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| Courtesy of CNN.com |
Holding a hand. Giving a hug. Opening your heart.
We must not be afraid to offer comfort and empathy.
I know it's hard to step outself of yourself and reach out to others in pain. To empathize requires introspection which is not a very popular exercise these days. Introspection requires you to stop thinking about yourself and imagine what another person is feeling in a situation you would not want to happen to you or anyone else.
I know it is only a few days until Christmas, a time when Christians traditionally celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and people would prefer to surround themselves in the comfort of a commercial Christmas, a Christmas of unending presents and idyllic settings full of twinkling lights, freshly baked cookies and smiles and holiday joy.
But there is also another Christmas, equally as powerful: a Christmas belonging to those newly bereaved, a Christmas belonging to those whose child has died.
Please pause this Christmas and think of these people who are desperate in their sorrow. No matter what the reason, a shooting, a disease, an accident or a medical condition, these parents should not be ignored because they may make us feel uncomfortable.
To truly be filled with the spirit of Christmas, we must give of ourselves. Though it truly is every parent's nightmare, please do not look away from those who are grieving the loss of a child. Besides the deep pain they are experiencing, there is also an outrage that they are feeling; an outrage that they will never know what the child might have become.
They need our help. They need to know they are not alone.
Please read the following Washington Post story written by a mother who writes of her raw feelings following the death of her child. May it inspire all of us to be courageous in the face of grief:
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| Courtesy of CBS News |
The death of a child: A parent’s worst nightmare
By Ann Hood, Published: The Washington Post, December 21
Ann Hood is a novelist and short-story writer living in Providence, R.I.
We are
stunned. We are outraged. As a nation, we are
questioning laws on gun control, questioning how such a
thing can happen. These are all appropriate responses to the tragedy in Newtown,
Conn.
But there is a repercussion to all this that will continue long after laws
are changed and life, unbelievably, gets back to normal: the grief of the
parents of the
20 children killed. How many times have I heard that this
is a parent’s worst nightmare? As someone who has lived the nightmare of losing
a child, I know that the enormous hole left behind remains forever.
My daughter, Grace, was not killed by a gun. She
died suddenly at age 5 from a virulent form of strep. As I
stood stunned in a church at her memorial, one of the hardest things I heard
someone say was, “I’m going to go home and hug my child a little tighter.” Well,
good for you, I thought. I’m going to go home and scream.
What can be said in light of such grief? What can you do? The problem is that
no one can give the parents what they want most: their child. Long after the
memorials fade and the casseroles stop coming, that child is still dead, and
those parents are still grieving.
I offer here what I have learned about grief in the 10 years since my Gracie
died:
I learned that platitudes don’t work. Time doesn’t heal. She is not in a
better place. God does give us more than we can bear sometimes. I have learned
that there is more power in a good strong hug than in a thousand meaningful
words. I have learned that even in the face of loss, clothes still get dirty and
bills still need to get paid. Friends who laundered our socks and answered our
e-mails, who mowed our lawn and put gas in our cars, helped us — a lot. The
friend who came one afternoon and went through Grace’s backpack, carefully
storing her kindergarten workbook and papers, hanging her art on the
refrigerator and her raincoat on its hook in the mudroom, had more courage than
the ones who told me to call anytime.
Some friends sat with me day after day, week after week and, yes, month after
month, and let me talk while they listened. I told the story of Grace’s last day
over and over, as if by telling it I could make sense of what had happened to
her, to us. But there is no sense to be made of such tragedy, and when I
realized that, they let me wail and bang my fists and curse.
As time passes, people return to their ordinary lives, while grieving parents
no longer have ordinary lives. They are redefining themselves, and they are at a
loss at how to move forward. There is a woman who still sends me a card on
Grace’s birthday and every Mother’s Day, who sent cards weekly for more than a
year, a lifeline to a grieving mother. The people who even now, a decade later,
still say Grace’s name, still comment on her quirky style and artistic talents
and love of the Beatles, continue to help me through my days, simply by
remembering her.
How easy it is to look away from grief, as if it might be contagious, or too
frightening to face. But the Newtown parents have a difficult, lifelong journey
through grief ahead of them. Somehow, the seasons will change, the anniversaries
will stack up one after the other. They will, unbelievably, smile again. They
will make dinner and change jobs and buy clothes and celebrate and travel. They
will go on. But there will always, always, be this grief, softened and dulled
but present every minute of every day.
Do not forget that. Look them in the eye. Take them in your arms, and do not
let them go.
