Power to Choose. People thought I had so much courage, but it wasn’t courage, it was the power to choose. As the famous Holocaust survivor, Viktor Frankl, reminded us, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s own attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” In the trauma of our grief, we can empower ourselves with the choices we make. We choose our path to a new life. We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us. Just tell yourself, there are no mistakes, only lessons. Love yourself, trust your choices and everything is possible. The New Me. The scary truth is there is no such thing as “getting over it.” You will not be the person you were before. Trauma has changed your life forever, never to be the same again, even if you fought it like I did. Naively, I wanted to be “the old me.” How could that possibly be? As Catherine Woodiwiss states, “You are different now. This is not a wholly negative thing. Healing from trauma can also mean finding new strength and joy. The goal of healing is not a papering-over of changes in an effort to preserve or present things as normal. It is to acknowledge and wear your new life – warts, wisdom, and all – with courage.” Acknowledging that life will never be the same doesn’t mean that the future will be all bad.
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It will be different and will depend on our choices. Life is not a continuum of pleasant choices, but of inevitable problems that call for strength, determination and hard work. Just like when it snows, you have two choices: shovel or make snow angels. Motivation. So, how do you get off the couch and start building a new life for yourself? I believe
Make a list of what helps you, whether it’s a walk around the block, a cup of tea, baking cookies, hugging a child or grandchild, visiting a friend, running to the gym, or listening to favorite music, and choose from it when you are having a bad day. Also, rather than affirming what’s lacking in your life, remember to bless all you have and use it wisely. Gratitude is an appreciation of your life right now, versus where you want it to be. I discovered I always have choices and sometimes it’s only a choice of attitude, like to count my blessings rather than to ignore them. Price of Love. You can’t change yesterday, but you can control tomorrow. If I tell myself that I will never see my children again, my stomach does flip-flops. But if I tell myself that I am one day closer to seeing my Peggy and Denis, I feel a sense of peace and have no butterflies in my stomach. We can control how we do our grief work and our attitude toward our healing. Grief work is hard work. You can’t go around it, you have to go through it. There are no shortcuts. There is no timetable. The more we love, the more it will hurt because the pain we feel is love’s testament to the bond we shared. If we didn’t care, it wouldn’t hurt so much, but we chose to love. As Thomas Merton preached, “We must make the choices that enable us to fulfill the deepest capacities of our real selves.”
it’s what you tell your head. Just as Paul Duhn states, “Your own mind is a sacred enclosure into which nothing harmful can enter except by your permission.” You are the gatekeeper! Be gentle with yourself, realize grief takes a lot of energy, choose things that will ease your pain and give you a moment of joy. Set realistic goals. Break things down into smaller tasks. Let your journal be like a GPS for your heart, as you note what gives you a good day and what sends you over the edge.
Inspiration. We learn from those who walked before us, as we read their books and discover coping strategies, reasons to live, the gift of HOPE, and their secrets to lead a meaningful life again. However, as Thom Dennis warns us, “Beyond the circle of our acquaintances, the rest of the world won’t know our loved one has died. The people we encounter on a daily basis will be focused on their own wants, oblivious to our needs and concerns. Our creditors will still require us to meet our financial obligations. Our bosses and customers will still require a certain level of job performance. Our neighbors will still be annoying. Our children will still need every ounce of what remains of our patience and praise.” So, we find it’s up to us to pick up the pieces of our life and rearrange them in a way to give us back our life. Discovering inspiring words, helpful articles, moving prayers, poetry, or lyrics that talk to our heart, contributes to the choices we make rebuilding our life. Simple words can catapult us
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into action, giving us reasons to live. There are two primary choices in life: to accept conditions as they exist, or accept the responsibility for changing them. We make the choice. Affirmations. From what we have personally read or even discussed in a support group, we can choose to make Personal Affirmations which are simply personal promises of commitment to ourselves, reminding us what we need to do “TO LIVE.” Avril Nagel and Randie Clark suggest a few in their informative book, When Your Child Dies: • I commit to healing. (You choose to get better.) • I express my emotions. (You tell how you really feel and discard the mask of “fine.”) • I take ownership of my grief. (You make a plan that works for you.) • I commit to movement within my grief process. (You work to see progress in your grief.) • I know what is best for me. (You follow your heart & avoid letting others “fix” your grief.) • I am gentle with myself. (You do your best, knowing there will be good and bad days.) Keep your list of Affirmations close at hand, read it daily, post it in a prominent place in your home, like on the bathroom mirror or on the refrigerator door. You might enjoy writing them in your journal and elaborating on how you deal with each or you might want to focus on one goal at a time. You might prefer to read them aloud a few times each day so they become part of you, and a habit in your active grief work. Hopefully, through daily repetition, they will be more successful than most of your life’s New Year’s Resolutions. It is your choice. Presence. When we are hurting, it can be a lonely time. We might isolate ourselves thinking we need space to grieve. To suffer through trauma, is unbearable. This is a time when we need to be surrounded with loving people, especially those who can be loving listeners for us. They don’t have to say anything, just listen to us pour our heart out or sob uncontrollably, giving us permission to grieve. That’s why I could never thank my Labrador retriever enough for his gentle, loving therapy, always being there with those big brown eyes looking up at me, seeming to say, “I’m here for you, cry all you want.” We need to build a support system with people we feel comfortable with, who understand us, respect us, are nonjudgmental, provide emotional/spiritual strength and help ground us. Our Team. We want our family and friends to be everything for us, but we need two types of people to help us survive according to Catherine Woodiwiss, “firefighters - those friends who can drop everything and jump into the fray by your side, and the reconstruction crew – those whose calm, steady care will help nudge you out the door into regaining your footing in the world…it is extremely rare for any individual to be both a firefighter and a builder.” Finding both kinds of companions on our journey will bring great joy. Life is partly what we make it, and partly what is made by the friends we choose. Remember. The choices you make now, the people you surround yourself with, they all have potential to affect your life, even who you are, forever. Heroes are made by the path they choose, not the powers they are graced with. Life is change. Growth is optional. Choose wisely.
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EL A INE STI LLW ELL
Wife, mother, grandmother, educator, author and speaker, Elaine E. S9llwell, M.A., M.S., shares her gi=s of hope and inspira9on with the bereaved simply by
In addi9on to being Founder and Chapter Leader of The Compassionate Friends of Rockville Centre, (Long Island) NY, 1987-‐present, with her
where she trained support group facilitators, maintained a web site lis9ng of area support programs, and chaired the annual bereavement
telling what she has learned following the deaths of her two eldest children, 21-‐year-‐old Denis and 19-‐year-‐old Peggy, in the same 1986 automobile accident.
husband Joe, Elaine has been wri9ng for Grief Digest since its first issue in July 2003. She was also Bereavement Coordinator for the Diocese of Rockville Centre, 1998-‐2010, working closely with 134 parishes and local agencies,
conference each spring. Known for her passion and zeal, Elaine shares her unique gi=s of caring and humor with audiences across the United States at workshops and
Elaine believes “if their song is to con9nue, then we must do the singing.” The Death of a Child By Elaine Stillwell Reflections for Grieving Parents. Bereaved parents know the excruciating pain of losing a child. Elaine, mother of two children killed in a car accident, offers this collection of life-giving lessons gathered over years of expericence as a grief minister. Includes creating a new normal, bearing the soul, seasons and more. Code: DECO
Price: $10.95
www.centering.org
Phone: 1-866-218-0101
A Forever Angel by Elaine Stillwell. Instructions on making angels in honor of your loved one. Healing activities include: Baking a Batch of Angel Cookies, Creating Angel Decorations, s, and more. Code: FOAC Price: $4.47
Illusions By Dr. Susan Adams
The moon was shining brightly, almost giving the impression of filtered daylight. The trees made eerie sounds as the wind rustled through their naked limbs. The night sounds rang across the darkness. With the dawn would come a birth or perhaps a resurrection; the birth of a new form, a new hope, a new strength. But resurrection might be a better description. The light would bring not a new beginning, a second chance for things passed away. Different? Better? Who knows? Are there words printed on nature’s sign posts to guide the way? No! The answer, if available at all, is written on the wind, invisible to the eye, yet blazed across the consciousness of mankind. This harsh reality is almost a profanity not to be uttered or perceived through visible measures. Yet there is a clear, definite, unmistakable message --- written just across the horizon; just out of sight. The flakes began to fall, obscuring the outline of nature’s strokes. This was the first suggestion of newness. Silently, drifting to a place on the ground, each flake filled its spot in the masterpiece being woven in the night. Time slipped by, and soon the white artwork was kissed with the first rays of light. Slowly, he emerged from nowhere it seemed, yet somewhere had been his cocoon. Stretching, he looked in all directions, letting his senses explore the surroundings. The silence was so deep, it almost had an audible quality to it. His eyes adjusted to the glare of light reflected off the white stillness. He observed no movement. The crisp coolness in the air alerted his body to an inherent danger in this quiet wonderland. Peril surrounded him, and the sound of the invisible champion seemed to mock his feeble attempt to conquer. Grief Digest Magazine, Volume 12, Issue #2 10
Slowly, tentatively, he ventured forth. “Crunch,” went the first step and then another. So it began afresh. There was no sign of anyone having gone before. Yet there was a familiarity about it all, as if centuries were being repeated in this first step. As the steps made a chain of imprints across the emptiness, the light grew brighter. The warmth was so microscopic, it suggested merely a mind’s illusion and not reality. Still the steps pushed on, marking the progress across the vast, empty beauty. On the steps pushed, toward some indescribable goal. Breathe, step, push; breathe, step, push . . . This was the only motivation which kept him going as the light began to fade, and the cold became bitter. Where was he going? Was there a right or wrong direction? His strength was failing, and still he had to go on. Going nowhere, yet there must be somewhere. His mind sought refuge in a confusion of thought. His muscles ached. His lungs burned from the sharpness of the cold. But wait! It was not coldness alone! Was it? The touch of winter white seemed to be a homogenous mixture of warmth and cold. It seemed to pull on his legs as he pushed ahead one more step. And then, he stumbled and fell. A puddle of liquid, framed with light, emitted rays of brilliant colors. Had he not fallen would he have seen this magical hue? The reality of simple beauty amid such starkness could only be observed when he lay perfectly still. He became fascinated with this minute flaw in the white perfection. Time passed, and still his gaze remained fixed on the source of beauty. As the light faded so did the mirage of color. It was only a reflection of what he searched for. As he studied the imitation, the flakes had begun to fall once more and wrap him in their tender entrapment. “Rest,” the flakes whispered, “for light will come again. It will carry as its gift renewed strength. Rest,” it whispered in hypnotic rhythm. “Rest in my warmth. Become one with my perfection.” As he settled in, clothed only by the warmth of the winter mantle, reality sluggishly seeped back into his consciousness. Laughter chilled his soul as the wind ridiculed him. Ridiculed him for spent energy, futile effort, and confused reality. On and on the laughter went, as it grew in volume. Momentarily, reality touched him. There was no drive left for more steps, but with one final effort, he raised his head. He scanned the horizon in all directions. There were no more colors for his tired eyes to behold. Inches from his fallen head was the first step he had taken that day as he had begun his journey. “No!” He screamed the single word with the last of his fading strength. The culprit had won! The echo of that solitary word rang on with no bounds to stop it. He was one, yet he was a multitude. Would there be another? Will there again be light? Will there again be Spring? The answer is the same!
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Saturdays at Six BY KIMBERLY BERG
“The way to love anything is to realize it might be lost.” —G. K. Chesterton My body tells me when it is Saturday. Six o’clock p.m. It always knows. It has never forgotten. The violent blast. A destructive wave of highly compressed air—squeezing and pressing and flattening it—like it was taking up too much space. I wondered how so much, much too much, could be squeezed and pressed and flattened in the space of so little time. The suffocating dust clouds of fine powder. Carried by the tainted air, consisting of millions of tiny particles of disbelief; my lungs could barely breathe them in. The gravitational force. Pulling, pulling, pulling its critical structural connections toward the center of the earth. Fighting with a severe, solemn surge of strength my body had never felt before, I fell to the floor.
The bursting inwards. Of anguish. Agony. Torment. Stabbing pain. Severe sadness. A raw aching. The violent inward collapse. Of life as it had known it. Of the life I had known. The implosion. Of me. Saturday. 19, January, 2002. Six o’clock p.m. The phone rang. “Mrs. Berg? You need to come right away. There has been an accident. We need permission to treat your daughter.” My heart sank. I had no idea how far it was to fall. The phone rang again. You answered to hear Megan’s voice. Megan’s alive voice. Alive with the pain in her body and the pain in her heart. How much pain can a fifteen-year-old body and heart hold? “Didn’t they tell you? Michael and Courtney are dead.” How does a daughter tell her dad that his son and his son’s girlfriend are dead? How did she tell you? What words did she find for you, lying there with her broken
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places in a hospital bed? Talking to a chaplain. Not talking to her brother, who had stories yet to live and breathe with her. Only he wasn’t living. He had stopped breathing. What words from your father-heart did you find for her, standing there in the ordinariness of our kitchen— holding only the phone? The pain in her body will get better. The pain in her heart will just keep coming. You turned to tell me. The squeezing. The pressing. The flattening. The suffocating. The disbelief. The pulling. The fighting. The falling. The bursting. The violent inward collapse. I remember the feel of your yellow starched shirt. I remember the agony written in your blue eyes. Familiar eyes that I can read like a well-loved history book. I remember your white face. I remember leaning against the tiled kitchen wall and falling to the wood parquet floor. Your strong yellow arms came to me on the floor. What color of strong is strong enough to hold all of this? The phone rang again. You answered to hear the doctor’s voice. “I’m sorry it was your daughter who told you your son is dead. Come. As soon as you can.” I hate it when the phone rings. Michael had called just a short time earlier to tell me they were safe and having a wonderful time. They were looking forward to the dinner theater at the Iron Springs Chateau that evening. We talked and laughed. Unknowingly, we spoke last words to each other. Last laughs. Last sentiments. The most-recent-in-time words now seem very-distant-past words. We will get no more words. Or time. The soothing voice of Enya singing Only Time had filled their car. If only we had more time. We have no more time. It is gone. He is gone. Seldom can you know what time last words will come to you. All words hold the potential of being last words. Trauma brings with it an acute awareness
of the complexity of time. Of no time. Time becomes nebulous, disjointed, separated from what is seemingly the regular course of the day. Ordinary life is ruptured by the extraordinary. We typically live passively centered in chronos time: the ordinary, chronological, tick-tock of the clock kind of time that quantitatively measures our days. I am feeling the intense impact of kairos time: the extraordinary holy-overwhelminginterruption-God-given kind of time of a qualitative nature. What is time to God? What is eternal? What is temporal? Life is not linear or orderly or neat and ticktock-tidy. There is no way to quantitatively measure all of the days, all of the time, all of the words that have been lost except by the qualitative magnitude of the hole left behind. I am flailing in a huge hole. Flailing in the intense interruption. According to the chronos clock, thirty minutes after our last words Michael was dead. How do you measure thirty minutes? How can it be possible that the cell phone attached to Michael’s body continued to rhythmically flash its green light, indicating that it was still on—but his heart was not beating? No rhythmic pattern at all: he was dead. Remember? Just the night before? How he burst into our room laughing, talking, flopping down on top of us, chatting away? His phone was attached to his belt like always. The green light was blinking. His heart was beating. My heart is throbbing. I hate it when the phone doesn’t ring. I have a distinct memory of standing next to the antique library table in the golf room on that fateful morning, saying to you, “I am not sure why, but it feels like a creepy day. I wish we could start it all over again.” If only we could. The not-so-charming pink-and-blue flowered paper that disgraced our family room came with the so charming brick Cape Cod house on the quaint, tree-lined street. The day I picked the flowers off the walls and put up a traditional Scottish plaid-patterned paper was the day our children officially dubbed it “the golf room.”
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We were obscurely aware that the enjoyment we found in collecting antique wooden golf clubs and historical golf books was not so much that we were collectively crazy about all things golf. We knew you were absolutely crazy about all things golf, and we were absolutely crazy about you. Since our wedding day, “I can’t believe I get you!” has been an endearing family mantra. While occasionally expressed in tones of sarcasm, an underlying affection prevails. We wanted to celebrate you—the man we love. Over the years those plaid walls came to hold the stories of us more than they held the story of golf. Then came the creepy day. During breakfast we had planned a valentine’s fondue party for when we would all be together again. The kids headed for Colorado. I headed for an estate sale. Hardwood floors had just been installed in the charming Cape Cod. Not one thing escaped the dust and disarray caused by this invasive home improvement project. Having such a massive cleaning project in front of me, I should not have been out gallivanting at an estate sale. What is it that draws any of us to estate sales anyway? Estate sales beg the question “Is this what it comes to?” Years of collecting historical golf treasures, all to end up in an estate sale. I have collected antique books since I was a young girl. More fodder for the estate sale that would be ours. As I hold them in my hands I ponder whose hands have held them before me, where in the world they have traveled over the years, who originally bought them, gave them, received them, and why. I marvel over the kind of paper that was chosen, the printing process, and the art that graces the covers. Each book holds a story all its own. An estate sale itself begs a story to be told. Someone in this particular house also collected antique books. I could not believe what treasures of story I discovered and would be able to purchase for just a few dollars. Aren’t they worth much more? Life of William McKinley and Complete Story of His Assassination, written in 1901, the year in which it happened, by Marshall Everett and Illustrious Life of William McKinley Our Martyred President, also written in 1901 by Murat Halstad. Inside the cover is written: “The true story, in the shadow of death, passing away, funeral ceremonies; It is God’s way; His will, not ours, be done.” The more-thanone-hundred-year-old books are beautiful works of art.
All of a sudden in the mass of people crowding along a steep staircase, an older gentleman was falling down the stairs. He was lying at the bottom stair, not moving. Someone needed to call 911. So I did. The operator told me to keep him still; they would be there right away. No one would listen to me. They kept trying to make him get up. I could have no idea that in just a few hours another woman would find herself in a place where a car with three people inside had just violently rolled six times down a steep embankment, totally crushing it. Someone needed to call 911. So she did. The shadow of death. Funeral ceremonies. It is God’s way, not ours. His will, not ours, be done. What does that mean? I wonder where the eerie euphemistic phrase “passing away” came from. Passing away? The combination of the words pass and away feel strange. Maybe it bothers me because it feels like trying to make death sound more polite. Palatable. Death is not polite. It is certainly not palatable. Death will not be softened by favorable representations. Our son has not passed away. He is dead. Dead. What a strange-sounding word. How is it these stories of death ended up in my hands on the day our firstborn son was to die? That I would call 911 for an injured gentleman. But I could do nothing to help my own. You went upstairs to tell Tyler. He was so quiet. I wondered what was going on inside of him. You have some idea, don’t you? I remember the day your brother Brad died at age nineteen. I felt helpless as you struggled to make sense of it. Today—on the nineteenth day of the New Year—your son has died at age nineteen. You, your father-brother love shaped in the fire of knowing your brother and not knowing your father, will be strong and tender for your son whose only brother has died. Before thirty minutes had passed we started down the same road the kids had traveled that day. How can the familiar look so strange? It was getting dark. How congruous was that. It was getting dark all right. It would be dark for a long time. “Last times” began to hinder my respiration. Breathing seemed to come naturally just an hour ago. Now I had to remind myself. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. My mind swims in chaos. Would it be worse if both Michael and
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Megan had died? I cannot even imagine. How could it be worse? How could it not be worse? It would be more of the worst. How much “more” would there be yet to come? Which one of us would die next? If it is not me, I am going to be really ticked. Selfishly, I cannot imagine more of this kind of pain. I cannot imagine life—without you. We need to contact a mortuary. Which one should we call? I have never thought about planning a funeral for our children. Have you? Funeral. What a strange-sounding word. From the Latin funus. Meaning “death.” A ceremony honoring a dead person, typically involving interment: the burial of a corpse in a grave or a tomb. Corpse. What a strange-sounding word. Indicating that a change has occurred—a human body that is no longer alive but dead. We drive through the night in numbing shock and begin to wonder about Michael’s funeral. We want to tell stories with words and music. One of the stories we will tell is of Horatio G. Spafford, an attorney who lived in Chicago. In 1871 he lost a financial fortune in the great Chicago fire. That could not compare with the death of his four-year-old son due to scarlet fever around the same time. In 1873 he planned to take his wife and three daughters on a restorative vacation to Europe. An urgent matter caused him to send them on ahead with his promise to join them as soon as possible. While they slept in the night, their ship collided with an iron sailing vessel in the icy ocean. Michael was born on November, 22. Horatio and Ann Spafford’s three young daughters all died on November, 22. Ann cabled her husband: “Saved alone.” He rushed to join her. The ship captain called to Mr. Spafford in his cabin as they passed over the place in the sea where his daughters had died. He later penned the words to the hymn It Is Well with My Soul. We will join hands with our family and friends at Michael’s funeral, and we will sing It Is Well with My Soul. Waves of more. Of the Worst. When sorrows like sea billows roll and roll… Is it well with my soul? You know this place, don’t You, God?
I want to know You. In this place. How will we know Your suffering if we don’t enter into our own suffering? I held tightly to Michael’s favorite soft leopard blanket, although it did not stop the chills running down my spine. Everything felt so unnatural. Unearthly. It was like we were in a capsule. Catapulting into very dark darkness. We arrived at the hospital—located on Lincoln Street, the same name as the city we live in. I could not get to Megan fast enough. I looked into her eyes. One of them was not her normal big, beautiful blue, same as you, but all red and filled with blood. I hope it is not as bad as it looks, that it will be well again. Will she be well again? I began to hug her, only it hurt her. Holding hands was the most we could manage without inflicting more pain. To see her … hear her … be with her. Michael and Courtney had been taken to a mortuary a few miles down the road. I wanted to go with you to meet the coroner. To go to the car. Collect their things. To see the car would be very difficult. I wanted to see Michael. Much more difficult—but they wouldn’t let us. They wouldn’t let us? I wanted to do everything together, but that was not possible. The doctor was coming to talk to us at the same time. I stayed to meet with him. I saw the coroner handing you Michael’s phone. I heard him tell you he had turned off the green blinking light. I struggled to look into the doctor’s face, listen to his voice, and take notes on his instructions about how to take care of Megan and her injuries all at the same time. Where was my mind? In so many places. I felt terribly distracted. The nurse graciously insisted I try to eat some soup. I could barely look at it. I was going to throw up any minute. Just as graciously, she took it away. My aunt and uncle, a few friends, my brothers and sister had come. Meeting them in the corridor, I leaned against the wall trying to stay vertical but had to slide my way down the wall to the floor, trying not to faint. My body was working hard amongst its own parts to keep things functioning. It has never forgotten, and so reminds me. On Saturdays at six. Sometimes, I still have to lean against the wall.
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—DR. GARY L. NEBEKER Professor of eology, Grace University Grief Digest Magazine, Volume 12, Issue #2 16
“Jan Groft has written a winner. These are true stories of heavy hearts, which somehow, through faith, find a way to keep beating with joy.” —Pittsburgh Post Gazette columnist Barbara Cloud
B
ased on the profound experiences
of everyday people who, in the process of grieving, found hope, As We Grieve unveils nine healing gifts of grace that can be discovered amidst darkness. A comforting companion for the grief journey. “...reading As We Grieve is like having a support group on paper.” —Lancaster Sunday News
Also by Jan Groft: Riding the Dog: My Father’s Journey Home
V I S I T J A N G R O F T, A U T H O R O N
O R AT W W W. J A N G R O F T. C O M
Grief Digest Magazine, Volume 12, Issue #2 17
Discovering Something Greater Than the Answer to
“Why?” By Nan Zastrow, Wausau, Wisconsin wings1@charter.net Each time we start our sudden death learning series, we ask participants, “Why did you come? How can we help you?” One response always surfaces. “I want to understand ‘why?’” A confirming look appears on the face of others in the group. I’m sure they came hoping that Gary and I would be able to erase the nightmare of events, gaze into a crystal ball, and assure them there is a reason to go on living. It is human nature to ask, “Why?,” and there is seldom a satisfactory answer. Instead of answers, we give the bereaved “tools” to neutralize the reaction that death has robbed them of someone very special and life ceases to have meaning. They are about to embark on an adventure and journey far beyond their imaginations. It’s an arduous task that will challenge a lifetime of beliefs and assumptions—a journey of selfdiscovery. In the search for meaning, there is a priceless gift offered in return for their suffering—an opportunity to pick up the pieces and start over again. This experience will transform who they are today and what they can become. During this transition, they have the potential to discover something even greater than the answer to their collective question. They can discover an inner spirit and an extraordinary courage to survive in a changed world. On their individual journeys, here are a few discoveries our group might find.
Discover the foundation of your core beliefs We are raised with values and beliefs that influence who we are. We attribute these to our social culture, our religious backgrounds and our educational pursuits. We build a strong code of ethics that reflects our attitudes and our choices in life. Seldom are these core beliefs severely challenged, but nothing challenges them more than the tragic death of a loved one. Our attitude towards what has happened has the potential to “make us or break us,” and our foundation of core beliefs may be the saving grace in times of crisis.
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Gary and I can easily remember how dim the future appeared after the death of our son, Chad, at the age of twenty-one, as the result of suicide. Ten weeks later his fiancée took her life, too, perpetuating the anguish and pain we felt. Our religious belief system was temporarily challenged, because the world seemed unjust, and we held God responsible. We asked questions we knew others couldn’t answer, but we hoped that something would give us a reason to believe again. What we discovered (after our initial anger) was our religious foundation that became a guiding factor in acceptance and peace. Our core beliefs enabled us to search for meaning with the confidence and assurance that our quest was natural during grief. When something bad happens in our lives, we may think that God doesn’t care or that he has abandoned us. Previously, days may have passed in which we thought little about God, until tragedy struck and we called out His name in anger or in a plea for help. Then, we discovered that God was really there all the time. Searching for meaning helps us redirect our thoughts, sort out our feelings and search deeper to obtain comfort from age-old wisdom. For some, a religious foundation is the greatest source of help and hope.
Discover “why?” in the treasures of a life, not the tragedy.
question in life. We instantly realize that something we valued as very important is gone…and now we must adjust to living without. As a result of grief, our priorities change to reflect what’s really important to us. Is your career and the number of hours at the office more important than having dinner or spending time with your family? Is living in the fast lane, indulging in rich food and spending large sums of money on luxuries more important than living a modest, healthy purposeful life? Maybe plans for an early retirement and travel suddenly seem essential. Only you can make the choices, but it is likely as a result of grief, you will discover your priorities have changed. Adjusting our priorities helps us live in the moment, realizing that other moments may not exist.
Discover an acceptable answer to why––one you can live with. Sometimes we don’t know or understand the full circumstances of the death—so we ask, “Why?” When answers are elusive, we begin to investigate all the possibilities. When there aren’t answers to satisfy us, or the answers are contradictory to what we perceive, we feel resentment. It’s reasonable at this point, to create our stories with plausible answers that help us to accept the tragedy.
When searching for “why,?” we often put aside our grieving to unravel a daunting mystery. Usually, a satisfactory answer for “why?” doesn’t exist. With no suicidal background or theory about why Chad’s life ended so abruptly, we became exhausted with the search. My family assured me it was a mystery. Chad’s friends didn’t understand it. Some people just turned away. We were so immersed in trying to solve the mystery that we were forgetting the beautiful life of the person who died. When we finally put our tragedy aside, we celebrated the precious memories of who Chad was. Soothe your uncertainty with memories and celebrate why your loved one was so special. Remember the person, not the perpetrator, and not the unexplainable event. Make a vow to honor your loved one’s memory through ritual and story. You can live with your memories, but you can’t live with your nightmares.
Discover a new perspective on what’ really important to you. “Why?” causes us to reprioritize our commitments, our relationships and our values faster than any other
Here’s how to create a story you can live with:
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First, explore your theory about why this death occurred in the manner or time that it did. What do you believe happened? Why? A reasonable explanation might be described as: He or she
You can also develop a spiritual sensitivity through meditation, reading and re-building your self-esteem. This, in turn, helps you develop a personal philosophy of life and death. Religious roots can be strengthened by acquired spirituality. The two, working together, have the ability to heal the inner spirit.
(a) made a mistake (b) was reckless or careless resulting in death (c) ignored health and medical cautions (d) acquired an incurable illness or disease (e) was aging and health was declining (f) was in the wrong place at the wrong time (g) was the victim of a malicious crime. There is one more possibility that comforts some people. Their belief system supports the concept that “It was his or her time to die. God was calling our loved one home.” Choose one of the probable causes (or add one of your own) and use it in your story about your loved one’s death. This allows you the comfort of telling your story and moving forward without being burdened by “why?”
Discover a belief in something beyond. In our search for meaning, “Why?” urges us to grasp for something less concrete—something “magical” and healing. Our innate spirituality allows us to stretch beyond our physical world and reach out for the unknown. 8 A mother whose young daughter died tragically in an accident feels the presence of angels and a sense of security that her daughter is safe. 8 A man has a vivid dream of his son who died and believes it was a “message” from beyond. This confirms his belief in the afterlife. 8 A young woman whose husband died of kidney failure is comforted to know that he is in God’s care where there is no pain––and knows that he would want her to go on with her life. 8 A wife indulges in meditation after her husband’s death. This helps her concentrate on her inner self, enhances her spirituality and gives her strength.
Discover that “why?” isn’t important anymore. Though you can’t change the situation, you can change yourself. Eventually, to heal your pain, it will be necessary to cease the pursuit of “why?” and move forward in rebuilding your life. Relentless pursuits of justice can take control of your life. One man was sure that destroying the animal that took his son’s life would be reasonable revenge for his son’s death. A couple felt that after a long, enduring trial, bringing a drunk driver to justice would soften the pain of their daughter’s untimely death. An irate mother tracked down the young men who had been with her son at the time of the car accident, and accused them (without fact) of irresponsible driving, use of alcoholic beverages and the presence of illegal drugs. None of these actions solved the mystery of “why?” Nor do they change what has occurred. These attempts to neutralize the pain are often futile. In the end––even if we accomplish what we set out to do—our loved ones still died. A wilted excuse from either a repentant person or one who feels no remorse will not heal the sorrow we cling to. Revengeful acts or lifelong pursuits of justice only destroy the moral character we value most. They may also result in destroying our own lives and the lives of other loved ones. When we seek to understand death, we become more comfortable with life. These discoveries transform the bereaved. For Gary and me, our search for meaning was a healing journey. Now I can live without the answer to “why?” It doesn’t matter how the terrible event occurred. I remind myself that knowing “why?” won’t change a thing. I have beautiful memories to sustain me through the tough times. My faith has given me a firm religious foundation. My spirituality comforts me in the quiet moments by knowing that “Chad is okay.” With my new perspective, I’m ready to face the possibilities of “what’s next?” And my intuitive self whispers, If you really discovered the answer to “why?” would it bring Chad or Jenny back? If you have comments or feedback about this article, please feel free to contact me at wings1@charter.net or visit our website at www.wingsgrief.org
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Writing & Remembering:
9 Healing Gifts for the Grieving Jan Groft An accomplished businessman, not one to engage in emotional displays, recounted the loss of his vibrant mother. The man’s written narrative had arrived in response to an email I’d sent soliciting stories for a book called As We Grieve: Discoveries of Grace in Sorrow. In a cover note, his words reflected the sentiments of many others who offered their own memories. “Much to my surprise,” he revealed, “when I started writing it down, it felt good. I didn’t plan to write so much, but once I got started, I couldn’t stop.” Expressing ourselves in writing can help lighten the load for the cumbersome journey through grief. The benefits have been compared to those of receiving therapy, to being able to voice our “feelings and judgments to a sympathetic ear, to someone who won’t turn on the ball game or do the dishes, won’t cradle the phone, multi-task and tune you out. We usually have to pay for that kind of focused attention,” asserted author Henriette Klauser in With Pen in Hand: The Healing Power of Writing.
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The tools are simple: a journal or tablet plus pen, or else a computer. The objective, in most cases, is not to land a publishing contract or hand in the work for a grade. As author Martha Whitmore Hackman, who filled four notebooks with entries after her daughter’s death, shared in her book Healing After Loss, “The important thing for most of us is not that we have made something of artistic value, but that we have taken a grief that lies like a lump against our hearts, and moved it away from us.” But how do we find the words? What do we write? One of writing’s most treasured rewards, I have found, is wrapped in the details. None of us has to be an expert to collect, make lists of or jot down our recollections. Like knitting another stitch onto the needle, each detail contributes to the overall feeling of warmth. Men and women, ages twenty-seven to eighty, representing a variety of backgrounds from medical professionals to educators to clergy to corporate executives to salesmen and stay-at-home moms provided stories for As We Grieve. My research for the book began with an email solicitation asking potential contributors who had travelled through grief to describe what hope looked like. What got them through each day? Details of various types arrived. One man whose sixteen-year old niece had died in a car crash recalled the intensity of the devastation. While gathering photos for display at the funeral, his family came across one in which the girl was balancing a spoon on her nose, a reminder of her antics on a vacation they’d shared. The ability to find humor, especially laughter, amidst deep sorrow came as a surprise to this man, providing a meaningful gift, a moment of grace. A woman whose father had died of bone cancer, remembered the strength her 74-year old mother had shown in caring for him. At the end, when her father could only sleep comfortably on a recliner, her mother slept nearby on the floor, tethered to him, so she could feel him move in the middle of the night, because he tried to get up and might fall; in her tiredness, she didn’t want him to get hurt. This show of love lifted the daughter as she grappled with grief. Others wrote of a dementia patient making a profound remark from the place of disconnect, a breathtaking view that filled them with reprieve, or retreating to the rhythm of a soothing strain of music. As contributions arrived, a pattern emerged, one that seemed to define categories into which these gifts might fall, such as memories, humor, wisdom, discovery, gratitude, community, strength, faith and art.
Writing can serve as springboard toward gifts that are ours to discover amidst the unlikely folds of loss and grief. It can walk with us through heartbreak; it arrives at our whim. Pick up a pen, and let it lead the way. “The written page,” Clauser said, “is a place to hold our humanity.” Here are some prompts to help you get started. Memories. Write a list of one hundred memories of someone you’ve loved and lost. They may be simple or profound: the cowlick in his hair or the day you climbed a mountain together. Just put pen to paper and write anything that comes to mind. Humor. If you can think of one, write about a lighthearted moment that occurred during caregiving or after the death of someone you loved. Recall dialogue spoken, the laughter shared and how it made you feel. Wisdom. Reflect on a life lesson learned through loss. How might it enrich the rest of your days here on earth? Discovery. Write a letter to someone you’ve lost. Describe the qualities you cherished in your relationship. Express any hurt you may have felt from his or her behavior. If you try to understand that behavior as being rooted in unmet needs, how does this alter your hurt? Gratitude. Write a Gratitude List, a long one. List one hundred things for which you are grateful. Consider keeping the list going, adding new entries day after day. Community. Recall the comfort you received or wished you had received from others as you grieved. Based on your own experience, list those gestures that you might offer others who find themselves in similar situations. Strength. Make a list of gifts that make you who you are. How can you draw upon those gifts to navigate the pathways of loss? Faith. Think about Psalm 46:10, “Be still, and know that I am God.” What message does the verse convey to you and how might it apply to your life? Art. Intentionally allocate time to visit your local art museum, take in a play or simply relax while listening to music. Afterwards, write down any emotions you experienced. Or, settle in with some photos of your loved one, making a list of details illustrating his or her character. “Writing & Remembering” includes excerpts from the book As We Grieve by Jan Groft.
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CHANGING TRADITIONS Judith Sullivan
A
s anyone who has lost someone they love knows, anniversary dates can trigger powerful feelings. Because our daughter, Melissa, died on the 26th of December, after twelve days in a coma and during the holiday season, that is the month that delivers the hardest punch. As my husband and I approached the end of our first year of grief, the Christmas holidays loomed ahead. We had a myriad of feelings but none that had anything to do with celebrating. The next several weeks seemed impossible to navigate. So we decided not to try. We left the state, in more ways than one. We wanted to break all associations with the previous year and to divorce ourselves from any expectation to appear happy that Christmas was coming. We knew, on some level, that we were not running away from our grief. We were functioning, going to work, getting therapeutic help and support from many sources and attending to friends and family. We did depend more on others to initiate activities, although we usually went when invited and thereby stayed quite active in spite of how devastated we felt. Also, at times we began to develop a tiny spark of hope that in the future we might learn how to manage and tolerate the emotional pain that we carried. There seemed to be some movement in our grief---but there would definitely not be a Christmas celebration. We asked ourselves, where could we go in December that was sunny and warm---prerequisites for comfort---and where no one would care if we celebrated the holidays or not? Where might others be somewhat oblivious to the usual rituals? We chose Key West. It was perfect for our purposes.
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W
e were helped immensely when some of our closest family members joined us. Our son and daughter-in-law, pregnant with their first child, came; My husband’s sister, her husband and their teenaged daughter all came. We also had close friends visiting an elderly father in Florida. They joined us for part of the time as well. In spite of the ongoing grief felt by everyone we drew close to each other, like campers around a fire. That was the best we could have done in December of 2002. As I reflect back on our flight to Key West, my thoughts turn to Melissa and her love of the sun. I think she would have loved that we spent our first Christmas without her in a place where it was warm and sunny during the daytime; and, where we gathered with many others on the pier at the end of the day to feel a sense of wonder as our favorite star slid into the ocean bidding us good-night. The powerful desire that John and I had initially felt, to disappear during the holidays, gradually began to diminish over the years. Emotionally this was a much needed relief. However, during this phase the primary satisfaction was to be with our families and to accept quiet invitations from friends. It was a few more years before we rallied motivation to reciprocate and to resurrect our old traditions. Four years after Melissa died I made my first weak attempt to have a Christmas tree. I confiscated a small artificial, pre-decorated tree that my mother had thrown out. I’m not even sure why I had salvaged it. After removing it from a plastic bag, I straightened out its tiny wire branches and planted it on a serving cart in the dining room. The thing stood about twenty-four inches high. It was hardly the freshly cut, full-sized tree that I usually set up in the most visible corner of the living room. But the effort was more than I had managed the year before. At the time I thought that I was doing pretty well by acknowledging the holidays at all. One evening our son, Brandon, and his family came over for dinner. As we finished our meal, he looked at the tree and then at me and smiled. My interpretation— nothing was said—was that he found the tree to be a bit humorous, verging on pathetic. I felt a little sheepish, but had no intention of removing it. The next year he asked me, “Are you going to put up a tree this year?” Obviously last year’s attempt hadn’t counted. Immediately I thought, ‘Why bother?!’ Then I felt his question as a gentle nudge. I began to think, ‘Why not?’ It wasn’t long before John and I went out, bought a full-sized tree and put it up in the living room. The tree was far from perfect. It was a little short and had two main branches at the top creating a fork. I camouflaged its flaw as best as I could with ribbon and the glittery star that Brandon had made in preschool. By December of the sixth year I didn’t wait for any prompting. We went out to the Christmas tree lot, bought a tree with a straighter shape and together we set it up. I took more pride in this one. After winding the tiny colored lights around and around---not my favorite decorating task---and, silently cursing the ones that remained dark, I began to feel more creative. I started having fun as I hung ornaments and draped wide strips of gold ribbon which glittered in the lights. I took my time. I breathed in the aroma of pine sap. Soon the tree glowed in a variety of colors and reflected light. As my vision bounced from one glistening ornament to another, some purple, aqua, and even lime green, I felt pleasure. My tree’s look was not perfectly designed or expensively decorated. It certainly didn’t look like something from a page in Martha Stewart Living magazine. What mattered was that I had enjoyed myself, using whatever creativity my limited talents allowed. That was my reward. I have learned that grief is soothed by doing simple, engaging things. The mind calms itself and focuses. The heart beats at a nice regular rhythm. The body moves comfortably as a whole. Trimming my tree brought temporary peace to my spirit. It also helped stir pleasure into the month when I am more vulnerable to my grief; like adding cream and sugar to a bitter cup of coffee. After ten years, I can say that I am glad that John and I didn’t succumb to our urge to leave town each December. We have remained every Christmas after the first one. This was because we had our son, his family and other loving people, for whom to stay home. It has meant that we needed to face, rather than avoid, the most savage dates of the year, that we have had to tolerate being targets of our own miserable memories, and that we needed to accept ourselves smiling and laughing when it seemed as though we shouldn’t be. I learned that on some days I would still feel frozen inside as though an icy finger were pointing at me. At those times I believed that I would never melt. Another day, the sun would appear, creating a dynamic flow to my life again, reminding me that everything changes.
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Grief Strategies
For the New Year----Or For Anytime By Brad Stetson www.bradstetson.com The old saying is true: “If there is an elephant in the room, introduce him.” No good purpose is served by denial, yet we are very good at it. And when it comes to facing the pain of our grief with both eyes open, we often turn away instead. But when we have a psychological elephant in the room of our mind, we should acknowledge him, and plan a way to shrink him down to a manageable size then get him on his way. If we’ve had a loss recently, the new year provides a good opportunity for us to be honest about the pain of our grief, and resolve in the months to come to be proactive and do the necessary griefwork to begin addressing the elephant in the room.
#1. Write yourself a comforting and encouraging letter.
Imagine you had a friend who you cared deeply for, and imagine that friend had just experienced the death of someone they love very much. You would want to help them, you’d want to comfort then and encourage them. Well, now substitute yourself for that friend. You are worthy of being comforted and encouraged too, so write yourself a letter saying to yourself the same sorts of things you would say to a good friend. Then, read the letter aloud to yourself once or twice, put it away for a few days or a week, then read it again. Do this for a few months, then write yourself a second letter, and so on. This is an act of self-compassion, treating yourself as gently as you would treat someone else. Avoid thinking that you are so ‘strong’ or ‘solid’ that you don’t need help and tender compassion. That is a misunderstanding of strength and personal fortitude. Feeling intense sorrow and bereavement is not a sign of weakness, to the contrary, it is a sign of deep humanity and personal capacity to love.
#2. Buy a big calendar, and use it.
One of the main problems bereaved people face is the feeling that one day drags into the next, always the same. Grieving people also sometimes get pressured by other well-meaning people into doing activities they really don’t want to do. An ‘appointment calendar’ can solve both of those problems. Large calendars, like a desk calendar, give you room to write. So as the new year begins, grab your pen, sit down with the calendar, and start filling your days with appointments. Appointments with whom? Well, most importantly, with yourself. Without isolating yourself or taking yourself out of social circulation, you can pen in some ‘self-time’ and thereby reserve a lot of valuable quiet time. Now this quiet time does not have to be momentous. Just by reserving time for yourself, you will give yourself time to breathe and reflect as the new year, with all of its demands and changes, unfolds. Appointments like “movie with me,” or “reading with me,” “journaling with me” or “recreation with me” make it possible for you to always be able to tell others, when asked to go somewhere or do something, “Let me check my calendar, I may have an appointment.” This way you can say “No” in a socially graceful way, and if you want to accept someone’s invitation, you can always break an appointment with yourself, no one will be upset about that.
#3. Move your body, move your mind.
As you slowly adjust to your life without the physical presence of your loved one who died, it’s vital you get outside and move your body. Notice, I didn’t say “exercise,” since for some people that may sound daunting (What do I wear? What gym do I join? What are the elements of my workout?). No need to make it a big
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undertaking, you’re not training for the Olympics. So pick short, achieve-able goals, like a very short hike, a walk around the block, a bike ride to the park, etc. Keep these jaunts short, as this will give you a sense of accomplishment, and you will derive the physical and psychological benefits of having enlisted your body in your ongoing encounter with grief. This is a great habit to form in the new year.
#4. Realize that you do not need to “understand” your grief, or fit your loss into your religious or philosophical worldview right now.
When I coached Little League, I established the One Minute Rule. It was this: If I, or any player, gets hit by a batted or thrown baseball, whatever the person hit by the ball says for the first minute after being hit, is OK. Screaming and accusations were common after being hit by the baseball, but everyone knew that you got a free pass for a minute. And they knew that after a minute the hit person had to be ready to move on. Well, bereaved people get a lot longer than a minute, or a month, or a year, to integrate their experience into the rest of their outlook on life. So don’t feel any anxiety about fully grasping what has happened to you. Time will help clear your mind, and you will eventually be able to cognitively address your loss, the pain it has brought you, and the changes in your life that have ensued.
#5. Decide that in the new year, you will, in some new way, begin to focus a bit more on others, as a part of your loved one’s legacy.
This is a valuable change you can make in your life. We all need to get out of our skin for a while, we need to get out of ourselves and just focus on other people, and their problems. Sometimes this helps us gain a fresh perspective on our own life. So plan on doing that this new year, and as you do it, you will no doubt talk with new people, and when the opportunity presents itself tell them about your loved one who has died. You don’t have to tell your loved one’s life story or anything like that, just mention them in passing, or say “My wife used to like to do this (activity).” You may feel a bit more comfortable talking about your loved one with people who didn’t know him or her, and it is very valuable to begin to talk out loud—in the past tense---about your loved one. It may be shocking for you to hear yourself speak out loud in the past tense about someone so close to you, but it will help you integrate their death into your life. Where do you go to be around other people? Start with local civic groups, like the Boys and Girls Club, the Historical Society, the Kiwanis or Elks, the Library, Big Brothers and Sisters, a Habitat for Humanity project or a Rescue Mission.
#6. Listen to the Music.
A recent study I saw asserted that sad people who listen to their favorite music that matches their mood, report feeling better. Music is therapeutic and soothing. Throughout human religious and cultural history, music has been central to the expression of human values and sentiments. Sit down with a pen and paper, and make a short list of some songs of different types that you have always liked. Then go to youtube.com and search for them and listen to them, or go to
the library and listen to them, or order them online (if you are not accustomed to doing that on a computer, ask a friend to do it for you). Just get the music playing so you can listen to it. And as you do, let your mind take you where it will--daydream---and after a while I’ll bet you’ll feel relaxed and even renewed. When I was a teenager I spent four hours every Saturday morning, from 8:30 a. m. to 12:30 p. m., helping Mr. Leffingwell clean his expansive yard. There were what seemed like hundreds of plants and bushes, in addition to several lawns he wanted pristine. It was a big undertaking, as he was a very particular man. I remember that his wife died one year. He took one Saturday off from yardwork, and he was right back at it the next week---and I was with him. The first Saturday back, he opened up the sliding door to his backyard where we were working, and he turned up his stereo. He was playing a record by John Denver, and on it was the tribute ballad Annie’s Song. When that song came on, he stopped trimming bushes, and just stood there, looking at his pool, and staring around the green yard. As John Denver sang “You fill up my senses, like a night in the forest….” Mr. Leffingwell stood still. When the song was over, he went back to work, and I remember he worked hard, with vigor, until I left at 12:30 p. m. That soulful song seemed like a tonic to him, it seemed to soothe his aching heart. Find the songs that are meaningful to you, and let them speak to you.
#7. Wishing you well.
As the new year begins, write down what your loved one would want for you in the new year. Trouble imagining what that might be? It’s probably the same as what you would wish for your loved one, had you been the one that died. So sit down at the computer, or put pen to paper, and make a list of five or seven or ten states of mind or attitudes or commodities that your loved one would want for you to attain as you move forward without them physically with you. For example, my mother would want me to look toward the future, and not be paralyzed by mourning. Or, my father would want me to be optimistic about what will happen to me this year, or my sister would want me to buy those expensive boots we used to talk about. And then, armed with your list, choose one of those dispositions or possessions and pursue it. Look back at your list after a few months, and check off the outlook or object you now have. Deliberately choose to achieve something your loved one would want you to have in this new year. By doing so, you will honor their memory. So often, we think of grief or bereavement as something that happens to us, instead of something we do. This is unfortunate, since passivity and inaction will not help us to engage the new reality of loss in our lives. This is not to say that grief is a “problem” we can solve, or a “condition” we can hurry up and make go away, but it is to say that we can be active participants and even helpful agents in our own emotional well-being. By deliberately and purposefully facing our sorrow, and calmly, carefully thinking about what we can do to help integrate our sorrow into our larger life, we can contribute to forging our new identity. And this is a powerful choice to make as a new year and our new lives dawn.
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In Praise… “Under the guidance of Dr. John D. Morgan, Series Editor [Emeritus] of the Death, Value and Meaning Series, we have come to appreciate the Baywood ‘logo’ when it comes to researched and carefully crafted materials on this subject. Stetson has brought another fine contribution to this Series and to all of us as he captures the heart and spirit of many forgotten people. . . parents whose children have been murdered.” The Rev. Richard B. Gilbert, BCC, CT, PhD Resources Hotline, Volume 6, Number 4 “Wake up, America! Doesn’t half-a-million murders in America in the last 20 years shake you to reality? The millions of survivors of homicide want you to know about the excruciating pain caused to us by losing a loved one to murder. Not for pity, but to help you understand our grief and why we fight to put a stop to this insanity. Living Victims, Stolen Lives should be carefully read and pondered by anyone who comes in contact with parents of murdered children, including police officers, district attorneys, criminal defense lawyers, journalists—and murderers in prison!” Elsie Purnell, Chapter Leader Parents of Murdered Children, California “Judea-Christian morality has always maintained that human life is sacred. Brad Stetson’s book underscores this truth by showing us the pain caused by the willful taking of any innocent human life. Readers of this well-written volume will gain a renewed appreciation for the sanctity of human life.” Alvin J. Schmidt, PhD, Emeritus Professor of Sociology Illinois College, Jacksonville, Illinois
About the Author… Brad Stetson holds a Ph.D. in social ethics from the University of Southern California. He is a lecturer and veteran writer of books and articles, including Tender Fingerprints: A True Story of Loss and Resolution (Zondervan, 1999) and editorials for The Los Angeles Times, The Orange County Register, and Christianity Today. His diverse interests have led him to investigate some of the most urgent social and personal concerns of the day. Dr. Stetson is director of the David Institute, a social research group, and an associate professor of political science at Azusa Pacific University, California.
“Within this volume, Brad Stetson sensitively reminds us of the horrible unfairness of murder, and the profound toll it exacts on those it leaves behind. lt is fascinating and moving reading.” Joseph G. Conti, PhD, Lecturer in Religious Studies California State University, Long Beach
About the Book… Living Victims, Stolen Lives: Parents of Murdered Children Speak to America is a gripping and instructive sketch of the intense psychic pain, anger, and frustration experienced by parents of murdered children. Drawing on intimate interviews with parents enduring
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