A Reconciliation Between Worlds

Words left unsaid. This is one of the hardest things people struggle with after the death of a loved one. I have heard it over and over again while sitting with support groups during these last six years after my son’s transition to spirit. So much guilt, so much regret, over what was said or unsaid, be it I love you, or I’m sorry, or I forgive you, or even goodbye.

Death is so final. Well, death of the body, that is. Certainly, as humans, we ache over the huge loss of physical connection, of the opportunity to hug the one you love so dearly, to see their face light up with a beautiful smile, or hear their voice or the sound of their laughter. Thank goodness for photos. They are helpful to a point. I have spent hours just looking at my son’s face in the multitude of photos left behind, taking in his eyes, his smile, trying to hold on to every nuance. It can almost feel like I am with him again. But not quite. Better than nothing, I say.

But to speak to him, ask him questions, and hear the answers—oh, so much I would ask if I could! I know you might think I’m nuts, but I have continued to speak to my son since his passing. And if I’m still enough and quiet enough and have the patience to wait…I feel I can hear him answer me.

Truth is, I completely believe that he hears me. I have come to a greater understanding of how our loved ones in spirit are still here, albeit in a form that our five senses do not pick up. Quantum physics can confirm that (and no, I am no expert as the subject is hugely complex and my understanding merely scratches the surface). But even if I hadn’t read about or heard many talks on this field of study, my own heart tells me so. You’d be surprised what your heart knows if you’d just allow it to lead you.

My father was a troubled man, and not easy to grow up with. Despite his outward appearance—a man who owned his own attorney service (a necessary business in the 50s and 60s that is obsolete today), dressed five days a week in a suit and tie, and was handsome and charming to many who knew him outside of our family of seven—he was often angry and mean to us. I won’t go into detail about the verbal and emotional abuse I and my siblings (and mother) withstood, but let’s just say that it was quite difficult.  

Not to say there weren’t some good times with my dad.  The memories of him joining us in our 2-foot Doughboy pool in the backyard were hilarious, and the night drives through neighborhoods lit up with Christmas lights were magical. He was proud of our educational accomplishments and encouraged our lessons in music and dance. And in return I admired his determination to go back to college and earn his degree when he was in his 60s.

But it took me years to realize I really wasn’t stupid, I really wasn’t worthless, and I really was deserving of love. I have a feeling I’m not the only one who has struggled with those kinds of self-esteem issues.

Though I had spent many years as a teenager and young adult hating my father, that sentiment eventually began to shift. And after he died in 2003, as I matured and developed a larger perspective of life, I came to the realization that my father must have suffered abuse as a child himself, abuse that he would never have told us about because he was from a generation and religious tradition that demanded you “Honor your father and mother.” He strongly believed that if he were to tell us they were less than perfect he would be disrespecting them. That discussion was never going to occur.

I believe that when people are hurt, they hurt others. I came to realize that my dad had done the best he could with all the pain that likely had been inflicted on him. I know that deep down, he truly loved us. Though he is now gone, I have found myself able to forgive him, something I could never have considered years ago. And as time went by, when I thought about him, I told him so.

A couple years ago I had a dream with my father. I was in a room with other people, but then left that room through a door. The small room I entered was all white, and my father was in it.  He wore a white t-shirt and white pants. He had his back to me and was facing a white chest of drawers that was about five feet high and stood against one of the white walls. He was trying to stand a piece of paper atop the dresser and against the wall. It was the only thing in the room that had some color. It was about an 8 ½ x 11 sized sheet, and my dad was having trouble making it stand up. It kept falling over, and he would try again. 

After a minute or so of that, I softly said, “That’s frustrating, isn’t it?” He then turned around and looked at me. I was immediately drawn to his eyes which held such sadness and remorse. There was pain there, not only for his own suffering, but especially for the suffering he caused me and my siblings. I felt only compassion and love for him. 

He did not speak—out loud, that is. There were no words for my ears to hear. But there were words for my heart to hear. And loud and clear I heard, “I’m sorry.”

I went up to him and gently hugged him. As he hugged me back, I said, “I love you, Dad.” And the dream ended.

Well, if that isn’t an apology and offering of forgiveness between worlds, I don’t know what is. The reconciliation had occurred. Not before my father died, but after.

When I woke up, I remained suspended in that connection beyond the veil for a little while. It was very real. It had a deep impact on me. And even as I write this, I strongly feel that love, that forgiveness, that eternal connection with my dad. 

It is never too late to tell your loved one who has passed to the next world you are sorry, or you forgive them, or you love them. They hear you. They are with you. It is only our limited senses that keep us from that awareness. 

That was how I survived those first brutal months after my son Eric's transition. When I felt the merciless pain of missing him, I told him I loved him. I told him all the time. I still do. And I have never doubted he could hear me.

And sometimes, when I sit very still, maybe outdoors under the magnificent pine tree in our front yard, feeling the cool breeze blow through my hair and kiss my face, I believe I can hear him tell me, “I love you too, Mom.”

My grief therapist told me after Eric's passing that I would now have a new relationship with him. I didn't get it at first, though I was open to it.

But I do see that now. Not only with my son, but with my father as well. The relationship continues. All that was left unsaid can now be said...I forgive you, I love you. Thank you.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

Allowing the Shift

It’s still there. The spot where the accident occurred. So close to home. I still drive by it a couple times a month on my way to this or that, running errands of one sort or another. 

More than six years have gone by since my 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident driving home late one night after having spent the evening out with co-workers from his new job. The marks remain—two tire tracks forming a 40 to 50-foot arc across the cement embankment on the east side of a busy road, halting abruptly at the bridge that constitutes the overpass for railroad tracks. Horrific, if you let yourself think about it. But for reasons that I cannot rationalize, my perception of that landmark has sure changed. 

At first, it only represented pain. Just two days after Eric’s passing, I elected to go visit the scene of my son’s passing, which I had avoided until that moment. It was Mother’s Day, 2017, and as I stood in our home filled to the brim with mourners and flowers, casseroles and pastries, I texted my husband whom I could not locate in the house. He said he was at the accident site. I told him I’d be right there, and despite my surviving kids’ objections—after all it was Mother’s Day—I headed over, driven by my eldest son, Nick.

While Nick waited (he could not bring himself to look at the location where his brother took his last breath), I walked from the car which was parked a block over, as there was no way to park on the busy street itself. Accompanied by my future son-in-law, I walked down the incline of the street on a very narrow strip of sidewalk, the embankment a sharply inclined plane on my right like a wall, and immediately noted the tire marks. My husband was there, crying, his hands tracing the black marks from where the car had first made contact with the embankment after driving off the street. I understood that by touching those marks, Joey was able to connect to Eric’s last few seconds on Earth. It was heart wrenching, yet in my raw grief, I did not cry. I was still in some sort of non-reality, a fog.

I’m not sure how long we stood there. Time absolutely stood still. Somehow, I continued to breathe. I looked up into the blackness of the dark night sky. I felt the eternal vastness of the universe. I looked around and wondered what might have been the very last thing Eric saw. I breathed. I pondered. This was the place where Eric’s life had ended. But more than that, I knew in my heart that this was the place where Eric’s new life had begun.

That must have been what I hung onto…where Eric’s new life had begun. Already, there was a shift in what would normally have been nothing but devastation. 

Oh, those tread marks—a constant reference to the day that changed our lives forever. Various people commented on how upsetting it was to still see them there. A couple of exasperated friends made calls to the city demanding someone paint over them. What were they waiting for? Get rid of that eyesore, that reminder of such a huge loss! 

Eventually the city did paint over them. Yet, there was still a hint of the tracks which showed through the paint. Still there! Persistent. Almost as if Eric was making sure he would not be forgotten. No worries there, son, you will never be forgotten. That’s out of the question.

For the first few months after the accident, in my deepest grief, I did avoid the spot. I found alternate routes. But then I started letting myself drive by. I’d turn my head each time to see it, the arc, the path that led to an end, yet also to a new beginning of something beyond my full comprehension. For those few moments that I allowed my eyes to rest on that painful truth, time stood still. There was a heaviness in my heart, a stillness in my being, yet also a surprising connection to something more, something indescribable. Weird, but somehow driving by brought me a feeling of closeness to my son, like I could feel his energy in the car with me, maybe sitting next to me and smiling at me as if to say, “I’m with ya, mom.”

Then—and I don’t know when or how this began—not only did Joe and I stop avoiding that section of that busy road, but eventually we started saying hi to Eric as we drove by. It surprised me a bit the first time we passed by when Joey looked over to the faint tire marks, waved, and said, “Hi Erico.” I was bewildered not only because he said it, but also because his doing so actually felt good to me.  And by the next time we cruised by, I chimed in on the hello.  We smiled. There was an unexpected lightness in our unconventional connection with our son. 

Was that wrong of us? Did the fact that we weren’t spilling tears mean we’d lost our love for our son-in-spirit? Were we being disrespectful? 

Hell no. Like a mama bear defends her offspring, I will always defend my eternal love for my little cub. I know of some grieving parents who would be appalled by this. They would find this disloyal. But there is no part of me that feels even an ounce of disloyalty. I miss my son with every ounce of my being. What I would give to see him again, hug him again, and laugh with him again. But I did shock the hell out of myself recently when I drove by and didn’t realize till I had passed the landmark that I actually forgot to look over and say hello! What?? I felt a little bad and quickly uttered, “Sorry Eric,” to the air around me. And then I laughed. Shoot, too many unnecessary things on my mind that day. But disloyal? Not even. My journey had simply shifted.

The journey. Allow it to shift.

Grief expert, David Kessler, says there is no right way or wrong way to grieve. Just your way.Your grief is your grief. What you choose to do with it is your business. How you choose to live this journey is up to you. I can’t tell you how to do it, and you can’t tell me. 

Everyone reading this has gone through grief, loss, major challenges, gut wrenching experiences. How do you put those feelings into words? How can you get others to really understand how you feel or why you do what you do? 

You can’t. No one can truly get your experience. I can’t fully comprehend someone else’s pain, and they can't fully comprehend mind. That’s okay. We don’t have to understand why people choose to do what they do. Just witness, support, and allow them to be where they are. 

Now, some six years later, I have made peace with that stretch of road. Not everyone who knew Eric has, and I completely respect that. Whether or not they do or ever will is none of my business. If they do, it will be in their own time. Besides, Eric drove up and down that road countless times for happy reasons—on his way to visit friends or catch the freeway to the beach or (borrowing the lingo of the day) to a sick music event. I like to think of those times.

On that saddest of all Mother’s Days back in 2017, as I stared up into the awesome and endless star-filled night sky, I did get a glimpse of something beautiful and mystical, a sense of an alternate meaning for this spot: where Eric’s new life began. I’ll hang onto that. It will carry me through until that day when it’s time for Eric to meet me and take me to where my new life begins.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

Looking Deeply

 

.

In the early 1980s I took acting classes at Nosotros Theatre in Hollywood. There was this guy in my class named Phillip, a very interesting guy, polite, probably late 20s, with an innocence that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He was uniquely Caucasian in an otherwise all Latino theatre group. (Full disclosure, I’m less than half Latino myself!) At one point, Phillip and I did a scene from The Elephant Man, the one where the actress visits John Merrick (aka Joseph Merrick), the title character. In this gracefully touching scene, the actress is able to see beyond John Merrick’s grotesque exterior into the beautiful truth of who he really is.

One evening during a class break, as we sat and chatted among the seats of the old 99-seat theatre (a perfect space for us passionate actors to build our craft), I spied a rather large and unappealing bug, some kind of beetle, on the floor near my feet, probably a good 2 inches long, if not more. Whatever it was, “Roach!” was the first thought that popped into my head. Since it didn’t move, I concluded that it was dead. As I uttered some sound of disapproval, like “Ugh” or “Yuck,” Phillip took a close look at it. His surprising response was, “Oh, how beautiful!” And he genuinely meant it.

I didn’t argue with him. I was taken by his unpredictable response and mostly pondered what he had just said which was something that would never have occurred to me to say. A side of me that apparently remained dormant most of the time saw his perspective for just a moment. This unlikely winner of a beauty pageant was not only a part of the Earth and a creation of God, but as a result of that very truth, was also quite beautiful.

For some people, the term “God” makes them shudder. The word itself brings about images of an old man in the sky, judgmental, angry, even wrathful. I grew up learning about that God, and still I was simultaneously taught that he loved us, a paradox I accepted as a child, though it didn’t really make sense to me.

Then, at some point in my life, I traded in that God for the God who is the Creator and the source of unconditional love, who provides all the beauty, the unexplainable wonder. I outgrew the old God as a child outgrows his or her clothes when they become too tight, and in doing so let God out of the small box He/She had been put into. I expanded. I had to. After the unexpected death of my youngest child, the old belief system no longer fit, so I had to grow beyond that. And as I did, I began to find beauty in the most unexpected places.

 

In the years that followed, when I wasn’t running amok with the responsibilities of working full-time as an elementary school teacher, part-time as a dance teacher at a local studio, and raising my 4 active kids, I sometimes stopped long enough to take in and appreciate the beauty, the gifts, that were right in front of me – the perfume of a rose, the warm evening breeze of a summer’s day,  and the sweet faces of each of my infant children. It’s not that most people don’t appreciate these things, but I had overlooked much of this in my busyness. Over time, I learned to stop and pay attention more often. 

But when the hardest lesson in my life, the hardest challenge I had ever experienced thus far occurred—the death of my own child—I began to connect with spiritual teachers and philosophies of all walks of life through books and podcasts. The germination of this new growth buzzed somewhere deep inside me. My perspective shifted and, as I said earlier, it had to. I began to find traces of beauty in even the horrific event of my son’s passing. Somewhere in all that pain and madness, there was a spark of light. The love that filled our home in the immediate aftermath of his accident, the stories told of his kindness and fierce loyalty, and the connections many of us have made with him since his passing into spirit are all evidence that, as Dr. Mary Neal says in her book 7 Lessons from Heaven, “Beauty comes of all things.”

Recently I accompanied my husband on a short (two whole nights) business trip to New York City. The hotel provided by the company he works for was in midtown Manhattan. We enjoyed a Broadway show, a spectacular view of the NYC skyline from our hotel balcony, and a couple meals with a few well-loved old friends.

One afternoon I was walking up 8th Avenue on my way to one of these lunch visits. As I walked the ever-crowded streets of downtown Manhattan, I felt a shift in my awareness. I couldn’t help but become keenly cognizant of the sights and sounds around me…cars honking, sirens blaring, and people yelling, sometimes screaming obscenities. These humans appeared angry, hostile, projecting an energy of rage. It was disconcerting. I felt a sadness for them. What happened in their lives to bring them to this? I wished there was something I could do.

The smells were unavoidable - sewage, cigarettes, marijuana, horse excrement, human urine. The sidewalks grimy and littered. A destitute woman sitting against buildings, no teeth, crusty, calling out unintelligibly, maybe for money. Humans in wheelchairs, some missing limbs, somehow surviving day to day, faces hardened by the city. Other faces blank, emotionless, just living, just getting through the day. I searched the faces for any trace of hope or joy.

Amidst it all, I heard the chirp of a bird. I stopped and looked up to see the little guy perched on a signal light, a sparrow. I smiled in the moment and took in its sweetness. Then I looked further up, beyond the buildings that choked the airspace, and glimpsed the sky. Up there, yes, above all the insanity and pain, all was calm.

I felt heavy, having witnessed the manifested burdens and disillusions of so many. Was I judgmental? What did I know of their lives, their heartaches, their pain? Their goodness? I don’t know what to call it, but I know how I felt—truly saddened, weary, discouraged. My body had stiffened, tightened, my breathing was shallow. 

I had been taught to shed the suffocating disillusionment by coming back to the present moment, right here, right now, with each inhalation and exhalation. In that moment, all I could offer was love, healing, hope, peace. I could offer a smile. I could offer a dollar. That’s all. That’s it. And it felt like so little. 

Inside I thought, “I can’t change the world. I can’t fix it. I can only be me, my authentic self, right here, right now. Feel the love and peace within myself, and allow it to expand all around me, hoping it can make even the slightest difference.” 

And then I remembered something else I had come to understand. How could I have forgotten? God is not only above, but is within each and every one of us, not only in the joy and the beauty, but in the pain and sorrow as well…in the toothless woman sitting on the cold cement asking for money, in the seemingly strung-out folks screaming obscenities to anyone around them who will hear, in the hardened face of the exhausted construction worker listening to his boss give instructions. And just as much as in the sparrows perched upon the signal lights chirping their little hearts out with joy.  

I looked around, and in that moment, I knew God permeated all. I knew that every person and every thing holds within its own existence the essence of the Creator, the Source of all Love. Everyone is doing his/her best in their present situation. There is a place of peace within, which is God, which sustains us in all situations. And once you know that, really know it in your heart, you can never unknow it. 

I am learning to look deeply, and that can’t happen in all the rushing around. It takes that moment to stop and breath and see. There is more than meets the eye. There is beauty in all if we will allow that possibility. Beauty, not only in a rose or the breeze, not only in the person down on his luck or in the heart and soul of the Elephant Man, but even in a wayward beetle that makes its way into a theatre. And if we can begin to set aside judgement and grasp this paradoxical concept of how beauty and God can exist where we never thought possible, perhaps, somehow, the world can become a bit kinder.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.) 

The Prayer in Each Moment

I grew up in a faith tradition. As a young Catholic, I was taught that the act of prayer was saying the Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be. If you said those words, you were good with God. Thumbs up. Great job.

We also learned early on to ask for what we needed. After all, in the Bible it says, “Ask, and you shall receive, seek, and you shall find, knock, and the door shall be opened to you.” So the petitions were lengthy—please let me get a good grade on this test, please make my friend with measles get better, please help me find my lost cat, please let my mom have a safe trip to Milwaukee…and on and on.

This kind of prayer stuck around for many years, well into my adulthood. When my children came along, my husband and I sat with them to say nightly prayers. We pretty much did the aforementioned practice. Sufficient, foundational, kind of like getting one’s feet wet with what prayer is all about.

My very conservative Catholic father found himself in his later years taking classes at Cal State University Los Angeles in order to obtain a bachelor’s degree which he had always wished to do. This grumpy father of mine (and that’s putting it mildly) slowly began his journey to find himself, though he would never have put it that way. He began spending time in art classes, hopping around campus, getting to know lots of people. Everyone knew Leo.

During this time, my dad decided to take a yoga class to fill in some elective requirements. This 70-something 5’10” skinny guy who used to wear a suit every day when he worked as owner of an attorney service from the late 1950s to the early 1970s was now sitting in lotus pose in sweatpants (though his go-to pants were now jeans—and sometimes white ones at that!) He told me he was learning to meditate. This was quite a stretch from his own foundational Catholic beliefs. Even today, many Catholics want nothing to do with Eastern practices. I believe he was starting to learn about listening to one’s inner self, you know, that place where God resides. And over time, he began to be less grumpy.

One day in my early adulthood, I heard a priest mention in a sermon that besides traditional prayer, we should also listen to God. Hmmm. Interesting. I was definitely up for that but didn’t engage in active listening until I began to meditate in my very late 50s, 14 years after my dad passed away. 

What motivated me to start this new practice was the sudden death my 24-year-old son, Eric, as the result of a car accident. Those little prayers I grew up with and taught my children were no longer sufficient for the shit that had just hit the fan. They didn’t cut the mustard, they didn’t bring me comfort, they didn’t explain what the hell had just happened. They merely scratched the surface of a profound reality I was not in touch with. Yet.

I was ravenous for some kind of understanding. I never doubted the existence of God. But somehow, I just knew that there was more to this story. So, I searched and searched, not only through books, but through podcasts and lectures on anything spiritual. 

Much of what I found was not like anything I had known before. Near death experiences and signs from the afterlife were not meaningful to me before my son’s transition. Teachings from other faith traditions and cultures were unimportant before May of 2017. But now, I was grasping for truth as well as meaning. What is the point of this incredibly difficult life?

Have you heard that saying, God is good? “God got us there safely. God is good.” “God healed my wife’s (husband’s, mother’s, daughter’s) cancer. God is good.” “I got the job I prayed for. God is good.”

Soooo…that must mean that when my son was killed in a car accident God was not good? If God is good, why did my son die at age 24? Why did any of the children of the members of my support group, Helping Parents Heal, die? What about people you hear about on the news who are murdered or killed in a natural disaster. Did God not like us?  None of that made any sense.

I knew this was not correct. I was missing something, an important piece to this puzzle. 

Funny how being broken open allows the lights to stream though, which is exactly what happened. I was no longer a believer in one particular faith that was tied up in a lovely box with pretty ribbons, one faith that insisted it knew it all. Like an erupting volcano, the lid to that box blew off, and something inside of me said, “Go. Go find it. The truth. It is there. “

Without realizing it, I was undergoing a transformation. Not unlike the caterpillar, which needs to cocoon itself and turn into mush in order to emerge as a beautiful butterfly, I was taking the brutal loss of my child and finding that it was leading me to something more. 

Richard Rohr, Franciscan priest and founder of the Center for Action and Contemplation (CAC) in Albuquerque, New Mexico, says that it is only through great love or great suffering that we can find transformation. We can move to that more beautiful place, that is, if we allow it. I was in the most vulnerable place I had ever been in my life. The worst thing possible had happened. I was (figuratively) lying flat on the ground, like a pile of mush, totally open to whatever was to come my way. Here I am, God. What next? Lead me. I have no idea what is going on or why I am here. 

Spine surgeon and author Dr. Mary Neal, who had a near-death experience (detailed in her book Seven Lessons from Heaven), survived a horrific kayaking accident where she was underwater for 30 minutes with multiple broken bones throughout her body. Her soul’s experience on the other side of the veil with what she describes as the unconditional love of God is astonishing and she was clearly changed, for the better. Ten years later, as was foretold to her during her spiritual experience, her 19-year-old son was hit by a car and killed. I have heard her speak many times, and her account of all that has happened is always extremely moving in its rawness. Clearly the suffering transformed her. In one talk, she used the phrase “scarred beautiful” to describe herself as well as so many others who have taken their pain and found ways to use it to help others. In her words, “Beauty comes from all things.” 

Dr. Neal’s story brought me a great amount of comfort, and I found many more books like this one that very much resonated with me. Etty Hillesum, whose journals were written during the year and a half she spent in the transit camp in Westerbork before being taken to Auschwitz where she died in 1943, writes, “Despite everything, life is full of beauty and meaning.” Additionally, she says, “Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two breaths, or the turning inwards in prayer for 5 short minutes.”

The teachings of Richard Rohr have opened up a whole new understanding for me of who God is. What I have learned from reading many of his books has enriched my perception of God from being the old man in the sky who doesn’t always hear our prayers to that of a God who is less of a being and more of an action of love. That love is evident in the many people around us, and certainly in the beauty of Mother Earth. All of creation contains this spark of the Divine, of God. Sometimes a prayer is just standing in the midst of a natural setting and being with the awe and wonder all around.

People ask, “Why doesn’t God stop all this madness?” Along with the concepts explained above, James Finley, one of the faculty at CAC, puts it quite succinctly. As explained by his own teacher, Thomas Merton, “God protects me from nothing, but sustains me in everything.” That actually makes more sense to me. 

After all, I have always trusted that there is life after death, and now, with all my readings and research, and even my own personal experiences, I absolutely know there is more than just this world. I have come to learn that we are not here for a smooth ride. I understand now that life is meant to be extremely challenging at times, that suffering has a purpose, and that even with all the difficulties, there is still so much beauty that exists. Not only can beauty exist despite the pain, but maybe in some cases—just maybe—as a result of it. 

Jesuit priest Greg Boyle has worked with Gang members in East Los Angeles for more than 30 years. In providing a safe place for those who are ready to step away from their gang ties he offers them a chance to work at Home Boy Industries for an 18-month period, but more importantly, he offers them unconditional love, something which many of them have never ever known before in their entire lives. The stories he tells in his books of his work with these men and women are life changing, not only for the gang members, but for anyone who reads these stories. The power of unconditional love is hugely transformative. Greg Boyle explains that it may look like he is helping the men and women who he endearingly refers to as the “homies,” but that the truth is these former and current gang members have helped and transformed him as well. There is a prayer in all of this. That kinship, that connection, that bond, is where lives the spirit of God.

Additionally, the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh brought me to the peace and truth of the present moment. Mindfulness has helped me to see and appreciate what is right in front of me. Over time I began to see that all around me were miracles. I just needed to look around and notice the perfection of a flower, the elegance of the hummingbird, the magnificence of the shifting clouds, the majesty of the mountains, and the brilliance of the sunrise. And in each of those miracles was the presence of God. Taking the moment to be present was in and of itself, a prayer. And in the moments I also found the presence of my son.

From the spiritual guides already mentioned as well as teachers like Eckhart Tolle, Suzanne Giesemann, and others, I learned to meditate, to sit in stillness and just be. I have brought all the previously mentioned rich new thoughts to meditation. I have learned to listen to God in the same way my ultra-conservative Catholic father had just begun to learn to do 25 years ago. Turns out, he was onto something. I only wish he was still around for me to discuss all this with. 

And so, I found that place of listening, not only to God, but to my own self. I am finding that the two are inextricably linked, intertwined. Now I understand in a whole new way what was meant by the Bible quote, “Made in the image and likeness of God.” 

Prayer is the connection, the communion, with God. It is the flow, the breath, and the space between thoughts. It is the awareness of that which feels greater than us, but in truth is part of each of us. And to use a term coined by English mystic of the Middle Ages, Julian of Norwich, it is the oneing (one-ing). If we allow it, we can see the prayer in all of it.

Not to say I don’t ask anymore. Rather than requests, I like the term intentions, still used by many religious institutions and spiritual people. This word suggests hope and purpose. These are prayers of help and healing, guidance from God or angels or loved ones. I still ask daily for direction in how to be helpful, how to be compassionate, and then I listen. My heart feels open and I am able to find joy.

Those prayers I learned as a child? I still say them. They are beautiful. They brought me to this deeper understanding of the presence of God all around, and to the deeper prayer life that has unfolded before me.

And after living so many years of his life dealing with anger issues that resulted from what I now understand was self-loathing, likely born from an emotionally challenging childhood, my dad had finally found some peace. Not in the rules and dogmas of institutionalized religion, with a God that judges and casts to hell. But in the peace of meditation, a pure prayer to an unconditionally loving God who wishes to gaze at us as much as we wish to gaze at Him/Her. A prayer, not only of someone else’s pre-written (and beautiful) words, but of the heart, of that true connection with the Divine where words sometimes fall short. I found that place as well. 

I do regret that I am not able to speak to my dad about all this. I can only imagine the amazing conversations that we may have engaged in. Yet, I find gratitude in knowing that his turmoil was eased and his heart was softened, and he found that prayer was really all about that connection of one’s authentic self with God, all bound together in that often used but greatly underestimated word… Love.

(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.)