Monday, June 4, 2012
Why I Will Miss the Inner City
In case you haven't heard, after four years of ministry in Indianapolis, our family will be soon be moving to Durham, NC so Greg can attend Duke Divinity School. I think it will be a healthy change for our family. I'm looking forward to having more time and energy to care for the three people I love most. We'll be close to the ocean, which thrills me. We'll be right on top of one of the most influential, academic hubs in the world, a place where (I hope) I'll find motivation to do something with my brain that has grown mushy.
But today I am grieving. There is a part of my heart -- a pretty large portion, actually -- that has also grown mushy. In a good way. There are things and people and experiences here that I am sure cannot be found in any other place in the world, and I fear that no matter where I go in life I will always be searching for the equivalent. No doubt there is plenty of heartache here as well, but I've had plenty of time to focus on that. Today, as therapy I suppose, I just need to highlight the good things, people, and experiences of our little stint in the inner city.
1. A beautiful, gutsy 12-year old named Coreyona. For two years she and I have laughed together, played games together, and struggled with grade school math together. Despite all the disappointments in her life, despite how impatient I can be with her junior high-ishness, Coreyona has given me vast amounts of attention, patience and loyalty. She even threatened to beat up a kindergartener I tutored one day, fearing that I was replacing her. Bless you, you crazy girl.
2. The food pantry. It's an event more than a place. (See Aromatherapy.) I haven't attended much the last few years, because, frankly, it saps all of my emotional strength for the day. (And I believe when there are children in the home, only one parent at a time should be depleted of emotional energy.) But if I was a better, stronger person, I would devote my Monday mornings to the ministry of conversation. There are people that come to food pantry who beat their children, people who prostitute themselves for drugs, people who have lived half their lives behind prison bars. There are people who immigrated in order to feed their children, people with extreme mental illness, people who live their lives under bridges. Their stories are incredible, their ability to absorb life's blows is astonishing. It has been an honor to sit, listen, and learn.
3. Three very angry, very demanding females: a grade schooler, a teenager, and a 60-year old. At different times, all three of them spoke truth into my life. These were hard truths to hear, wrapped in raw, harsh language and sometimes profanity, but I definitely heard them. Maybe that was point. Maybe Holy Spirit thought I was growing immune to her sweet, forgiving tone.
4. Friendship Community Garden, the little growing/gathering place carved out of an empty lot next to our house. I've learned so many things here: how to keep kids from stealing tomatoes, how to mulch properly, how to direct a work team of suburban teens, how to use a 20-horsepower wood chipper. I've learned that even if I sow seeds at the wrong time, forget to water, and generally neglect the weeds, God can still produce a little something from my efforts. I've learned that I am very small; sometimes, something grew out of the ground that I hadn't even planted.
5. Leading kids in musical worship via voices, instruments, dance moves, and motions. I didn't know I could do this. But thanks to lots of practice in front of the mirror, I have become quite adept at singing, dancing, playing a toy tambourine, balancing my daughter on one hip, and disciplining unruly children -- all pretty much at the same time. I've also learned that everyone likes me better when I smile.
6. Daystar Child Care and Westminster Presbyterian Preschool -- where, for two years, my daughters have spent a few mornings each week. One is low-cost, the other is completely free, but both have quality programs and are run by folks with passions similar to my own. I'm grateful for people who believe that investing in early child development will not only help increase school attendance and achievement, but will ultimately help children grow into more loving, responsible adults.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
When Pastor's Wives Throw Eggs
Warning: This post contains sensitive material. I'm pouring out my heart here. Please read with caution... and forgiveness.
Last week my husband got a curt email. He responded politely, in typical pastorly fashion. This was followed by two more emails from the same person, each nastier and harsher than the first. His work ethic, his calling, his abilities as a pastor and his dignity as a fellow human being were all attacked. What stung most was that this person had been a steady supporter of our ministry for years.
I take that back. What stung most was that, in typical pastorly fashion, Greg did not throw cruel words in the opposite direction. Instead, he wrote an apologetic letter stating how much he respected this person and how much this person had contributed to the life of the church and how much this person's prayers had sustained him and how very, very sorry he was for sending that polite reply in the first place. He even wrote the line: "I beg your forgiveness."
It's a week later. He's yet to receive a reply.
This stuff sucks the life out of me. On the day my husband received the second two emails (also his birthday, in a cruel twist of irony), I couldn't focus. Not on my children, who badly needed my attention. Not on myself. Not even on my husband, whose spirit was understandably shattered. My hands were shaky. My chest felt tight. I wandered around aimlessly. On several occasions, I buried my face in my lap and wept.
The only part of me that seemed to be working properly was the angry-email part of my brain. The section that produces biting sarcasm and defensive, cutting wit. That part was working overtime. In my head, I had written a reply letter that would have sent this particular person running for cover. Or, optimistically, to the knees in humble, repentant, self-loathing prayer.
In the end, I decided not to send that email. This is because I strive to do my pastor's wife thing well. Which means I cannot blindly jump into these sorts of situations, cannot rush angrily to defend, and most importantly, cannot call a parishioner a well-deserved name or two. Instead, I get to politely practice the art of "shelving" it. I get to hold the hurts inside and, one-by-one, choose to let them go as time softens their sting. I get to pray for help. I get to learn that eventually life goes on, even if I never pushed the "send" button.
In anger management therapy, it's commonly held that the end result of "shelving" or "absorbing" other people's angry tirades is unfortunately not a calm and forgiving attitude. The end result is stress headaches, anxiety, depression, disillusionment, bitterness. Sometimes suppressed anger even manifests itself in acts of physical and verbal violence, or fantasies of the like.
In the last four years of ministry, I've seen all of these "symptoms" in my husband. I've seen all of them in me. We both have felt anger so deep and so wide that we've wanted to detonate something. We've had thoughts of shouting expletives or slamming doors in board meetings. We have thrown things. Punched holes in walls. Spoken hurtful words that really weren't meant for the spouse we love dearly, meant instead for the person who put us in such a mood.
I hate the way our "shelved" anger comes out, how it eventually must come out, so tonight with a small group of trusted friends I broached the subject. Here was my plan: I would, with a careful tone and under close supervision, reply and respond to those hurtful emails. It was water I'd never tread in before -- actually REPLYING to that crap. Defending my family's honor sounded delightful.
My friends weren't so sure. They agreed that it might make me feel better to let out some steam, but it wouldn't accomplish anything in the way of mending what was broken. Bless them. (Curse them.)
I was holding the stack of emails in my hand, and feeling defeated, I announced that if I could not reply, then I was going to take them outside and ritualistically burn them. The council approved. One friend mentioned that writing the offender's name on an egg and throwing it might be similarly therapeutic (but that just sounded weird and wasteful to me).
The papers flamed orange and red, dissolving into soot. It felt sort of nice. Before the last flames burned out, I aired out my feelings one last time before finally putting them to rest. "It hurts how people treat my best friend like he's a punching bag." I wiped at my tears. "It hurts that my children need me, and I can't give to them because someone else stole all my emotional energy. It hurts that people cannot control their tempers. It hurts that people don't think to say 'I'm sorry.'" The friends listened with sweetly sympathetic faces.
So when my burn party was over, I was surprised to hear one of them say, "I want to throw an egg." The truth comes out: I wasn't the only one in the group with anger issues.
I grabbed some eggs from the fridge, and the three of us scrawled names on them with a Sharpie. I had to go back for more eggs. Some eggs had three or four names on them. Who knew such levels of rage existed beneath these pleasant smiles?
We lined up, several eggs in each hand, and took turns throwing them at a cement wall near the back of the church. Some bounced off the grass in front of us, smashing yellow and white on the wall. Some soared right over the wall and smacked on the church exterior. One even sailed over the roof of the church. We howled with laughter. Eggs are surprisingly hard to aim when you let loose all your fury on them.
After picking up the scraps and hosing off the church (we are, after all, good church people), the three of us parted ways. And I began to reflect. How did Jesus handle his anger?
Overwhelmed by crowds of needy people, and the hard work of healing, teaching and preaching to such people, it strikes me that Jesus looked them square in the eyes, and "had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless..." (Matt 9:18). I like that Jesus, the one that sees beneath the surface of things. I admire him for his goodness, his steady streams of love. But some days I can hardly relate.
The Jesus I can relate to is the one who called people names: Fox (Luke 13:32), Hypocrite (Matt 23:25), and Whitewashed Tombs with Filthy Dead Bones Inside (Matt 23:27) are my favorites. I like the Jesus who premeditated a violent temple clearing, taking a moment to form himself a sturdy whip to use, presumably, for hitting stuff. There are words like "scattered" and "overturned" in that story; exclamation points abound! This Jesus of ours knew about the woes of "shelving it." He needed a place to insert all that righteous rage.
On days like these, it's that second Jesus I adore. I appreciate so much his passion, his loyalty, his devotion. I like that he threw a fit when people he loved were being abused. It's that Jesus who makes me think it might be okay to throw a lot of eggs at a church building.
Last week my husband got a curt email. He responded politely, in typical pastorly fashion. This was followed by two more emails from the same person, each nastier and harsher than the first. His work ethic, his calling, his abilities as a pastor and his dignity as a fellow human being were all attacked. What stung most was that this person had been a steady supporter of our ministry for years.
I take that back. What stung most was that, in typical pastorly fashion, Greg did not throw cruel words in the opposite direction. Instead, he wrote an apologetic letter stating how much he respected this person and how much this person had contributed to the life of the church and how much this person's prayers had sustained him and how very, very sorry he was for sending that polite reply in the first place. He even wrote the line: "I beg your forgiveness."
It's a week later. He's yet to receive a reply.
This stuff sucks the life out of me. On the day my husband received the second two emails (also his birthday, in a cruel twist of irony), I couldn't focus. Not on my children, who badly needed my attention. Not on myself. Not even on my husband, whose spirit was understandably shattered. My hands were shaky. My chest felt tight. I wandered around aimlessly. On several occasions, I buried my face in my lap and wept.
The only part of me that seemed to be working properly was the angry-email part of my brain. The section that produces biting sarcasm and defensive, cutting wit. That part was working overtime. In my head, I had written a reply letter that would have sent this particular person running for cover. Or, optimistically, to the knees in humble, repentant, self-loathing prayer.
In the end, I decided not to send that email. This is because I strive to do my pastor's wife thing well. Which means I cannot blindly jump into these sorts of situations, cannot rush angrily to defend, and most importantly, cannot call a parishioner a well-deserved name or two. Instead, I get to politely practice the art of "shelving" it. I get to hold the hurts inside and, one-by-one, choose to let them go as time softens their sting. I get to pray for help. I get to learn that eventually life goes on, even if I never pushed the "send" button.
In anger management therapy, it's commonly held that the end result of "shelving" or "absorbing" other people's angry tirades is unfortunately not a calm and forgiving attitude. The end result is stress headaches, anxiety, depression, disillusionment, bitterness. Sometimes suppressed anger even manifests itself in acts of physical and verbal violence, or fantasies of the like.
In the last four years of ministry, I've seen all of these "symptoms" in my husband. I've seen all of them in me. We both have felt anger so deep and so wide that we've wanted to detonate something. We've had thoughts of shouting expletives or slamming doors in board meetings. We have thrown things. Punched holes in walls. Spoken hurtful words that really weren't meant for the spouse we love dearly, meant instead for the person who put us in such a mood.
I hate the way our "shelved" anger comes out, how it eventually must come out, so tonight with a small group of trusted friends I broached the subject. Here was my plan: I would, with a careful tone and under close supervision, reply and respond to those hurtful emails. It was water I'd never tread in before -- actually REPLYING to that crap. Defending my family's honor sounded delightful.
My friends weren't so sure. They agreed that it might make me feel better to let out some steam, but it wouldn't accomplish anything in the way of mending what was broken. Bless them. (Curse them.)
I was holding the stack of emails in my hand, and feeling defeated, I announced that if I could not reply, then I was going to take them outside and ritualistically burn them. The council approved. One friend mentioned that writing the offender's name on an egg and throwing it might be similarly therapeutic (but that just sounded weird and wasteful to me).
The papers flamed orange and red, dissolving into soot. It felt sort of nice. Before the last flames burned out, I aired out my feelings one last time before finally putting them to rest. "It hurts how people treat my best friend like he's a punching bag." I wiped at my tears. "It hurts that my children need me, and I can't give to them because someone else stole all my emotional energy. It hurts that people cannot control their tempers. It hurts that people don't think to say 'I'm sorry.'" The friends listened with sweetly sympathetic faces.
So when my burn party was over, I was surprised to hear one of them say, "I want to throw an egg." The truth comes out: I wasn't the only one in the group with anger issues.
I grabbed some eggs from the fridge, and the three of us scrawled names on them with a Sharpie. I had to go back for more eggs. Some eggs had three or four names on them. Who knew such levels of rage existed beneath these pleasant smiles?
We lined up, several eggs in each hand, and took turns throwing them at a cement wall near the back of the church. Some bounced off the grass in front of us, smashing yellow and white on the wall. Some soared right over the wall and smacked on the church exterior. One even sailed over the roof of the church. We howled with laughter. Eggs are surprisingly hard to aim when you let loose all your fury on them.
After picking up the scraps and hosing off the church (we are, after all, good church people), the three of us parted ways. And I began to reflect. How did Jesus handle his anger?
Overwhelmed by crowds of needy people, and the hard work of healing, teaching and preaching to such people, it strikes me that Jesus looked them square in the eyes, and "had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless..." (Matt 9:18). I like that Jesus, the one that sees beneath the surface of things. I admire him for his goodness, his steady streams of love. But some days I can hardly relate.
The Jesus I can relate to is the one who called people names: Fox (Luke 13:32), Hypocrite (Matt 23:25), and Whitewashed Tombs with Filthy Dead Bones Inside (Matt 23:27) are my favorites. I like the Jesus who premeditated a violent temple clearing, taking a moment to form himself a sturdy whip to use, presumably, for hitting stuff. There are words like "scattered" and "overturned" in that story; exclamation points abound! This Jesus of ours knew about the woes of "shelving it." He needed a place to insert all that righteous rage.
On days like these, it's that second Jesus I adore. I appreciate so much his passion, his loyalty, his devotion. I like that he threw a fit when people he loved were being abused. It's that Jesus who makes me think it might be okay to throw a lot of eggs at a church building.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
This one's a bit of a downer
This is the first poem I remember writing. I wrote it when I was eleven. I believe I was thinking about death a lot, in those days.
With that in mind, enjoy a leisurely stroll into my junior high-aged brain!
"The Painting"
(or maybe, "The Waterfall". Or something equally profound.)
A solitary waterfall
slips and slides.
Over rock and trees and hills
it glides.
Never stopping, never ceasing
so unlike life,
which can easily be ended
by a gun or a knife.
As I stare at the painting
frozen in time
I wonder: "Who was this artist?"
and "Where was his mind?"
Morbidly thought-provoking, yes? Great use of quotes, yes? My favorite part is the cute rhyme scheme, despite the fact that my subject matter is death and deadly weapons.
With that in mind, enjoy a leisurely stroll into my junior high-aged brain!
"The Painting"
(or maybe, "The Waterfall". Or something equally profound.)
A solitary waterfall
slips and slides.
Over rock and trees and hills
it glides.
Never stopping, never ceasing
so unlike life,
which can easily be ended
by a gun or a knife.
As I stare at the painting
frozen in time
I wonder: "Who was this artist?"
and "Where was his mind?"
Morbidly thought-provoking, yes? Great use of quotes, yes? My favorite part is the cute rhyme scheme, despite the fact that my subject matter is death and deadly weapons.
Friday, March 23, 2012
There's Ranch in my Pants
One of my favorite read-alouds as a kid was "A Light in the Attic," which I remember being quite hilarious for both my mom and us kids. Thankfully my girls love this and other Shel Silverstein volumes, so we've been plowing through them and cracking up together -- nightly. So here is my tribute to Mr. Silverstein: a fun little creation that was inspired by Eve when she wiggled on the couch and said to me, "I think there's ranch in my pants." Enjoy!
There's ranch in my pants,
and beans in my beard,
And ham slices, for worse or for better,
Are dangling like weeds
grown from sunflower seeds
amongst arugula in my argyle sweater.
There's a billion bacon bits
scratching my arm pits,
I've got olives in my front left pocket.
There's asparagus to spare
filling my underwear
and falling out, unless I can stop it.
And then there's the croutons,
the carrots, the cheese,
which squish all around in my socks.
While I haven't checked there
I think there's eggs in my hair,
and somewhere, my celery stalks.
My belt bursts with spinach.
There! I'm finally finished
with this funny, food-stuffed ballad.
My message complete:
You are what you eat.
And sometimes you have to be salad.
Keep Sake
When my first daughter was born, my closest friend stitched her a quilt. It's baby-sized, crisp and white, with little satin pink roses and tiny buttons. Simple, charming, unique.
I treasure that gift -- the homemade-ness of it, the time it must have taken, the details.
But also because that same year my friend and her family moved away, and now we live in different states, and both of us have lives filled with children and schedules and so very much laundry. We hardly find time to talk.
One day my daughter, now three, placed her long-loved blankie in my lap.
"Fix it?" she asked.
At some point during a boisterous game of "house," some of her quilt's pale pink stitching had come undone. A button was missing. And it appeared that for some time, the seams on the corners had been coming loose.
"I'm sorry," I told her. "Mommy doesn't know how to sew."
And it's true, mostly. I don't know how to sew. I could learn, but it's more than that. Sometimes there are things you're too tired to learn, too old to learn, too young to learn, or too busy for. Sometimes there are places you don't venture into because they are too dangerous, or too difficult, or because you're sure they'll break your heart. Sometimes there are problems too big for fixing.
That day I tucked her baby quilt into a keepsake box in my closet. It can't come completely unstitched if it sits in there. It can't lose anymore buttons. But most importantly, I won't have to look at it and remember the truth: that some things are just not forever.
I treasure that gift -- the homemade-ness of it, the time it must have taken, the details.
But also because that same year my friend and her family moved away, and now we live in different states, and both of us have lives filled with children and schedules and so very much laundry. We hardly find time to talk.
One day my daughter, now three, placed her long-loved blankie in my lap.
"Fix it?" she asked.
At some point during a boisterous game of "house," some of her quilt's pale pink stitching had come undone. A button was missing. And it appeared that for some time, the seams on the corners had been coming loose.
"I'm sorry," I told her. "Mommy doesn't know how to sew."
And it's true, mostly. I don't know how to sew. I could learn, but it's more than that. Sometimes there are things you're too tired to learn, too old to learn, too young to learn, or too busy for. Sometimes there are places you don't venture into because they are too dangerous, or too difficult, or because you're sure they'll break your heart. Sometimes there are problems too big for fixing.
That day I tucked her baby quilt into a keepsake box in my closet. It can't come completely unstitched if it sits in there. It can't lose anymore buttons. But most importantly, I won't have to look at it and remember the truth: that some things are just not forever.
Monday, March 19, 2012
5 pm
5 pm is my least favorite time of day:
Little tummies grumbling,
soup on the stovetop burning,
husband running late,
my own patience running thin.
The clatter of plates carelessly plopped on the table,
the endless search for the good spoons
(the ones I haven't mangled in the garbage disposal),
the sticky steam from the dishwasher when I yank it open,
continuing the search for said spoons.
And the little tummies, still grumbling,
attached to little mouths which repeat,
"I'm hungry!" at ever-growing decibels.
And sometimes:
the realization that the masterpiece I've poured
the last 2 hours of my life into
is NOT resembling the one I saw on the internet.
I suppose it would have looked fabulous and tasted 5 stars
if I had used all those (sketchy) ingredients,
prepared them exactly as labeled,
actually used an instrument marked "1/8 tsp."
But that is just the price I pay for being an artist,
rather than a scientist, in the kitchen.
And so, when I set those steaming bowls of palak paneer or
eggplant curry or chicken with raisins and quinoa
on the table, there is fear and trembling.
From the children, yes, and certainly from the
picky-palate husband, but even more so
from me.
Will they try it? Will they like it? Will they appreciate my time
and work and artistic innovation? Will they know I substituted
milk for cream cheese? Will they taste white vinegar
when they should have tasted cider vinegar? Will they
think I'm a fraud? Will they love me anyway?
And finally:
Will they choose to just eat their food and shutup and be
thankful that someone cooked it for them, for Pete's sake?
But:
There are those magical moments -- oh how they make my soul
sing -- when daughters eat and eat and eat their fill, and
I can see those formerly grumbling tummies
growing under the table. When husband smiles
and says, "mmm... this is good. You made this?"
When there are leftovers I'll be happy to eat
for days.
Little tummies grumbling,
soup on the stovetop burning,
husband running late,
my own patience running thin.
The clatter of plates carelessly plopped on the table,
the endless search for the good spoons
(the ones I haven't mangled in the garbage disposal),
the sticky steam from the dishwasher when I yank it open,
continuing the search for said spoons.
And the little tummies, still grumbling,
attached to little mouths which repeat,
"I'm hungry!" at ever-growing decibels.
And sometimes:
the realization that the masterpiece I've poured
the last 2 hours of my life into
is NOT resembling the one I saw on the internet.
I suppose it would have looked fabulous and tasted 5 stars
if I had used all those (sketchy) ingredients,
prepared them exactly as labeled,
actually used an instrument marked "1/8 tsp."
But that is just the price I pay for being an artist,
rather than a scientist, in the kitchen.
And so, when I set those steaming bowls of palak paneer or
eggplant curry or chicken with raisins and quinoa
on the table, there is fear and trembling.
From the children, yes, and certainly from the
picky-palate husband, but even more so
from me.
Will they try it? Will they like it? Will they appreciate my time
and work and artistic innovation? Will they know I substituted
milk for cream cheese? Will they taste white vinegar
when they should have tasted cider vinegar? Will they
think I'm a fraud? Will they love me anyway?
And finally:
Will they choose to just eat their food and shutup and be
thankful that someone cooked it for them, for Pete's sake?
But:
There are those magical moments -- oh how they make my soul
sing -- when daughters eat and eat and eat their fill, and
I can see those formerly grumbling tummies
growing under the table. When husband smiles
and says, "mmm... this is good. You made this?"
When there are leftovers I'll be happy to eat
for days.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
What to Expect When You're Un-Expecting
I didn't see it coming.
I was seven to nine weeks pregnant, wrapped in a hospital gown and positioned rather awkwardly in the ultrasound room. “Hmm...” was the only word the technician seemed to know. I held my breath while he searched with his wand for a baby I was sure was in there.
“Hmm...” he repeated. I squeezed my husband's hand. Took another deep breath. And tried to accept the fact that something could be wrong.
“I'll be right back with the doctor,” the technician finally said, nervously dashing out of the room.
And then it happened: life spontaneously fell off course.
A few days later, as the doctor had warned, my abdomen started to throb and the bleeding began. I crouched in the bathtub with the shower on, and for hours I watched as the remains of my pregnancy literally went down the drain. The questions were endless. Did I cause this? Should I have taken better care of myself? Am I supposed to bleed this much? Will I ever get pregnant again?
There were also questions I didn't allow myself to ask. I blocked them out of my mind, hoping they would fade with time.
It was years later, after my second daughter was born following a healthy, normal pregnancy, that I came to face those thoughts. I'd imagined them lost somewhere deep inside, buried under all the sleepless nights and mental to-do lists that come with being a new parent. And yet, it was at the most unexpected time, at the most incongruent place, amongst the most unlikely company that I came to truly grieve my miscarriage.
Namely, it was after a trip to the zoo, outside a chain sandwich shop, with a middle-aged friend of my husband's who was visiting from out of town.
The girls were busy tossing sizable portions of their supper to the pigeons when my husband's friend commented that his sons used to do the same thing. We were reminiscing: light-hearted talk that most parents engage in without effort.
And then it happened: our small talk spontaneously fell off course.
“Actually, we almost had three children,” our friend confessed. “But my wife had a miscarriage.” He grew quiet. “And I always sort of wondered: would that have been my girl?” He stared at his hands, his dark brown eyes misting up.
I think it was the honesty, the bare-bones transparency of his question that stung at my own soul. Before I knew it, I was wiping at my own tears and offering up my own, long-ignored confession. “I had a miscarriage too, once. And you know, for some reason I've always wondered if that was my boy.”
Somewhere deep inside me, a shift occurred. It took the gentle disclosure of a man twice my age to help me understand that my miscarriage was not just the loss of a child who would never be. It was the loss of knowing, believing, hoping that everything would go just as I expected it to go. It was the loss of planning, controlling, and manipulating the future. It was the loss of feeling like I had it all figured out.
I’d love to say that today I am a whole person, free of doubts and concerns and worries. I’m not. That’s what loss does to you: it forces you to ask the hard questions, and asks you to go on living without any good answers. But there is something to be said for the holy, whole-making act of confession. Of airing out pain and grief, rather than trying to bury it. Of surrounding oneself with people who have experienced similar pain. It certainly won’t provide answers, but in a wonderful, unexpected way, healing begins when we remember we are not alone.
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