Right after Brian died, I signed up to be part of a 6-week course by David Kessler that specifically dealt with losing a spouse. There was a charge for it, but it met for an hour twice a week, which because I work with my personal therapist once a week, I know the cost for good counseling time. David Kessler is a well-respected psychologist who co-authored the book “Finding Meaning” with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross (author of the famous book “Five Stages of Grief.”) I still am part of a group that he runs which meets several times weekly. Today I received this email in wake of the school shooting in Texas. I thought it was well worth sharing, as I know that all of us are working through collective grief over this tragic and senseless event:
Collectively, our hearts are broken. We turn on the news to see grief everywhere. War. Recovering from a pandemic. Injustice. And now more shootings. Collective grief is powerful but it’s not new. We grieve together as a society when tragedy strikes, or natural disasters hit, when someone who made an impact on our lives dies, and when innocent lives are taken as they were this week.
Ask anyone over 55 where they were when John F. Kennedy or Martin Luther King died. So many of us can’t see a clear blue September morning without thinking of 9/11 and imagining the smoke of the towers.
In times like these, we grieve for the victims and for their families. We also grieve for the way we wish things were. We want to live in a world where people can safely go to the grocery store, send their children to school, and feel safe in our communities. The heaviness in the news can often compound our own feelings of grief for the personal losses that we are dealing with. Those of us who have experienced grief know its long shadow.
People ask us how we can support each other as we grieve collectively. I would like to share these tips and I hope that you will find them helpful.
Express your grief and listen to those around you as they express theirs.
Remember, we all grieve differently. Not everyone experiences collective grief with the same intensity.
Engage with others, even if only online. The antidote to isolation is community.
Think local. The communities that are affected directly have resources nearby in the short term. What can you do in your home, neighborhood, and town?
Think small. Sometimes a hug can mean everything at times like these. Bake cookies. Pick flowers. Say hello to your neighbors. Call a friend.
Self-care. How are you taking care of yourself?
Take media breaks. The news can be overwhelming. Get outside. Move your body. Take a deep breath.
Finding meaning can take the form of taking an action to prevent tragedies in the future.
When I was a little girl, my grandfather used to do all sorts of things my brothers and I thought were funny. Not the “funny ha, ha” type, but rather the “funny strange,” variety (or at least they were to young children.) We never really knew why he did them, and we just wrote them off to “strange things old people do.”
One of those strange things involved his beloved cup of coffee. A staunch German with the tenacity of a WWI fighter pilot and the grit of a farmer during the Great Depression, (both part of his history), he knew how to enjoy the simple things in life; things like a piping hot cup of coffee, brewed in a percolator on the gas stove. After my grandmother had set the China cup and saucer down in front of him, my grandfather would add his traditional splash of cream and two lumps of sugar, stir it up well, and then, like clockwork, pour some of it from the cup into the saucer. A few minutes later this would be followed by more than just a little slurping as he proceeded to slowly savor the entire cup of coffee, saucer-full by saucer-full. “Weird,” we thought. “It must be too hot for him. Why else would he drink it like that? Why doesn’t he just wait for it to cool down in his cup?” And, yes, looking back, maybe it was because it would cool faster, little by little in the saucer rather that all of it in the cup. Or maybe, just maybe, he knew something about life that we didn’t. Something that “old people” are much better at seeing than their younger counterparts: something past the running around all day completing this, starting that, trying to please this person or that one, meeting deadlines . . . never slowing down enough to enjoy the little things in life, the blessings — the things only seen when one takes the time to mindfully sip coffee from a saucer, savoring each drop.
During the past year as I’ve navigated the grief of my husband’s death, I have come to realize just how precious all of those little, “drinking from the saucer of life” moments are: the taking life in slow, small sips rather than fast, large gulps; the slowing down to really see all of the way my cup of blessing has overflowed into my saucer. I’ve made it my new life mission to do a better job of noticing more of these little things in life — because in losing my husband, I’ve seen just how important they really are. I’ve come to realize that it’s those little things that will eventually help move me forward and heal. Little things, like being thankful for the gift of falling asleep each night in my warm, cozy bed, wrapped snuggly in the safety and security of my home; the laughter of my grandchildren when we are together; the car I drive; the food security that is mine; my health; my faith; my family; my friends; breathing, walking, thinking. . . the list goes on and on. And the biggest blessing of all?– I am still here. I have life to live and a difference to make in the world. Perhaps that difference is just a small thing that no one but me will notice. But that is OK, because that is exactly what “drinking from the saucer of life” is all about: taking time to thank God for all of our blessings and to truly enjoy this one precious life we are given, while, at the same time, giving back to others from the abundance we have been blessed with.
Have you sipped slowly from the saucer of life lately, or do you swallow life in big gulps, not taking time to savor the sweetness of it? We would all do well to take a page from my grandfather’s book and drink from our saucers . . . I am willing to bet that you, like me, will find that your cup has, indeed, overflowed, and your saucer is full. And so, my friends, are our lives.
You said you'd stay forever
and that you'd never leave.
Then death crept in and stole you,
and left me behind to grieve.
But death does not play favorites,
that's something we always knew.
So here I am now, by myself,
living my life without you.
If I could have just one wish
I know what that would be:
That God would send you back to Earth
to spend more time with me.
Julieanne Gentz, May 2022
If I have learned anything in the past year of my walk with grief after my husband’s death, (and trust me, I’ve learned a LOT), it is this: If there is any “normal” in the world, it is that the journey of grief is a difficult and very personal one. Grief can take you to your absolute lowest point . . . over and over again. Sometimes you will literally have to claw your way back up, only to be sent back down again some other day. It’s like climbing to the top of a mountain one day, and when you wake up in the morning you find that you have somehow ended up back where you started — at the bottom. What counts is that you keep getting back up, that you do it again. Or as Yoda says; “Do or do not. There is no try.”
Each time you do this, it’s a lot like exercising. When you keep working out over and over, you get a little stronger each time. And, just like you do at the gym, where you have a set of exercises tailored specifically for our personal needs, that’s what dealing with grief is like. Our “grief exercises” and the way we deal with them, is never the same as that of others. We all a have different “muscles” that we need to work on, to strengthen. It’s important to realize from the beginning that sometimes we need to drastically change our routine to make these exercises work for us. We may have to start from ground zero all over again — sometimes more than once. And, unfortunately, results aren’t achieved overnight. It takes time, diligence, and a desire to make things better, knowing all the while that it may be the most difficult thing we have had to accomplish in our entire life so far. But, we do it anyway. And through it all we need to remember the wise words of Piglet to Pooh:
“If there is ever a tomorrow when we’re not together, there is something you must always remember; You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But, the most important thing is, even when we’re apart, I’ll always be with you.”
A.A. Milne, “Pooh’s Grand Adventure: The Search for Christopher Robin” http://www.imdb.com. 1997
Journey of the Heart
Take my hand and walk with me,
Break grief's chains and set me free.
Days are bleak and nights are long--
Life's so confusing since you've been gone.
Give me wings and let me fly.
Hold me close if I should cry.
Help me find strength to carry on.
Life's so surreal since you've been gone.
Free my spirit and mend my heart --
I need your love for this new start.
Fill my loneliness. Heal my soul.
Now that you've gone, can I ever feel whole?
Where's the reason? Where's the rhyme?
Why didn't life give us more time?
I turn to face the brilliant dawn;
Still, life's so empty since you've been gone.
Julieanne Gentz, April 2022
Sometimes it’s better now knowing things . . . Like how it feels to be alone, or what it’s like to feel your heart is broken . . . or how grief can tear you up inside when you lose someone you love dearly. I know this, and so do you, because you are here, on a sight about grief, reading this post. Unfortunately, all of us here “know too much.”
Death changes everything. It immediately alters how we see the world and how we react to certain things. Before we became so familiar with death and grief, most of us probably shrugged off a lot of things thinking they were “just” happening to someone else and not to us. We chose not to think about our vulnerability. In her book, Resilient Grieving After a Loss That Changes Everything, Lucy Hone says: “Death doesn’t discriminate. Death is everywhere and happens to us all; all those we love will die or have died. It is both certain and, at times, horrifically random.” (Hone, p. 59) Last night, at 10:00 pm on my way home from an event just 36 miles away, in the dark and the light rain, I was reminded first hand of the “horrific randomness of death.” What I came upon brought all of that home to me in a very real and vivid way.
Late in the afternoon I had made the 30 minute trip to the University of Iowa to hear my granddaughter play in one of the final band performances of the school year. Since last October I have had the privilege of attending these concerts, and I love being able to do that. However, while enjoying the concert last night I felt so very alone. My late husband loved all things musical and his grandchildren. He would have been so proud to be sitting in that now empty chair next to me, enjoying the concert. But he wasn’t . . . because he is dead. And last night, for whatever reason, that fact hit me very hard. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having him gone. Accept it? Reluctantly, yes. Get used to it? No. Sitting there, listening to the beautiful music and being proud of my granddaughter, I thought, “How can things feel so good and yet so awful at the same time?” The band my granddaughter was in was the last to play. I noticed that parents of students who played earlier in the concert would leave after the person they’d come to see had performed. It was after 8:00 before my granddaughter was scheduled to take the stage, and the thought crossed my mind that if she were in one of those first groups I could have left early. Not that I didn’t like listening to each band perform, because I did, but simply because I was tired, and I could see this was going to be a late night by the time I got home. Turns out, it was a very good thing that I stayed. You might say it was a lifesaving decision.
I had only gotten about 5 miles out of town when I saw it…the flashing lights of an ambulance on the opposite side of the four lane highway, barreling towards the hospital. I remember thinking, that there was someone in that speeding ambulance who a few hours before may have “been just fine,” and now, suddenly they weren’t. They were in an ambulance, lights flashing, racing toward the emergency room. They had gone from OK to someone who, in a matter of hours or even minutes, might not even be alive anymore. When I was a principal of a small Catholic elementary school, students in one of our classes had a neat ritual. Any time an ambulance went by the school (which was quite often, as we were situated on a street that was the most direct route to the hospital), the teacher and students would all pause, make the sign of the cross, and say a silent prayer for the person in the ambulance. Somehow, it only seemed appropriate that now I would do the same. What I wasn’t prepared for was what lay ahead, waiting for me on my side of the highway.
As I came to the crest of a hill I could see it. . . an accident. And from the way the flashing colored lights surrounding it lit up the night sky, I surmised that it must be a big one. Suddenly, in my review mirror, far behind me but definitely closing in fast, I saw more flashing lights, so I pulled off to the side and waited for the patrol car to go flying by me. I slowed my speed as I approached the scene of the accident, not knowing if I would end up stopped in traffic, have to detour around it somehow, or be allowed to pass by. As it turned out, it was the latter. Slowly, guided by a fireperson in full regalia and with their brightly lit orange baton motioning to where I should go, I carefully made my way through the sea of flashing lights: Past firepeople sweeping debris from the highway; skirting alongside a long line of patrol cars, a fire truck, and scores of other emergency vehicles, until, finally, there it was, at the very end of this line up of tragedy. . . the car that had been a part of it all. Even in the dark it was easy to see that, given the smashed and twisted mass of steel that was now this vehicle, there was a very good chance that the person or persons who were inside of it were either in very critical condition, or perhaps did not survive.
I’m not sure it would be correct to say that something inside me snapped after seeing all of this, but I know it definitely would be on target to say that it unnerved me. I had just driven through a real-life example of “the horrific randomness” of death. And the fact was not lost on me that, had I been able to leave that concert 30 minutes earlier, I could have perhaps been a witness to this accident, or been the first person to come across it, or, even worse, been a part of it. And since losing my husband just a year ago had already given me ample reminders of how not in control of life we all are, this accident scene, the thought of what might had been if . . . suddenly made me want to be off this road. I wanted to be safely home. And most all, I wanted desperately the impossible: to know that when I got there, my husband would be there to comfort me and help me face this for what it was — part of life over which we have no control.
I needed to calm myself. Keep my mind on my driving and my eyes on the road. I needed to breathe out the sadness and feelings of helplessness and grief that seeing this accident site had allowed to resurface. So I did the only thing I could think of — I found my favorite songs, cranked up the volume on the radio, and sang my heart out. Sometimes my singing was punctuated by sobs or dramatized by tears, but I turned to music and found my way out of despair. By the time I reached my destination I was exhausted, but the lesson that we all too often forget had been reinforced: We are not promised tomorrow. All we have is now, this moment, this time in what is our life. No matter what our circumstances, whether we are grieving or blissfully going on our merry way, we need to remind ourselves to live in the moment and be thankful for each new day that we are given, because it is true, just as Bil Keane’s characters said in his comic strip, Family Circus: “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift — that’s why it’s called the present.”
“Make sure you have clean underwear, she always said, in case you get into an accident. I always figured that’d be the least of my worries, but now I’m older and I see there’s a lot you can’t control and clean underwear is one of those you can. For the most part.”
I am sure you know it all too well, just as I do: The Ache in your solar plexus that seems to seep from your heart and into your very core; the one that radiates and intensifies as it moves through your body, engulfing all of you; The Ache that wakes you up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, taking up residence in your soul, holding sleep hostage. It’s The Ache that reminds you that yes, the one you love is indeed gone, never to return.
It’s hard to describe The Ache. Where are the right words to convey the deep sense of longing, the hurt, the loneliness and sadness it is made of? How can any words ever quantify the void that now resides beside you in your bed — occupied now not by your loved one, but by The Ache? And the memories. Memories of your loved one’s face, their voice, their very essence that surrounds you like an aura every minute of every day and every night?
Ebbing and flowing throughout all of our life, The Ache leaves in its wake a profound lack of words to use in describing our unthinkable, yet very real loss. Yet, even though we don’t acknowledge it, the grief we experience because of all of this serves a purpose. It reminds us that our loved one is , indeed, still with us, only just in a different form. A form that is no longer mortal and fragile, but instead eternal and strong. And so, The Ache that starts in our chest and permeates every remote corner of our being, it too, reminds us of the love we still carry in our hearts for the one we’ve lost. It gently taps us on the shoulder and says, “Yes. They are real.” It cajoles us to be gentle with ourselves, compassionate even; to believe not just that our loved one truly was real, but that they are still real, only in a different way. That the one we lost will be with us as we falteringly move forward with baby steps and caution, bravely forging a new life — one without them one by our side, but still forever in our hearts.
It won’t be easy. It’s not what we wanted. And yes, it’s awful and unfair. But we can do it . . . And we will.
Going Forward
Life is for living, as are memories of those who have gone.
It’s our job to keep moving forward, to engage in life and go on.
That doesn’t mean those we’ve lost don’t matter. Neither does it mean we forget.
It just means we have things here to do. God has more plans for us yet.
So with courage and love as our power, we move forward through life on our own.
Just because we can’t see those we love doesn’t mean that we do this alone.
The love that we shared is still with us. We carry it deep in our heart.
And even though we can’t touch them or see them, we’re never that far apart.
Time in a Bottle 