A Quick Quote as I Zoom Out the Door...

My post is simple today. No fancy stuff or long winded contemplating. Just a quote from someone who knew how to make the best of a really, really bad situation. My son and I are reading the Diary of Anne Frank together. It is a required book for next year, and we are reading it together because I told him it is a book that shaped who I am as a person. I read it when I was his age. He had a choice to read this book or another one about aliens. I told him we should read this one. He groaned, I might as well be honest. But I know he will thank me when we're finished.

Here it is:

Whoever is happy will make others happy too.

-Anne Frank-

There is always going to be something in life that seems insurmountable. Always. It may be bills for one person and death for another. But what happens in life only defines us if we let it define us. And, even if we are hurting, we can still choose to be happy. I know that sounds confusing, but it is true.

I choose happy today. Are you with me?

Kelly

A Different Perspective on Grief...

The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves happy. The amount of work is the same.-Carolos Castaneda-

I've been thinking a little about perspective these days. Perspective and how it relates to how I'm living my life, relate to other people, and grieve the loss of dear sweet Stephen.

According to Dictionary.com, the word itself can be defined as:

the state of one's ideas, the facts known to one, etc., in having a meaningful interrelationship: i.e, "You have to live here a few years to see local conditions in perspective. "

OR

the faculty of seeing all the relevant data in a meaningful relationship: i.e. "Your data is admirably detailed but it lacks perspective. "

My decision to grieve with gratitude has been a lesson in perspective. Because, by each day, looking for the good things that remained and surrounded my life, I was able to see that my life was still worth something, even without my son.

I can't really take credit for the inspiration of doing it this way. I just knew I had to, that morning at the lake. Sometimes I think maybe God whispered in my ear, and other times, I feel it is Stephen, illuminating the good things in my life just when I need to see them.

I wasn't always this way. I could tell you some wonderful stories about my early management days where perspective did not play a big part in my management style. Looking at situations from the perspective of others, or from a different angle was often not considered, which made my job a little less pleasant, for me and for the people I managed. I should have worn a t-shirt with "My Way or the Highway" across the front.

I wasn't much better in my personal life. I considered an accurate perspective on a situation to be whatever I was thinking. Period. End of Story.

So, why do I bring this up this morning?

Because, even in my grief, I've noticed what shifting my perspective has done for my life. Not only in processing my grief, but in living a fuller life. Instead of looking at a situation from one angle, and making a one time judgment, I now find that I shift, and look at it from other angles. And what do I find? I find that the world is not black and white at all. It is that, and a hundred shades of grey. When I shift perspective, I find that I am no longer right as much as I thought I was in the past. But, that is okay too. Because you can't learn new tricks until you're ready to admit you don't have all the answers.

Looking at my grief from a different angle changed me and saved me. It allowed me not only to see what remained, but also to see that my fight against death was pointless. I've described it as swimming against the current of my life. Shifting my perspective has made me a more compassionate human being, even to some that I never thought I would be able to extend a compassionate hand.

Perspective. The very reason I get out of bed in the morning. Because from my perspective, I am choosing to focus on what remains. I am choosing gratitude in grief, and I am choosing happiness.

Now, look at your own life. What do you see? Glass half full or half empty? Great friends and family or bothersome people surrounding you? Beautiful home or mortgage payment? Insurmountable grief or memories of someone that changed you forever? A life that is over or a new beginning and a chance to become better than you were before?

Life hurts, and it is complicated and messy and hard to understand sometimes. Change is scary, but like the sunrise and sunset, it is inevitable. But maybe, if you shift, you will see that, from a different angle, it looks pretty good.

Now, if we could only convince those politicians.

Wishing you a perspective filled day...

Kelly

And How Many Children Do You Have?

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ~Elizabeth Stone

A few months back, I was in the company of some very nice people who were having light conversation. They were chatting about the general things in life; juggling busy schedules, children, carpool, the price of gas. I stood on the periphery of the group and the conversation, as I was still in what I call the "mute phase" of my grief. I went through this period where I had thousands of complex thoughts, but no voice. Each time I would open my mouth, I would simply sob and the tears would flow like a released dam.

In any case, when the conversation moved towards families and the dynamics within a household, a person looked to me and asked,

"And how many children do you have?"

Simple question right? But the answer is not simple. I was not prepared for it, I had not prepared a response. I had not thought about anyone ever asking the question. But, here I was, blindsided by it.I stammered and stuttered, and looked down at my feet, and on the wall behind this person's head. I started to say something, then stopped. I'm not entirely sure of the complete response I gave, but it was jumbled and somewhat incoherent, and I then quickly went to the bathroom and cried in one of the stalls.

It's the moments like that one that really kick you in the guts when you are grieving. You are lulled into this feeling of comfort, thinking you can actually be normal again, and then one lighthearted question in a superficial conversation can derail you.

I thought about this exchange for weeks after, and have now made peace with what I will say the next time I'm asked. My response will always include him. Because when he was alive, and someone would ask, I couldn't wait to tell you about him. Think about your own family. Imagine if someone asked you about them, and you felt you couldn't talk about one person, one piece of the magic that makes up your life.

I don't say it to make you uncomfortable, I say it because I can't bear to say anything different. Because he is my son and I am his momma. End of story. Location is simply a technicality in the conversation. And when you think about it, why shouldn't I? I don't hesitate to confirm I have parents even though they are in heaven. They, regardless of current place of residence are all part of me and shaped the best parts of who I am. How could I possibly not include them when I am asked about my family?

So, what would you say if you were me? If you've lost a child, or sibling, what have you said in the past, and how did it make you feel? How did others respond?

Looking forward to hearing some of your answers.

Have a terrific Monday,

Kelly

God's Special Reel of Film....

I wonder whether they have rum and Coke in Heaven? Maybe it's too mundane a pleasure, but I hope so -- as a sundowner. Except, of course, the sun never goes down there. Oh, man, this heaven is going to take some getting used to. -Desmond Tutu, London Sunday Telegraph-April 2001


Well, Friday has finally arrived. It has been an emotional week, with my trip to Raleigh, my prayers at water's edge, and some other stuff too. It's interesting to me when I look at life now, as compared to July 3, 2009. I see the value in it. I see the importance of living every minute of the days, instead of simply living through them. But, this week, I also found out that not everyone agrees with me.

Not everyone agrees with the way I'm grieving. Apparently, finding joy in the midst of pain makes some uncomfortable, and makes them question how "authentic" my grief truly is. At first, this feedback hurt me deeply, and took the wind out of my sails, causing a bit of a block this morning as I tried to begin this blog. But, I took some time to think on it, and I've decided it is what it is. This is my loss, and my grief, and this is how we roll in my house. I may write more about this later on, but for now, I will leave it at that.

In any case, the exchange got me to thinking about heaven again. When Stephen died, and I had this chat with The Big Guy, I realized a number of things about heaven. the biggest lesson? You don't have to die to experience pieces of it. God shows us goodness every single day, but it is up to us to decide to see it. The pieces of heaven he shows us here on earth are like the "Coming Attractions" you watch before the beginning of the feature film, building momentum and excitement.

So, building on that film theme, I would like to tell you a story. Here goes:

You see the light. You can't believe it, the end has come and you cross over to the other side. Heaven. It is everything you imagined and more, and the faces of the people who greet you are welcoming and filled with love. You see the gates ahead, and begin to walk with your loved ones towards the entrance. The worries from your earthly life begin to fade, and although you will miss those left behind, you are happy to be here.

But, as you approach the entrance gates, you see the ropes are up, guiding you into a theatre instead of through the gates. A beautiful angel sits next to you and passes you some popcorn, buttered of course, because cholesterol is not an issue in heaven. You are confused. It makes no sense. This is not the time for movies. This is the time to get in through gates and see the magnificence of God's heaven.

Sensing your discomfort, the angel touches your hand, and tells you not to worry. The movie is part of your welcome. Everyone has to watch it before entering, and each movie is individual to your life. God has made yours special just for you.

The lights dim, and the movie begins. Scenes of your life flash before you; hugs from your mother, the giggles of your childhood, the first kiss, holding your child in those first moments after birth. Favorite songs, and food, and people flash across the screen, and with each glimpse, you remember the emotion of the moments. You watch with tear filled eyes the moments of your life where you were brought to your knees in pain. The moments where life crushed you into the ground, then stepped on you a second time to make sure you could never be put back together quite the same way again. You think to yourself that God saw it all, and you marvel at the fact that He was with you on the entire journey.

But then the movie takes a turn, and begins to show you scenes of your life that are not familiar. Scenes with so much love and happiness. You look at your own face on the screen and you don't really recognize yourself. There are scenes that show you helping others, changing lives, living your purpose, and making a difference. You tug on the sleeve of the angel's robe, and say there must be some mistake. This is not your movie, it is someone else's.

And the angel responds, "No, this is your life. This is just God's special reel of film. This is how God envisioned it, not how you lived it."

So, you watch with wonder. And you see what life would have been if:

Instead of anger, you had decided to love, without condition or expectation.

Instead of judging, you had decided to be tolerant of everyone, no matter what the differences.

Instead of bitterness, you had decided to forgive.

Instead of fear, you decided to be fearless and trust that God really did have your back.

And because of those simple decisions, you lived more of your life, instead of living through it.

You watch quietly, amazed at how different things could have been with some simple choices.

The curtain closes and the lights come back on, and you look to the angel and ask, "Can I go back and try this over? I know I can do better."

The angel replies, "No, and God did not show you those scenes to make you fill with regret. He showed you so you could understand. Life is and always will be about the love. God showed you this, because he intends to show pieces of this to those you left behind on earth as well. In their dreams, and through their hurt, your life will teach them. And maybe, if they are not afraid and open their hearts to see the message through the pain, they can choose differently because of what you and He taught them. And when it is their time, maybe God's special reel for them will be a bit shorter."

Something for you to think about on this fantastic Friday.

What are you leaving on the cutting room floor for God to splice together for your special reel?

Wishing you nothing but a blockbuster hit of a life,

Kelly

Have a listen to this....

A Little Piece of Heaven on Earth...

Earth's crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God. And only he who sees takes off his shoes; the rest sit round it and pluck blackberries. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning-

I missed writing yesterday, but it was for a good reason. I was on the road, to meet some new people and reconnect with some others. It was a full circle kind of day.

I travelled yesterday, to talk with the staff of the Raleigh News and Observer about this bereaved parent's perception to headlines about my child. In addition, I hoped to have a conversation about the comments section at the end of each article in their online version of the paper, and how it allows anonymous posters to add hurtful comments that can be devastating for bereaved parents and families. If you've been reading my blog, you know how passionate I feel about changing the way we handle online feedback, so that somehow, the anonymous can be held accountable for their words. This is not only for Stephen. This is for every other person out there, who at some point will be brought to their knees by life. We all deserve a little tenderness when we hurt.

The meeting resulted from an email I sent to the managing editor titled, "The Ripple Effect." I was excited to do this, to speak with them candidly about how it felt to read some of the things that were written about Stephen. But, it wasn't what I expected. It was more. It was a good turnout for a lunchtime meeting, and I was met with a group of smiling faces who listened attentively as I explained my position. And then, from my words, a thoughtful conversation began. I learned that the derogatory and hurtful online comments bother them as well, especially when they spend time researching and understanding a story so they can report on it without bias. As I spoke, I could see the wheels turning, and I really felt that they were listening to my concerns. But most importantly, I could feel the weight of their own burden. It is not easy to be in their shoes, to have to report on the most difficult moments in life. They honestly try their very best to get it right.

Bottom line? I met a fantastic group of hard working people yesterday, who took time out of their day to listen to someone who wasn't at all times complimentary. They showed up and listened anyway, because they wanted to understand. I met a managing editor who is more caring and thoughtful than you might expect for someone in his position, who sees the back story, not only for every article that is within the pages of the Observer, but behind the eyes of his readers and staff. He cares.

They agreed in that meeting to get a group together to look at how they can better moderate the comments posted online. I look forward to blogging about their solution in the near future.

Following that meeting, I delivered a couple of books. One, to a very special lady who stood with me on the worst day of my life. A stranger when she arrived at Jordan Lake that morning, and a lifelong friend when she left. Another book to the Funeral Home director in Pittsboro, NC. It was important for me to deliver the books, because they are "one little things" for me within the pages of Gratitude in Grief. They are the people who showed me compassion and love, who hugged me tightly as I sobbed and felt like I may turn to dust in their arms. The Funeral director is one of the rare people I have met in my travels who is living his purpose.

And, as I drove away from the city, I stopped at Jordan Lake. I felt compelled to return to the spot where I stood in the early morning hours of July 5th. I cried, as I looked at the glistening water in that quiet cove, and I talked to Stephen. It was the first time I had returned to that place, and it seemed fitting that it was in the spring of the year, with life beginning to bloom again. It's beautiful there, and I know that may seem weird for me to say about the place where my son died. But it is. It is peaceful, and beautiful, and reverent.

And, as I walked back up the trail, I saw a blanket of Forget Me Nots growing on the side of the hill. The same flowers Stephen planted with me in our back flower bed two years before because they were one of my mother's favorites.

No Stephen, I will not forget you, and I hope that with each step I take, I continue to honor the magnificent human being you were. Much more than a headline.

So, what am I thankful for today? Each person I met yesterday, for they served as further confirmation that there is indeed more good in this world than bad. I am thankful for the managing editor and his staff and their commitment to make things better. I am thankful for the serene cove, and the fact that I choose to see its beauty rather than the event that happened here, forever changing my life.

And I am thankful for Stephen. I am thankful that the impact of his life is having a bigger ripple effect than any comments section ever could.

Thank you for this full circle kind of day. It has reminded me that we don't need to wait to see heaven. There are pieces of it right here on earth, in front of us, angels and all. We only have to look for it.

Wishing you a day focused on the good stuff,

Kelly

Wishing for Heaven...

Would you know my name...If I saw you in heaven? Would it be the same If I saw you in heaven….Beyond the door There's peace I'm sure. And I know there'll be no more... Tears in heaven. -Eric Clapton-

I like talking about heaven. Heaven is the place for me where all the hurt is forgotten. All the pain and suffering experienced here on earth is over and God has revealed all the mysteries of life and the unknown to you, whispering gently into your soul. At least, that is how I imagine it.

And I've imagined it a lot over the past eight months. I thought about it, analyzed it, read about it, researched it, figured out how I should conduct myself if I want to go there. My motherly instincts came into play, and I wondered if Stephen was okay, wanting God to let me check in on him in heaven, just for one more time. Just let me see him happy, even if it is only in my dreams. I will admit, I've watched episodes of the Ghost Whisperer, and wondered if Stephen's crossing over was something I needed to be concerned about. (I've since made peace with that thought.)

But for all the thinking I've done on heaven through all of this hurt, I only said I wanted to go there right now once. It was on the morning of July 5, 2009. I was having this quiet conversation with God, and was negotiating for the life of my son. Actually, negotiating is not a strong enough descriptor. I was begging. I was pleading with Him to take me instead of Stephen.

Well, I guess you know that did not work.

Since that morning, I have met some of the bravest people on earth. People, who like me, are members of this club we did not want a membership for, parents who have lost children. We connect quietly, and we talk about our children, our relationships, how people perceive us. We look in the tear filled eyes of another for some flicker of hope, some support. In their eyes, it is almost as if I can see their journey, and they can see mine. There is a part of us that is broken, and there is nothing that can fix it.

I can relate to these amazing people in so many ways. But there is one thing that I struggle with. I was having a conversation with a woman, discussing that the day was almost over, and she smiled and told me that was good, because we were one day closer to going to heaven to be with our children. I did not know what to say. I fumbled for words. She did not say it in a mournful way, she actually seemed like a very positive person. But it struck me.

Life was going on every day, but it was almost as if she had this countdown going, and was ticking off the days until...death.

Now, I understand. I do. I have wished and prayed to see Stephen. I have a completely different outlook on death now, I am no longer fearful of the passage between this world and the next. The magic that has surrounded me since his passing serves as further confirmation for me that there is so much we still do not understand about what happens after we die. Someday, I will be so happy to find out.

But right now, I am here to live. And live I will, even if it means living through tear filled eyes some days. Even if it means that I am living through the pain. Because as long as I am drawing in a breath, I am supposed to be here, for something. At least that is what I believe.

None of us knows when our expiration date is. I've checked the bottom of my foot and there is no "Best By" date listed there. Shouldn't we all make peace with the fact that if we are here, we are here for a reason? A purpose to fulfill? Lessons to learn? Life to live? Other children to parent? Perhaps the lessons that we have learned from the death of our child, or husband, or parent, or whomever are lessons we are meant to share with others. Perhaps our purpose in life is to be achieved by sharing the wisdom that came to us through hurt.

But we can't do that as long as we are simply counting down the days until heaven.

Our world has conditioned us to wish for things that we don't have. I have a great house, but I wish I had a bigger one. My car works fine, but look at that new model. My body works, but if I could nip, tuck and inject a few spots, then I might be happy.

We have been conditioned to not accept or learn to be happy in the here and now. Even in grief.

So, I am not going to wish for heaven. I hope and pray it comes someday for me, when it is my time. And I hope that Stephen is waiting, and smiling and telling me that I did all I needed to do with the gifts that God gave me. I hope he is proud that I did not let myself die right along with him, and that I, through tear filled eyes, continue to live a life of joy, gratitude and hope.

Wishing you a life filled with living,

Kelly

p.s. In some cases, making a remark like this can be a clue that someone may need some extra support with coping with the loss. If you, or someone you know is feeling hopeless and does not feel like life is worth living, look into finding someone who is a professional and can safely help you navigate through the tough times to happier days.

Heaven Week-#1: Faith and Grief..

Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground. -Dante Alighieri-



I've decided that this week is heaven week. Last week was a tough one for me, but I made it. I'm not sure why, it just was another point on the trail where the reality of all of this struck me. He did not come home for Spring break, and he is not getting ready to graduate. And I just broke open all over again as I thought about it. Because he was just so special, and it makes me so sad when I think about all the dreams of what he could have done in this world. And the tears flow freely as I write, and think about him. I need some sort of protective covering over my laptop to be honest.

But, I made it through. And a big reason I did was my faith and belief in God and all the mysteries of what happens after we die. So, as a way of expressing my gratitude for my faith, and what gets me through, I've decided to dedicate the week's blogs to the topic. I would love to hear your thoughts as well, so feel free to jump in with a comment if you have one.



We often talk about heaven like it is this fluffy cloud, cream cheese commercial, with God having a beautiful melodic voice like Morgan Freeman, but truly, we don't know. In the eight months since Stephen's death, I have explored every aspect of my faith, from what I believe about God to what I believe about heaven. And there is still much I will not understand until it is time for me to know. But I have faith.

I've read books, mainstream and controversial. I've explored religions, all sorts, from Buddhism to my own Catholicism, any every version of Christianity in between, searching for some.....definitive answer? Proof? An emailed confirmation number that Stephen arrived safely?

And do you know what I found? A confirmation of the power of faith. Because as each month has passed, God shows me that he is looking out for me, and wiping away the tears, and showing me the way through this. God is showing me with each word I type that I will be okay, more than okay, I will be a better person because of this hurt. With every version of organized religion I explored, I have found a little piece of the truth for me.



I don't know where heaven exists, or the guidelines for admission, or the dress code. I don't know what the lines are like, or if there is a waiting area, or if you need to pack a lunch. I don't know if there is purgatory like Sister Georgina mentioned in second grade, but I have to say, if there is, I've got some work to do. I don't know. But what I do know is this. I have faith it is all the good things I imagine, where all the wonderful people who I have lost are right now.



Faith has carried me through the difficult days of my grief. Now, I am not an expert, mine are not the words of any theologian. But maybe that is a good thing. Maybe it is good to keep this simple. It doesn't matter what your denomination. It doesn't matter if you have Sunday clothes to wear to church. All that matters is that you have something to believe in. All that matters is that you believe. Because without faith in something, what else do we have? When life changes with a phone call from the Sheriff, or with the passing of someone dear after fighting an illness for years, what else do you have? With everything stripped away, what's left?

Faith

Webster's defines it as:

1. allegiance to duty or a person : loyalty
2. fidelity to one's promises
3. belief and trust in and loyalty to God; belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion
4. firm belief in something for which there is no proof; complete trust. Something that is believed especially with strong conviction.



Take some time today to think about what you believe in, and how it is framing your life. I will leave you with an earlier post about my thoughts on how faith has helped me through.

http://gratitudeingrief.blogspot.com/2010/01/have-little-faith.html

Wishing you eyes of faith that see the magic and mystery,

Kelly

Measure Your Life in Love...

The measure of life, after all, is not it’s duration but it’s donation. -Corrie Ten Boom-

It is a glorious Saturday morning here in the Carolinas. It is as it should be for the first day of spring. The sun is shining, the daffodils are blooming, and I'm heading out to do some yard work. If you want to find peace and gratitude, spend a little time in your garden. I always find it shifts my perspective on life, and shows me how I am part of something much bigger than the story in my own head.

But before I go, I wanted to leave you with one of my favorite songs, from the musical Rent. How do you measure your life?

Off to play in the dirt,

Kelly

Walking a Mile in Marie Osmond's Heels

If you judge people, you have no time to love them. -Mother Teresa-

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you know that one of my new missions in life is to speak out when I feel our new online living steps over the line. I am not fighting with anyone. I am simply writing a blog, and pointing out that we all hurt from time to time, and if someone is hurting, we need to show kindness and compassion, and not judgment.

This morning, I read an article about Marie Osmond's recent decision to cancel this week's schedule of shows in Las Vegas for family time. The reason for the cancellation was listed as family time, as Marie and her family cope with the tragic loss of her son, Michael. For more information on the piece, you can read the Associated Press version by clicking here: http://www.kcsg.com/news/local/88508742.html

I have watched this mother grieve in front of the media since the announcement of her son's passing on February 26th. My own mourning heart has ached for hers, for what lies ahead for her on her journey, and for having to do it in front of a camera.

I read about the memorial, her return to work, and now her decision to take some time. These are all deeply personal decisions in her life, but because of her chosen profession in the entertainment industry, her decisions become press releases. And, much to my dismay, the comments sections for those online articles have been filled with judgment, and opinion, and hate for how she decides how to grieve.

I have some questions. Why is it okay to judge her? Why is it okay for online news organizations to allow hate speak in the comments sections below their articles? Why is it okay for someone sitting home in front of their laptop to say mean things about a mother who just lost her child? Why is it okay to say something bad about someone you don't even know? Who feels they have everything figured out enough that they can pass judgment on whether or not she is grieving appropriately? And if you are so sure that you are right in your assessment of her grieving style, why don't you sign your name to your comment at the end of the article, instead of hiding behind the word,

"Anonymous."

The backlash that she faced when she returned to work was overwhelming, and it seemed that everyone had an opinion. But truly, unless we walked a mile in Marie Osmond's heels, do we really know what provides her broken heart with comfort in this difficult time? And what person among us feels they have a right to pass their opinion on whether or not it is the right thing to do?

Now, you may ask yourself, why is this grieving mother so passionate about this? Why is she standing on her soapbox on this sunny Friday morning?

Because on July 6th, this is what I read in a comments section of an online article about Stephen:

"Geez, NC State really needs to look at the athletic requirements for their student athletes, because obviously this guy was not in very good shape if he couldn't even swim across the cove."

This was my son.

Did you cringe at you read it? I know I did. I am being blunt because it is time that we stood up for what is right as we live our lives online. I have friends on facebook that I haven't talked to for twenty years, but now because of the power of the Internet, I can sit in an airport and look at their vacation pictures on my Blackberry. I shop online, I register my son for sports online, I am grieving online. We are opening up our lives more and more, but where is the line? Where is the book of etiquette for living online?

There is no book, but we all know, deep down what's right. All you have to do is walk a mile in someone's shoes, and you'll know what to do.

The person who posted that about Stephen did not think before he/she pressed send. I wonder did they know that Stephen's mother would read it? I wonder if they realize I sat and cried quietly in front of my computer screen, crushed that the memory of my child was being tarnished by strangers who did not know he was my sun, my moon, my stars? I wonder would it have made a difference?

I reported each comment about my child, and continue to do so daily when I find someone else is being judged just so the anonymous can see their words on the screen. I may be fighting a losing battle, but I will continue. Because I've walked a mile, I've walked ten. And this world needs a little more tenderness, a little more love.

Today, I am thankful for Marie Osmond, and I send her love and peace as she continues to grieve in front of the world. May she find the solace and quiet to let her heart heal.

On this Friday, I ask you this? Will you join me? Let's all start holding the anonymous posters accountable for their words and report their posting to the web administrators so it can be removed. If enough of us do it, maybe we can make a difference.

Maybe we will be able to save another grieving mother from any additional pain.

Wishing all of us compassion filled days,

Kelly

I've written more about this here:

http://gratitudeingrief.blogspot.com/2010/01/standing-up-for-what-is-right.html

The Day the Music Died...Finding my Music Again..

Were it not for music, we might in these days say, the Beautiful is dead. ~Benjamin Disraeli

I recently received a note from a dear lady, a former music teacher who was kind enough to check in with me. Her last words were to say she hopes I'm still singing. It's funny, because I find myself many times throughout my day looking for comfort within music. Finding the right tunes, the right words to make you feel connected, to elicit memories about Stephen, to motivate me to keep moving, no matter how small the step. The songs speak the language of your heart, saying what you cannot convey in simple conversation.

But, I need to confess something. Although I write about music in a lot of my blog posts and book, for many months, I have not been able to sing. I used to be this girl who would, at some point everyday, sneak away and pick up my guitar and sing something. Every single day. And then, as Don McLean said, the music died.

When Stephen died, it was as if the music left my heart, and my vocal chords had been removed. I could and did listen to countless artists, looking for the right song. But I could only manage to listen, never sing along. And, sometimes, as I listened, I would want to sing, but nothing would come. It was at that point I realized that I could not sing, because my music comes from deep within my heart, and that heart was broken open. Stick a big "Out of Order" sign across my chest.

Each month, I dust off my guitars, and look at my music books. And I wonder when I will ever be able to pick them up again. Perhaps some day in the future, the music will return. I hope for that day, because when I sing, I feel more alive, and in many ways, it feels like praying.

Last week, my husband came into my office, grinning. I had my headphones on to help me focus as I was writing, and looked up in surprise. I guess I had been singing along with whatever song I was listening to on Pandora. He was excited to hear me sing again and noticed it, as our house has been quiet for so long now.

I can still only sing along with the music on the radio. I'm not ready to make my own. I walk by my guitar from time to time, but I can't pick it up. Yet. But knowing I am at least singing along gives me hope for tomorrow. Someday, the music will return to my heart, and I will pick up my guitar and begin to play, in my extra slow, mediocre, six chord way.

So, today, I give thanks for the people who continue to make music in my absence. There melodies tell a story that I cannot quite tell myself just yet. They are my voice, and my reminder that the music is still there. Because, one day, I will sing again.

Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!

-Oliver Wendell Holmes-

In the past eight and a half months, I have found some of the most beautiful songs that have given me hope for a better tomorrow.

Here's one:

Take some time today to let some music in,

Kelly

How to Capture the Luck of the Irish...

May you always walk in sunshine.May you never want for more. May Irish angels rest their wings right beside your door. -Irish Blessing-


Well, Top 'o the mornin to ya! I just finished the breakfast of champions. Green shamrock shaped pancakes, made special for a twelve year old who loves occasions as much as his mother.

My love for occasions, especially one like St. Patrick's Day came from my roots. Growing up in Newfoundland, Canada was and is one of the biggest blessings in my life. I not only respect my Irish roots, I can still feel the tug of those roots, keeping me grounded in beliefs no matter how far I travel from home.


I remember the parties my parents had on this day in March. House full, green outfits galore, "beverages" flowing freely, my parents knew how to laugh, dance, sing and live. They celebrated the day with such enthusiasm, you would think that the end of the rainbow was at our front door, and the pot of gold was ours for the keeping.


As a child, I watched my parents, surrounded by laughter, and friendship and music, and I thought they had it all. But, truthfully, they did not. They just knew the secret.

And that is what I want to write about today, the secret given to me by my parents, passed along from generation to generation. It is the secret of finding and capturing the luck of the Irish.
I know, if you are reading this, you may be grieving someone dear who has passed, or working your way through a hardship that has brought you to your knees. And, if that is the case, lucky is not exactly how you would describe your life. In fact, you probably feel like you picked the short straw. I know I have felt like that from time to time.

But the reality? The luck of the Irish is available to you right now, this very minute.

All you have to do is this:


1. Put on your green outfit, paying your respects to the traditions of the day.


2. Dance Irish jig to the music of your choice. Extra points granted for Newfoundland music.


3. Sing first verse of Oh Danny Boy, with Irish lilt in your voice.


4. Plan dinner menu that includes Bangers and mash, Guinness, and Irish soda bread. (Note: Guinness makes you a better dancer and singer-guaranteed)


5. Believe and start telling yourself that you are lucky. Look around your life and start noticing what is right versus what is wrong.


When bad things happen to good people, those good people can start to believe that they are unlucky. They can start to say to themselves, "If it was not for bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all." I know, because I've thought and said those very words myself.

But the reality? Bad things happen to good and bad people all the time. And the key to becoming and feeling lucky is finding the blessings in both the good and bad days.

As for my instructions above, I will fess up. Numbers one through four are not really necessary, but it did make me smile to think of you dancing the jig in your cute green outfit.

Take some time today to look at your life through leprechaun lenses. See that "luck" is all around you, even when the days seem dark. You just need to look for the good stuff.

I ain't speaking no blarney,

Kelly

p.s. I will leave you with the Muppets version of Oh Danny Boy. I am not sure what this says about me, but no matter how many times I see this, I still snort with laughter when Animal sings....

Each Name is a Stephen to Someone...

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. -Abraham Lincoln-

I guess I need to be honest. I've been two days trying to finish this blog post. I originally wrote it on my Blackberry with my two thumbs (that takes talent) at a hockey arena on Saturday evening. I felt sure and confident about what I wanted to say, and wanted to capture my thoughts as I waited for Brendan's game to start. But, the more time I've had with my thoughts, the more my words changed.

I hope this evolved version makes sense.

Our family was in Washington last weekend, for the last hockey tournament of the season. It was great hockey, but we also took some time on Saturday to see some of the sites of Washington, as Brendan and I are still learning about this new country of ours. Our time was limited, but we managed to see the White House, Lincoln Memorial, the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial, the World War II Memorial, the Korean War Memorial, and the Washington Monument. I was so impressed with all of it, and we have already discussed returning when we have more time to explore some more of this amazing city.

But, in a way, I am glad that my viewing was limited on Saturday, because seeing the separate memorials got me to thinking about remembrance of life. In particular, what makes a life memorable, why it is important to remember, and what happens when we don't. When you look at the guys who are remembered long after they are dead and gone, did you ever ask yourself why? What made them memorable?

As I stood at the base of Abe sitting in his big old chair pondering whatever you ponder if you are Abraham Lincoln, I could not help but think about why a monument of this magnitude would be built. Walking further down the mall, and looking at the memorials to the Vietnam veterans and World War II, I was again struck at the power of remembrance.

They were all created to remember lives devoted to service, and sacrifice to a country and its people. But they all evoked different emotions for me. Lincoln left me with a feeling of inspiration, even motivation, for what can be accomplished when a person sets their mind to a task, with humility and a focus on what is right. The World War II memorial was one of pride and celebration for those who had paid the ultimate price for victory. But the Vietnam War Veteran's Memorial was overwhelming. The very wall oozed with emotion, and the pain was palpable. It was raining, and as I looked at the drops drizzle down on the wall, I felt they could be tears from heaven. Still falling, from time to time, on this wall, to remind the visitors, of the loss. I read a little about the creation of this wall, and the designer. Check it out, http://thewall-usa.com/information.asp

For me, each one showed respect and reverence for those lost, but in very different ways. Each one evoked emotions that were at both ends of the spectrum. And it got me to thinking. How am I remembering my lost loved ones? How would I like to be remembered?

I know I am not concise in my record of this visit, my thoughts are a bit jumbled to be honest. I never expected to have such an emotional response. But, I'm glad I did.

As Brendan and I stood at the entry to the Vietnam War Veteran's memorial, we quietly talked for a few moments about what it represented. Close to the entrance to the monument, there is a bronze sculpture of three soldiers, standing much as they would in a field somewhere preparing for battle. The faces are haunting, and as you look closely at the detail, you feel they could start a conversation with you at any moment. Brendan and I looked at them for a long time. He asked thoughtful questions about the war, the reasons, and I am afraid my answers were not at all academic or enlightening.

But, when we spoke about what this and the other memorials meant, I told him the truth. Every name on this wall is a "Stephen" to someone. There is a mother, or a brother, or a dad, or a friend, who love these people, just like we love Stephen. Wars will come and go, and people will forget what they were fighting about, but the one thing that always remains is how we loved.

We walked quietly past the names, reverent and respectful. Brendan stopped and spoke to the National Park Service employees, asking questions that were well beyond his years. We paused, and looked at the pictures in Zip-loc bags, laid at the base of the wall, colored carefully with crayons by an elementary school class, to give thanks to soldiers they never knew.

And, even if it was only for an instant, we felt the pain of the wall. We felt the hurt and the loss. Since July 4th, we have so much more compassion.

I am humbled and a little ashamed to admit that prior to losing my own son, I probably would have walked through here, and reflected for only an instant on the loss. I would have been in awe at the construction of the monuments themselves, but would not have spent three days after thinking about what they represented.

But now, I am different. And that is a good thing.

I am a more compassionate human being, and for that, I am grateful.

Because, each name on that wall is a Stephen to someone.

Wishing you thoughtful, compassion filled days that make the trip worthwhile,

Kelly

A Monday Repeat...

The Constitution only guarantees the American people the right to pursue happiness. You have to catch it yourself. ~Benjamin Franklin

Happy Monday! I am back at it this morning, after a fantastic weekend in Washington for....you guessed it, hockey. It was the last tournament of the season, the hockey was great, and we even had some time to take in some of the city.

I am writing about that right now, as the monuments and memorials of Washington got me to thinking about the power of remembrance. More to come on that tomorrow. For now, I will give you an encore posting, one of my favorites...

http://gratitudeingrief.blogspot.com/2010/03/are-you-pecking-at-kick-plate-of-life.html

Hope you're having a great day,

Kelly

The Five Comforts of Child Grief: #5 Returning to Happiness...

The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance; the wise grows it under his feet. ~James Openheim

Well, the week is coming to a close, and I am finally ready to write about the final comfort for child grief. But, before I do, I feel I need to say that much like anything in life, grief can't be summed up in five easy points, or ten tips for success. Grief is complex, and there is no limit on unique ways to help your child grieve and work through loss. If you are working through your own situation, and you have not found your answers yet, keep searching. You will find what works for you. On with today's comfort:

Five Comforts for Child Grief: #5 Returning to Happiness

This is simple. I don't need to provide you with a long drawn out explanation for this one. When comforting your child, remember, you have to show them that it is okay to return to a place of happiness in life.

Often, when grieving the loss of someone who was so, so important, we wonder how we will ever be happy again. I still wonder that from time to time, on the dark days, when the sadness creeps in the room and grips onto my leg. I try to shake it off, and I can't seem to muster the strength. I must be honest. I know those days will come for me from time to time until I am done here on this earth. I choose happiness, but I also know a piece of my heart will grieve the loss of my child forever.

So, how do I show my child it is okay to return to happiness? Nike said it best, just do it. I put on my sneakers and jacket and I go and cheer him on at a hockey game. I put on my hat and mittens and go outside with him and make a snowman from the freshly fallen white stuff in the Carolinas. I dance in the kitchen. I sing. I tickle. We have belly laughs as we watch Rudy drag his butt across the living room carpet. We simply choose happiness.

It is difficult some days to do it, to choose to smile when I want to cry. But I have a responsibility. I have a job to do. And that job is to show my son that life is made up of cycles, the "recipe" includes both good and bad. And it is the combination of the two that makes our time here so magical, and delicious, and painful, and touching. It is the combination that makes life worth living. A storm pours rain from the heavens, but eventually, the clouds clear and the sun returns. The flowers bloom because of the rain. Night falls and the darkness may make us afraid, but the morning comes, always.

The way I see it, we not only have to teach our children that it is okay to return to happiness following loss. We have to show them that returning to happiness after sadness is part of life. It is not an option for us to stay sad forever. We will always miss Stephen, and long for him to still be with us, of course. But life is meant to be lived. And living can only be called living if you approach it with wild abandon and joy.

Imagine if we didn't let the happiness back in....I would finally get to the end of my days, and I would see Stephen again, and he would say, "Now why did you go and let yourself waste all that living and laughing and learning and loving? You died right along with me."

No sir. Can't do that. I have a twelve year old who is entitled to a world filled with laughter, and silliness and joy.

If you are loving a child who is grieving, let them know that it is normal and healthy to want to laugh again. Rent a comedy, sit down and let them hear a few of your own guffaws. Look for the joy in life each day. If you need comic relief, let me know. We can rent out Rudy on an hourly basis. Yes, at first, you will have to look, really hard. But I promise you, joy is there. It is waiting for you to let it back into your heart.

Today I am thankful for the glorious moments of happiness I have each and every day with my boy. As the laughter swirls around our house, I can almost hear Stephen laughing with us, cheering us on and urging us to keep living large.

Laugh, hug child, talk, express love, cuddle, be honest, heal, give thanks. Repeat.

Have a Fantastic Friday,

Kelly

Five Comforts of Child Grief-#4-Do as I Do

It's not only children who grow. Parents do too. As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours. I can't tell my children to reach for the sun. All I can do is reach for it, myself.-- Joyce Maynard

As I begin to write about comfort #4, I am beginning to see a pattern. Although I am writing about specific things that worked for our family with grief, they could also apply to parenting in general. Life's funny like that....

So, Comfort #4: Do As I Do

I am sure we can all remember a time when we questioned the authority of our parents. Sometime around the age of twelve, when we noticed that what we were be instructed to do was not exactly the behaviours emulated by the person instructing. "Do as I say, not as I do." A quick phrase to quell the opposition.

But, as catchy as the phrase is, it just doesn't add up when you are trying to be a believable parent in the eyes of your child. I found this to be especially true as I navigated through grief with my son.

Children seem to have this amazing radar of authenticity, and can quickly sense when your behaviours don't match your words. This can be especially true on your journey through grief.

I struggled with this. Because, as a parent, I took my job very seriously, but I was also barely able to take a breathe because of my own hurt. Some days, it felt hard to smile, let alone be a role model. But you know what? You figure it out. Because it is your responsibility to be a role model for your child.

Here's a few things I committed to doing as a bereaved mother trying to parent:

• I was honest about my emotions. I did not step out of the room, or go to my bedroom when I needed to cry. I just let it out. And I told my son that it was normal for me to do this. We described it as "letting steam off our kettle." The sadness would build, and I would let some out, and we would go on with our day. Sometimes, he would just come over and sit, and we would hug, and then off we would go again, on with the day. And the beautiful thing was when he saw I was okay to express my emotions, he did as well.


• I loved, loved and loved some more.


• I openly talked about Stephen and showed Brendan that he was still part of our life, even though he was in heaven.


• I loved, loved, and loved some more.


• I did not just drop Brendan off at grief counselling. I went too.


• I loved, loved and loved some more.


• I stopped trying to be the perfect parent. I started telling my child I did not have it all figured out ( within reason of course) It gave him permission to feel uncertain.


• I loved, loved, and loved some more.


• I showed him how faith can give you strength. We talked to God together.


• I loved.

There was, and continue to be days where I feel inadequate as a parent. Sometimes, the answers I give to the tough questions are awkward. Sometimes, as we're doing something, I wonder if I am handling it the right way. But you know what? I am trying my best, and the smile on his face is telling me that we are doing something right.

If you are a parent or grown up who is loving a grieving child, be a role model for a healthy approach to grief. Help them see that they are safe and loved and things will be better again. You just might convince yourself in the process.

Today, I am thankful for authentic parenting.

Wishing you an authentic kind of day,

Kelly

Five Comforts for Child Grief: Touching and Feeling a Life...

The Hebrew word for parents is horim, and it comes from the same root as moreh, teacher. The parent is, and remains, the first and most important teacher that the child will have.-- Rabbi Kassel Abelson

Things.

Stuff.

I have always told my children that life is not about things. Life is the moments that happen around them. Sometimes, I have to remind myself of that lesson. Because unfortunately, our society is designed to keep wanting, to never feel satisfied with what we have.

Life is not about things. I believe that with all of my heart. So, it may surprise you that today's comfort for children is actually stuff. Let me explain.

Five Comforts for Child Grief-Comfort #3: Touching and Feeling a Life

When Stephen died, we were left with remnants of his life. Things, notebooks, boxes, iPods, hockey equipment, laundry. In the early days, I felt compelled to have some of his things close to me, his eyeglasses, a card he gave me, the guardian angel medal I gave him when he was getting ready to head off to college. Somehow, having those small material pieces of his life confirmed his stamp on my own, even in his absence. As I sat here in the early days wondering what to do, I would look on these things and think about the memories attached to them.

A little over a month after he died, we had to drive up to Raleigh, to get the rest of his belongings, to bring them back home. As we packed everything, we could see that we were packing up a life, a man who came to this school a boy, who had his things in boxes in anticipation of his senior year at college. And hours later, this life sat in our garage.

Let me tell you what we did next. With us by his side, we let Brendan go through the things. We let him touch and feel his brother's life. We did it slowly, small pieces at a time. When the air would get too thick with sadness, we would take a break, sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week. We let him go at his own pace, with no pressure to continue, or to stop. But we did not look away. I need to explain why.

Just as I clutched the medal or the eyeglasses, or the handmade birthday card, Brendan needed to feel that connection too. To feel a connection to a life that impacted him, and will continue to influence him for years to come. We sometimes feel that it would be easier on the child if we pack up the boxes, and when they are sleeping, slip them into the attic, high on a shelf. Clean up the pain if you will. We tell them that they don't need to attend the funeral, and get a babysitter to stay with them as we grown ups go and say our goodbyes. We clean it all up neat and tidy, and to the untrained and unknowing eye, it would appear that the life did not even exist.

But here's the problem with that approach ( in my oh so humble opinion)

The life did exist, and the ripple effect of that life continues to influence the people it touched.

And although the person is no longer with us in a physical sense, the life is still very much a part of our own. Tying everything up in a neat and manageable package does not make it go away. It just leaves us with a feeling of confusion, "where did this life go?" I remember when my parents died, we did this with the grandchildren. They did not attend the funeral, and Stephen talked to me about it years later. He wanted to be there, and always wondered why they were not allowed to come.

So, with Brendan, we approached things differently. We decided that even if we packed up everything, we could not take away the pain of the loss. And if we prevented him from grieving in this way, we would be denying him the healing powers of remembrance. It scared me to approach it in this way. I was not sure. But it was the best decision.

One of the first things Brendan searched for was an ESPN magazine with a favorite goalie on the cover. He and Stephen had discussed the article at length, and the magazine was a reminder of the bond they had over all things related to the sport of hockey. He picked out some t-shirts and other things that reminded him of his brother. But the biggest comfort? He could see that Stephen had kept all the cards and letters and pictures that Brendan had sent to him.

Touching and feeling the life served as a confirmation for us, that it really was as awesome as we thought. I can't lie and tell you it wasn't painful at times. But honestly, I believe it played a huge role in our healing. It continues to do so. By sitting and looking through and touching his things, we were able to, in our own time, drink up the specialness of Stephen. We were able to see,in tangible pieces like sketches, and poetry that his life continues through our memories.

If you are helping a child grieve, think about letting them touch and feel the life of your loved one. Of course, the age and developmental stage are important considerations. This worked for us, and was a huge comfort, but it is individual. And most importantly,when you do, you need to be right there with them. You are the navigator for this journey.

There are many ingredients in the recipe for resilient children. One is letting them experience life, the good AND the bad, walking with them as they navigate themselves through the tougher days, showing them that the strength of memories and love cannot die.

Wishing you resilience,

Kelly

Five Comforts for Child Grief-Answering The Tough Questions

In spite of the six thousand manuals on child raising in the bookstores, child raising is still a dark continent and no one really knows anything. You just need a lot of love and luck - and, of course, courage. ~Bill Cosby, Fatherhood, 1986

When someone dies, it is completely natural to have questions. They may be questions surrounding the circumstances of the death, questions about why the death had to happen, questions about the relationship the dead person had with you, questions about God, questions about what we do now. Sometimes, the questions are simply open ended, like "Why?"

And then comes the really tough part, finding the answers.

When Stephen died, we were all left with so many questions. So many things we just needed five more minutes with him to clarify, to explain, to give us peace. Sadly, that could not happen, and we had to either find the answers on our own, or make peace with the unknown. We continue to work on that daily.

In the early days, I need to be honest. I felt hopelessly inadequate with my parenting skill set to handle this. Brendan would ask tough, hard hitting, investigative reporter type questions, and I would be standing in front of him, with a mouth gaping open, sweating palms, and a look that resembled a deer in the headlights. I have this bright, intelligent and thoughtful child, and for that I am grateful and blessed. But when he wants answers, stand back.

But, we worked through it. And when Brendan asked a question, I answered it, honestly. And, when I did not know the answer, I told him.

As I've mentioned before, we decided right away that we would need some grief counselling to help us through this. And if I had to list one reason why grief counselling is so important, it would be to get help with the tough questions from your children. My "Grief Lady" helped me understand how a person Brendan's age processes information differently than an adult. She helped me feel comfortable with showing him I did not have this all figured out, but we were together and safe, and loved. Again, I need to stress that if you are parenting a child after loss, and struggling ( which is so, so normal), look in your community or online for resources and experts that can help you.

From my Personal experience, here are some simple tips that helped our family along the way with all of those tough questions:

• Be Honest. It really is the best policy. When the tough questions come, be honest, in an age appropriate way for your child. Death is a part of life, and your child needs to hear the truth and only the truth from you. And honesty is also so important when letting your child know that you hurt and miss your loved one as well.


• Keep your child coming back for more: I told Brendan early on that we would talk through any question, any concern, any time, night or day. And he held us to our word. Once he started to feel comfortable with talking about things, he did ask, anytime, anywhere. I am thankful for that. In the early days, when we had these unspoken conversations with our tear filled eyes, I wondered if we would ever be able to get the words out. But we did. Teach your children that a normal piece of working through the pain of loss is talking through your feelings, questioning things, sharing. It is so easy for a child, or a grown up to hop in a bunny hole and hide away when the hurt is big. Don't let that happen.


• Be careful when using common phrases associated with death. Children interpret them differently. One example of this in our own story is "God's Plan." Brendan heard someone say this at the funeral, and he thought about it for two weeks after before finally bringing it up. Someone had said something about why this happened, and the answer given was it was God's Plan. I've thought about God's Plan a lot over the past eight months. But imagine hearing that at twelve years old. Did God really plan this? I wrote about this conversation in my book, Gratitude in Grief. Be careful when using phrases in front of children that require deep thought, even for the adults in the room.


• The tough questions about faith: When death comes with the swiftness of a summer breeze, for no reason, with no explanation, just when you thought things were going good, you can't help but reevaluate and ask questions about your faith. Children are no different. We talked about faith and angels. We had long and difficult conversations about heaven, and whether or not we were sure it was up there. (After discussing it, we are sure) No matter what your religious affiliation, think about how you would answer these questions, for your child and for yourself. Our faith has made such a difference in our journey.


• Be Gentle with Yourself: As a parent, we all feel we need to be the protector for our children, to save them from pain and suffering. And when we don't have answers that make the hurt go away, we feel we have failed. I know, because I have felt like that on many an occasion. But, be gentle with yourself. Death is in many ways, still a mystery, and even for the most evolved, the answers are still incomplete. So, be gentle with yourself, as you are dealing with a topic that is still surrounded with mystery, and the unknown.


• Hang with the Smart People: There are so many wonderful and gifted professionals out there who can help. Look at your community resources, bereavement groups at your churches, groups like Compassionate Friends or Open to Hope. And check out your local library or bookstore for written resources for communicating with children about death and loss. I was amazed at some of the books I found that skillfully explained complex concepts in words and story lines that were designed specifically for children.
  

I will leave you with a link to an earlier post, with a neat video from a classic Sesame Street episode, where the group talks to Big Bird about the death of Mr. Hooper. As I said in my post, if only we could have Sesame Street for the grownups.

http://gratitudeingrief.blogspot.com/2010/01/classic-sesame-street-educates-children.html

Today I am thankful for the hard conversations. I can now see that having them makes all the difference.

Have a terrific Tuesday,

Kelly

Strange New iPhone Application Helps Children Deal With Death and Grief

It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity. ~Albert Einstein

I recently came across a press release that was issued in July, and I simply had to share it. I don't have too much to say, I'm kind of at a loss to be honest. Here it is:

Strange New iPhone Application Helps Children Deal With Death and Grief

Our world's technology is an amazing thing, and each day, we move faster and faster towards living like The Jetsons. But human interaction and communication about loss cannot be replaced by an iPhone app. I do see some of the potential, in having the ability to work through the emotions of loss, but believe it needs to be coupled with the real world, with real people who are supporting and talking to the person about their hurt. Is our world on a slippery slope when the DVD player keeps the kids quiet in the car, the iPod is an extension of your hand and earphones are always in and ready, we don't even talk on the phone anymore, we text. Why are we structuring our world to make verbal communication obselete? Are we afraid we may have to feel something? Is it because verbal communication is messier, and we can't check the grammar before sending?

Don't know, I thought it was strange and interesting, and worthy of sharing for you to ponder as well.

What are Your Thoughts on this Terrific Thursday?

Kelly

Posted using ShareThis