I heard you're not doing well

  

There are no rules when you approach the mad people, those who grieve. Maybe there should be a handout of suggestions given out at the funeral. So this will serve as my helpful reminder when you encounter those who have been decimated.

Don't say, "I heard you are not doing well." Really? Compared to what ? Am I hanging in the shower? Have I gained 40 pounds, lost 40 pounds? Have I sobbed at every Mass and disturbed you? What is the standard of doing well that someone shared with you? No, I haven't moved on. Yes, I can hardly think of anything other than the person who is not here. That must get boring to hear. I am sorry but that is my way of holding on to what I have lost.

Yes, this Fall session of our writing group I couldn't finish a story but someone read it for me and I didn't feel judged. How gracious, how understanding.

If a grieving person does want to share something and their eyes are filling, don't walk away and say, "It's too fresh." You have rejected their story and them. Don't say what a loss this is to our Church. On a scale of one to ten, that's a minus zero in my caring.

Just a few suggestions for those blessed ones who don't know what this is, this loss.

One day I will write about the things that people have said and done that are right and good and holy. But right now I am having a hard time getting beyond what I am doing wrong, how I am being judged and found wanting.

I laughed today

  

Our writing group starts again this week and I am going to harass, beg , plead and encourage the attendees to keep a daily journal. I can't tell you the comfort that has come from finding my John and my Lord in those pages. Answered prayers jump off the page. And please keep those letters.

 I read one today dated 1-20-00 that John sent from Honduras. He was describing the adventure of cooking in a third world country and his humor lifted me again as it always did.

"..every drawer I opened had moving things in it. I had carefully selected the chicken I was going to serve when Juan and I shopped in Tegucigalpa on Monday. I bought whole chickens figuring that I would cut them up and grill them outside. Using my much improved Spanglish, I asked the cook at the compound if she knew how to cut up a chicken. "Of course," she said. Well, let me tell you there was not one identifiable part to the four chickens that she bludgeoned. I don't know where they get the beef, I have never seen anything that looked like what I was about to cook."  

 I had read those letters in the beginning of this sad pilgrimage and of course missed the humor, unable to see through the tears. It is a grace that I saw it today.

Another grace has come to me. There is a young man at our church, he is the head altar server, a job he takes seriously and does well. I noticed him one day asking a friend how her arm was before Mass as he saw the sling. I put this thoughtfulness in the kindness column that day in my journal. He also approached me to offer sympathy. Now, as I wait in the foyer for the first Mass to end, he stands by me. I sent him a note thanking him. Sunday, he told me how much he missed an older man who passed recently. He said: "He made me laugh and was my friend. Then he paused and said, "like you are my friend." And Yes, I am and am blessed by it.

Somewhere in my many grief books, I read that laughing heals. Today, I thank my love once again for helping me. I know two things: We are never alone and God provides. Amen.