Tag Archives: Grief & Healing

Frank, honest, sometimes painful look at grief and hope of healing.

The Arrogance Of My Belief

Many of us are searching; wrangling our faith and reason against the pain and suffering cast by nature’s net over our, or loved one’s lives. Entire lives have been changed, and taken. Homes and precious memories have been made into seemingly meaningless, soggy piles of rubble on the side of the road.

Then I come across this. Yet another reference to Job, the possible poster-child of suffering, and one most perfect paragraph that reflects and reminds me, in words and ways that I could no better express, both the arrogance and grounding comfort of my belief.

In case this writing may also meet and lift you where you are today, I share it here, with love.

“Ordinary Mysticism”, Dennis Tamburello, O.F.M

Fragile Made Strong

Maddie has been pretty upset. Not eating. I think she knows many are in peril’s way. Today as the rain let up and it’s looking like we are spared, she ate. I found her here in front of a box I had moved to higher ground.

It seems a striking reminder that we and our pets and our earth are fragile. And in need of gentle care. But, as I see the courageous hearts and hands of Houston come out in droves I am reminded that we are strong too. Made strong by our inherent sense of community and love, and a God of our understanding.

I pray in this time of rescue and recovery that we listen and allow the gentle and the strong in us to guide our pace and service. With love.

Posted August 29, 2017; the first break in Hurricane Harvey’s rains.

Tears On The Sand

Tears on the Sand © twyatt 2016Now you cry salty tears.

Do you not remember that once upon a time, the grains of sand beneath your feet were part of the majestic mountains miles and miles from here? All was, and is now, one great connective existence that knows no time nor limitations; no separation from itself.

Do you not remember that these tears that fall, that you so insistently claim as coming from your own story of pain and sorrow, come and carry the same saltiness of your oceans – far, wide, seemingly and endlessly deep.

I’ll try. I’ll try, she whispers.

Fear and fatigue give you temporary amnesia in this life and time; they soldier in armies that blot with dark patches what you knew then. But you remember now; as you wiggle your toes in the sand. As you lick your parched and quivering lips, you taste the trace and evidence of salt derived from the residue of all of the vast and receding waters before you. Before this moment.

I surrender. I surrender, she says.

In your surrender of tears, in the taste of their essence, you remember that these are not singly your tears that fall on the sand of sorrow, or joy. Teardrops fall, sand receives, and you take your place in the cycle of loss and renewals, grief and triumphs, despair and hopes; and once again fear and fatigue are marshalled back into the light of God’s truth of continuous connection.

I know. I know, she nods.

You remember again that these tears are yours, and not yours. They fall from and through you from the past, and for the future. They hold all of the loss of a lifetime, and beyond. They water the sands and the oceans of God’s infinite One.

For all. For all, she weeps.

And in this precious, sandy moment of sacred knowing, you understand that it is in forgetting your self that you belong. And in belonging, you find the Self as God created.

Thank you. Thank you, she prays, for these tears on the sand.

Rock of Light

Standing in the Fog

These are the words that showed up this morning, after having read about the hate crimes of our week, our year, our country, our communities. And, after running to and reading Romans 13.

Rock of Light
from the Coastal Edges of Oregon

Push on through the fog of confusion and conflicted rights; beyond your simple and somewhat defended ideas of what your breaking world needs, and does not need.

Stand firm again on the rock of Light and love, with assurances that Love does raise the most wicked. Love does heal the violently ill. Love does work its ethereal ways into the least of our fears, and tames the most strident terrors of our imaginations.

And realities.

Love, even in the smallest of doses or most fleeting of thoughts, does make a difference.

You question your contribution to the solution, and the problem. You doubt the efficacy, and the aim. But truth is, the loudest and broadest of strokes are not needed in this moment. Quiet and small bristles collect to form a shape, a word, a message.

And change.

The power to change is not in the volume of extremes but in the responsibility taken; a chosen and conscious shift from harm to compassion.

In your single thought. In your mind.
In your silent prayer. In your heart.

And why would you dismiss the might of a single act as less than the ramparts?

Can you say when sand becomes a pebble, pebble a rock, rock – the ocean’s floor?

When one drop becomes mist, mist rain, rain – the water’s deep?

Or when a breeze lightly carrying the scent of summer turns to gust, gust wind, wind – the waves of change?

Pebble to rock. Mist to oceans. Breeze to wind.  Until you can answer to the pivot of these, believe that the single and simplest choice of compassion is love enough to change the tide of hate.

Rock of Light, illuminate these meager means to love in me.

The Ordinary Now

Winter CowI have found myself drinking in the deep elixir of staring back into ordinary moments from my childhood in Illinois.

Drawn from a well of a bluish dark winter and an almost-night walk from farmhouse to fence; seeing in the fast fading light the corrugated aluminum water trough anchored to rock solid mud; breaking the nearly frozen ice with a broom handle as my pony Tim-Tam stood by – his head dropping, nearly touching the last surviving blades of grass made fragile by the frost and freezes, days upon days in January’s Midwest.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my childhood.

I don’t remember conversations or teacher’s names. I can’t tell you about birthday parties or my grandpa’s funeral, or much about how I spent time other than lonely languid days in my room, or sitting on the dirt at the edge of the hedge in an ocean of my family’s grain fields.

So it has been odd for me that in the past few years, every so often, one seemingly nothing yet distinctive moment comes to mind with such a clarity of experience, senses, and wonder that I’ve looked for a place to paint its emergence. And so it has become not non-descript at all.

And now, for some inexplicable reason, this seems like a place to try. Like finding a place to lodge a wee bit of my story into an already wailing wall.

And a prayer.

There was no one there but me, a light wind, and the terrible cutting cold. I was probably wearing a pair of Dad’s tall rubber work boots from the back porch, but I am sure I had on the tan car coat with heavy-duty zipper and fur lined hood – the edges of the sleeves made gray by the years of us all wearing it to do outdoor chores. The inside, slightly ripped flannel lining softened the blow of inclement weather.

The walk from the porch to pasture is not very far; not very far at all.

I can hear the dead of stillness; the crunch of my footsteps against the path of packed snow and ice. And I can nearly see now, all these years and places and faces later the dreary dead of winter painted in brushes of grays and blues – crowding out the once sparkling winter white of snow.

And that’s all.

That’s all there is to describe, and yet it is enough to tell so much about me. Or why else would it be the near clearest of memory following me and finding me after all of these years?

I think sometimes to try to paint that color, or to speak about it to someone out loud. But what sound can you use to explain a fifty-year ring of silence, and what shade could possibly match a landscape of color caught between dusk and night?

So I’ll leave it here.

As my nod to winter and anniversary of another January without the family who was in the warm house that day of winters way back when, and in wonder as to how our pasts can be provocative reminders to notice and cherish the ordinary now.