Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul
We feel some sense of relief from the grief since the completion of our quilt, and now we want to share it in hopes that our story will help to inspire other families who are in the process of grieving. This “Legacy of Love” we created and our memories of Jarod are all that we have left as evidence of his brief life. We keep our memory-laden quilt on the back of our couch, so that when we feel the need for a hug, we can wrap ourselves in the quilt and feel him with us once again.
Ed and Sandra Kervin
Chris’s Funeral
After Chris’s funeral our friends gathered at the house where Chris had been living to share some stories, drink some beers and celebrate the life of my brother. There were many tender moments that night as we traded our favorite of Chris’s sayings or the funniest things that he did, but nothing touched me more than a tribute that was made without words.
John lived in our neighborhood growing up, and he and Chris were best friends, lifelong friends. They both loved to play their guitars and listen to the Rolling Stones. John was talented and dedicated to playing the guitar. Chris was less talented, but he was determined to learn to play well. Their paths split after high school while John was putting in endless hours of practice and Chris was out pursuing dreams that held more promise for him than music. He knew that he did not have the natural ability that John did, but he always loved the idea of being a guitar player. He loved the fact that John was making a living playing his guitar.
When Chris was twenty-seven, he moved to Atlanta and began a new job. He bought a new electric guitar with his signing bonus, one with a maple neck, one he had wanted for years. He called John to tell him about it.
After Chris died, I thought about his things and what we should do with them. When I thought about his new guitar and his amplifier, I thought of John. I knew that Chris would want John to have his guitar, because no one would appreciate it and use it as much as John would. No one would know what it meant to Chris as much as John would. I called John and told him that we wanted him to have the guitar, and he was touched. I told him to get it after the funeral.
John, his wife Audrey, and their new baby daughter, Ellie, were at our gathering after Chris’s funeral. After an hour or two had passed, I wondered if they were still at the house. I hadn’t seen them in a while. I walked upstairs to the room Chris had been staying in to see if John remembered to take the guitar with him when he left. As I got to the top of the stairs, I heard the sound of music coming from Chris’s room. I tapped gently on the door and stepped into the room.
Audrey and Ellie were silently lying next to each other on the bed. As I walked in, Audrey sat up on one elbow and smiled sympathetically at me. John was sunken into Chris’s chair next to the bed. His eyes were closed. He held Chris’s maple-necked guitar in his lap, and he was quietly playing the blues. His head was tilted back, and tears were squeezing out of the corners of his eyes and sliding heavily down the contours of his face. John worked his fingers along the neck of the guitar, and he made it sing about how he was feeling. The chords ran deeply through me.
He wasn’t doing it for me; he was doing it because there was no better way to show and share his emotion with his family and with Chris. He was in Chris’s room on Chris’s guitar; he was playing with him one last time, and he was expressing his pain.
In simple words, it was a grand tribute. It was one of the most touching moments of my life, and I will never forget the feeling that I got from John making that guitar wail so quietly and sweetly. My presence in the room only lasted a few minutes, but the meaningful expression from those few minutes will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Scott Michael Mastley
Grieving Time, a Time for Love
If a loved one has departed,
And left an empty space,
Seek the inner stillness,
Set a slower pace.
Take time to remember,
Allow yourself to cry,
Acknowledge your emotions,
Let sadness pass on by.
Then center in the oneness,
Remember . . . God is here,
Death is but a change in form,
Your loved one is still near.
Treat yourself with kindness,
Allow yourself to feel,
God will do the mending,
And time will help you heal.
Barbara Bergen
The Letter
My fingers went numb when I received the call that my brother Bob had died. How could this happen to a forty-eight-year-old who never drank or smoked and went to church every Sunday? I spent that entire evening sitting in solitude and reflecting on all the things we did together growing up. The tears that soaked my pillow that night made me question my own mortality. The nervousness that greeted me in the morning left me with the unanswered question, “Why Bob?” The only thought that made sense was that everything happens for a reason, and God must have needed him badly. A fatal heart attack while vacationing with his wife in Hawaii? The entire day I wallowed in self-pity and disbelief. I went to work and shared the horrendous news. I wondered whether I was ever going to shake the fear that life isn’t fair and how I could get through this. I went with my brother Mark after work to Bob’s house to see what we could do. Bob’s three surviving children, Tammy (twenty-five), Jenny (twenty-four) and Andy (nineteen), were home alone wondering what happened to their dad and why. Besides, I needed something to do to keep busy.
When we arrived, we found Tammy shaking and trembling in the passenger seat of her friend’s car. Jenny was crying uncontrollably as she approached us with a big hug. We found Andy sitting in the backyard gazebo after we were warned he hadn’t spoken a word since getting the news. It was at that moment that I realized I didn’t just lose my brother, but my sweet nieces and nephew had just lost their dad.
Somehow I started to relax. This was no longer about me and my sorrow. This was about trying to make a difference and helping them. Clearly, I didn’t have a clue about what to say, but if I just kept talking, something might make them feel better. I began sharing my memories of how I felt when my dad died. I tried to be positive and reflect how lucky I was that he was supportive and just the kind of dad I always wanted. How after sharing these thoughts with my friends, they began expressing how lucky I was that I had such a wonderful childhood and that their experience was not as fortunate.
At the funeral I overheard a conversation my mom was having with Tammy. I turned around just in time to hear Tammy ask, “Nana, when I feel up to it, can I come over to your house sometime and maybe you can tell me about my dad growing up and what he was like?”
“Absolutely!” Mom warmly replied.
It was at that moment when I realized how I could help. A part of me felt like I was interrupting a private conversation, but I turned to Tammy and asked, “Can I write you a letter and tell you about your dad?”
“Uncle Jim, would you do that? That would be great.” Somehow I felt like I was contributing to filling in the pieces they figured they’d always have time to assemble. Word spread quickly to Jenny and Andy of my offer to all three of them. For the next three weeks during lunch, I found a quiet spot and began to write. I didn’t really intend on saying too much, but after the first day my memories of growing up with Bob seemed special. I spoke of the times we were kids, and he always wanted to walk to the store singing all the way there and back. He always loved to sing the harmony parts. And you know what? By the time we got home the song sounded pretty good. I had no idea my mental stroll would ignite such profound memories.
For some reason, my wanting to help my nieces and nephew became a warm recollection for myself. I began outlining the major events of our childhood—things I remembered him doing—the trouble he used to get into— the silly things he did to embarrass himself. I didn’t need the kids to think of their dad as perfect. I wanted them to know that we were kids one time, making mistakes, learning from them and then moving on. By the time I was done writing, there
were eleven pages. I couldn’t believe all the things I had to say. I put each letter along with a childhood photo of their dad and me in a manila envelope and printed their name on the front. I was proud of the effort I hoped somehow could help. What I didn’t count on was what a difference it made for me. A simple gesture of sharing information to heal their hearts actually helped me to heal mine.
I drove to their house one Saturday afternoon, and unfortunately, they weren’t there. I dropped three envelopes inside the door and left. Weeks went by, and I never heard a word. It didn’t matter. At the end of the letter I actually thanked them for letting me share my memories of their dad growing up and how much this meant to me. How my heart was filled with smiling thoughts of a brother who died much too soon. I was proud I had developed my writing skills to accurately describe my thoughts to them. I was ready to move on and in some way to help them do the same. I reassured all three how I would always be there and that I was always only a phone call away.
A few months later I got a letter from Jenny, who had returned to college. She wrote that she had been too hurt to read my letter and was waiting for the right time when she felt stronger. One day she was missing her dad and family and began to read. She wrote how it was just what she needed at the perfect time. What meant the most to me was that she was planning on thanking me with an e-mail but she said nothing short of a personal letter back to me was acceptable—that if the day ever came when I wanted to remember my importance to her I could pull out the letter and read it.
I wiped a proud tear away and quietly put the letter in my scrapbook of souvenirs. For it’s in these moments that I realize what life is all about.
And death.
Jim Schneegold
A Firehouse Christmas
We must not, in trying to think about how we can make a big difference, ignore the small daily differences we can make which, over time, add up to big differences that we often cannot foresee.
Marion Wright Edelman
. . . she stood
in the station doorway
framed by snowflakes
the size of a toddler’s hand.
Heavy, white ones,
falling like tiny angels
who couldn’t resist a short dance in her hair.
Like Santa she brought joy,
Her bulging bundle of teddy bears
and woolly mammoths,
their faces pressed
against the opaque bag,
hoping for escape,
a chance to be squeezed again
by little hands, and
held close to tiny faces . . .
Seattle Decembers are misty and steel gray, like the navy ships and aircraft carriers that silently ply our waterways. Three or four times each winter a heavy, wet Puget Sound snow bends the cedar boughs and hemlock branches and the carpet of ferns on the forest floor with white wonder. It blankets and crusts our curving, winding roadways, turning every hill into a toboggan course for kids and the adults who wish they still were.
For a fire-station lieutenant, it also fills the nights with fender benders, abandoned vehicles and power outages. I get precious little sleep on snowy shifts, but the joy our icy visitor brings to children is worth the commotion and confusion.
The pre-Christmas snow assault had been underway for two hours, and my station had already responded to three rush-hour accidents. Fresh coffee was brewing. All indicators pointed to a sleepless, hectic night. I was sure the knock on the firehouse door was a stranded motorist or a passerby reporting yet another accident on the busy four lane just beyond our station ramp. I was wrong.
I guessed her to be about thirty-five. She was a slightly built, auburn-haired woman who stood outside the doorway, smiling through the silver-dollar-sized flakes of snow. I invited her in and offered her the first sampling of our firehouse brew, making her laugh out loud with my comment about not having a sharp knife handy to cut it. She accepted my offer, kicking the crusted snow off her boots as she entered. She lugged a bulging, kitchen-size garbage bag in her left hand, leaning slightly out of balance to compensate for its weight.
She shook the snow out of her hair and blew on her hands while I poured a cup of the pungent firehouse java. “What do you take in it?” I said over my shoulder.
“Just black, thanks,” she replied.
I carried the two steaming cups across the kitchen and handed one to her. She wrapped both hands around the warm mug, smiled and thanked me. Between sips we speculated as to whether or not the early snow meant a brutal winter bearing down on us. She laughed again when I told her I was going to make a ton of extra money by setting up a chain- and stud-installation service outside our bay doors.
I looked down at her white plastic bag. She must have seen the question flicker across my face because she smiled and answered before I could ask. “I couldn’t bring myself to come here for the first three years,” she began. Her voice trembled a little as she spoke. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to say ‘thank you’ but, well, here I am.”
The picture was clearer now, yet I still didn’t have all the puzzle pieces. “Ma’am?”
She tilted her head and motioned, gesturing toward the bag she’d placed gently on the entryway tile. “These were my son’s.” Protruding from the top of the bag was a bucktoothed, charcoal-brown beaver. Below the beaver I could see an assortment of two dozen stuffed animal toys. They looked like a band of mutinous zoo critters preparing for a breakout.
When she told me her son’s name, the last puzzle piece fit. He had been another victim on our highway several years ago—another heartbreaking loss, a child we couldn’t save. He had died just prior to the holidays. I can’t imagine there ever being a good time for your child to die, but it seems having to endure such a devastating loss as holidays approach would add a final twist of cruelty.
For a moment, words failed me. I could think of nothing to say, so I said nothing. I stared at the droplets of moisture in her hair. She took a deep breath, smiled and said, “I can’t find a use for these now, so I was wondering if you could give them away.” She paused. “I mean, to kids who need them.”
Like many other fire departments, our medic units carry a supply of stuffed animals. When a child is hurt or sick, a teddy bear may not ease the pain, but it brings comfort. It’s a buddy who understands and who doesn’t complain if he’s squeezed too tight. This woman knew about our teddy bear giveaway program, and she was offering a very special collection.
I thought about asking “Are you sure?” but didn’t. The look in her eyes told me she hadn’t arrived at her decision lightly. “Thank you,” I said. I thought carefully, then added, “I don’t think you’ll ever know how many little folks you’ll touch by doing this.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to know he’s sharing with someone who needs help.”
“Not gonna finish that coffee?” I asked. She was already heading for our front door, leaving the still steaming, half-full cup next to mine on the table. “Nope. I need to get home before it really gets bad.”
I held the door open for her and told her to drive safely. She laughed again and said, “I’d better. I don’t wanna be your next patient!” She paused for a second, turned and said, “Thank you.”
I waved and responded, “Thank YOU! And Merry Christmas!”
The station tones went off again, this time dispatching my rescue crew to a woman in labor. Forty seconds later the white and blue medic unit rocketed out of the station and onto the highway, its blazing twin sonic beacons reflecting off the swirling snow. Alone, I returned to my coffee and the bag of stuffed animals.
I knelt beside it, pulling the furry little creatures out one by one. A stuffed hippo, a green and purple teddy bear, and a bald eagle with an extraordinarily large beak and limp wings that wrapped around his torso.
I wondered how many memories the bag contained. How many times a little boy had drifted off to sleep, cradling one. How many had he
ard a childhood secret whispered, how many a bedtime prayer? I thought of my son, A. J., and his collection of stuffed dinosaurs. In this mother’s situation, could I, would I ever have the courage to give such precious mementos away? I gathered the stuffed animals and put them back into the bag, then placed it carefully in our supply room. The next morning I told the oncoming crew about our new supply of cuddlies.
The days are getting shorter again, the nights colder, and the holidays are approaching. It’s been almost a year since that mom gave us her unique gift. I haven’t spoken to her since. She hasn’t stopped by or called. But if she does, I know exactly what I’m going to tell her.
I’ll tell her about the nine-year-old little girl whose house burned. She never let go of that gray hippopotamus. Or the ten-year-old whose leg was shattered in three places after being thrown from a horse. At first he didn’t want the brown and white beagle, but five minutes later was clutching it tightly against his chest. And the snow-white teddy bear we gave the five-year-old with a 104-degree fever. We named it Fritz, and it made a sick little boy smile.
Those are only the stories I know. There are many I haven’t heard and probably never will. I know this: With each stuffed animal there is a special story made possible by a mother’s gift of love. A tale of adversity, of pain and fear, interwoven with a strand of comfort only a stuffed animal could bring. For each toy a woman’s son once cradled, there is now a rainbow in another family’s storm. Could there be a more perfect way to chisel your child’s legacy on the walls of history?
Aaron Espy
Grief Helps Others
Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.
Alphonse de Lamartine
Linda Maurer studies a framed portrait of a beautiful young woman with long blonde hair and striking hazel eyes—her only child, Molly, who died in a railroad accident in the spring of 1991 when she was only nineteen.