Tuesday, October 18, 2005

I went to sleep last night with the thought of my dear friend Dawn on my mind.  Her best friend Michael is experiencing a deep pain right now -- his mother died last night.  It's terribly hard when a close friend is hurting so badly.  It's hard to try and offer comfort because they may be experiencing something that you've never been through. My best thoughts are that she should just be near him; she could find someone else to take care of her family for a couple of days and just be with him.  I remember times when my friends were just there -- they didn't have to say or do anything.  Just having them there was what counted. What has helped you through times of great sadness and loss?  I try to drop everything else in my life and just offer my presence.  I don't talk much or try to take up time: I'm there just in case.  My dear husband did that for me when my father died.  He was just close.  He ran errands.  He reminded me to eat and to bathe.  He stood close, but didn't say much and that was okay.  He couldn't understand what I was feeling, but his presence assured me that he was hurting because I was hurting.     8:59:22 AM    whaddya think? []

There are some kinds of sadness that never go away. One is the deep sorrow you feel when you lose a parent.  It is renewed every time you celebrate a victory, when you have a question you need answered, or when you have a problem to solve.  My dad's been gone near 14 years now, and the sadness, though not present every day, lingers and tugs at my heart on a morning when I'm deep in thought. Another is the sorrow you feel when you lose a peer.  It is accompanied by a sense of guilt when you celebrate another birthday or pass a milestone in life.  Knowing that you are enjoying the things they will never experience, and that your friend's family will never celebrate with them only brings the sadness closer to the surface.  Suzanne's been gone almost 11 years to date, and I still feel a stirring in my heart on crisp fall mornings, or when I hear a song I listened to with her. The sadness you feel when you lose a mentor is deep.  No matter the distance between you when your teacher or leader dies, your memories rush to the present and you carry their words and lessons in front of you like a banner.  This morning I awoke to the alarm playing "Rocky Mountain High" by John Denver and I was transported back to a campfire in the rocky mountains when I sat singing the same song with my youth pastor Paul.  I remember the soft orange glow on my friends' faces and the beautiful harmony his wife Nancy added to the music.  The sadness I dredged up is sharp, and riddled with questions about his death -- a complete disbelief still hovers around his suicide. There are some sadnesses I have yet to experience.  I've yet to lose my mother or my sibling; I've never lost a spouse.  The worst sadness must come from losing a child: it would be a pain that is sharper than anything.  I think about the parents who have lost their children and the incredible courage with which they drag themselves out of bed each morning.  I can't help but to think of that image on the front of Newsweek after the Oklahoma City bombing.  It was a fireman carrying out the broken body of a little girl named Braylie.  My daughter was the same age as Braylie, and I still cling to my 11 year old when I think of that day. Sadness is like your shadow: you always have it, but you can forget it is there unless it catches your eye.  Sometimes, when the sun is behind you, it's impossible to forget about your shadow; it looms monstrously in front of you and you can't escape it or ignore it. 7:37:55 AM    whaddya think? []