A Higher Power

(As always, take what resonates for you, and let go of the rest.)

Who is God?

Oh, the eternal question. Everyone has a different answer for that. Your understanding of God, or your belief that there is no God, is based on your own experiences. Millions of lives, and billions of experiences. The likelihood of even two people believing exactly the same way is small. There are always minute details that can differ. Everyone's viewpoint is based on his/her own belief system. Here is just a small taste of mine.

So again, who is God? 

That notion has changed drastically for me in the last 5 years.

Raised Catholic, I embraced my religious beliefs with much contentment, until the whole world fell apart for me. When my 24-year-old son, Eric, passed away unexpectedly in May 2017, my first question in my outrage was, “Who are you, God?“

I then began a search, a search for the meaning of life, for an explanation of that which seems senseless, for an understanding of who God is. And in doing so, I eventually found myself looking back at what my Catholic upbringing had taught me. With new eyes, I looked through, and found the jewels of my early religious teachings. Around these truths were many mistaken beliefs that had seeped in, probably through the personal belief systems of some of those well-intentioned humans who taught me. All people take in God’s truths through their own experiences. I looked again at those gold nuggets of truth and let all the false beliefs filter out. The treasures were there. They were just hard to see at times with all the gunk floating around. 

You see, I still had God in a box. Until life as I knew it was blown apart, I still saw God in the way I was brought up as a child, as an old man in the sky who we prayed to. And if we were good enough, maybe our prayers would be answered. Isn’t that what people say? When good things happen, they give thanks to God, and when bad things happen, they believe this must be a punishment for something they've done wrong. When we pray to God and our prayers are answered, we believe it’s because we said the prayer the right way and must be a good person who is looked upon with favor by God. And when our prayer is not answered, we have to assume we didn’t deserve it because we must be lacking in the eyes of God. So, if my mother is gravely ill and I pray hard enough and God loves me enough, she will recover. But if my friend is praying for her mother’s life to be spared from stage 4 cancer, and she dies, does that mean she didn’t pray hard enough, or say the right words, or maybe wasn’t a good enough person? Does this make any sense at all?

This can not be an unconditionally loving God. This is that God that is sometimes described as angry and vengeful and ready to send us to hell for doing the wrong thing. Some people have experienced unconditional love from their parent, or spouse, or even a very good friend. I have unconditional love for my children. So why can’t God provide the same unconditional love? 

Why did God do this to me? I wasn’t the only one asking this question. Not only were thousands of other parents whose children had passed away asking this question, but so were millions of others who suffered other types of painful losses and challenges in this life—major disease diagnoses, divorce, job loss, loss of home, etc. Why does God do this to me? 

I took this question to a kind man at our church who used to be a priest within weeks after my son’s passing. Though he had chosen to leave the priesthood, he still had much to offer our church community which included making himself available for counsel. At one point during the four occasions that I met with him at our church’s Pastoral Center, I asked him where God was when my son was killed in an accident. His answer gave me much food for thought, and I did not completely understand it until many months later. 

He said that when he was still a priest in 2001, he was helping out at the

Pentagon during the aftermath of 911, and that many people asked him that same question. In his answer he suggested that they look around at all the people doing everything they could to help, the firefighters, the police, the nurses and doctors, and just regular citizens offering anything they could do to be of assistance. There, in these people, is God. Though it wasn’t the answer I was looking for, eventually I would come to understand the profound truth in this answer. And later, I ran across a Bible quote I had heard thousands of times: “The kingdom of God is within you,” also translated as “The kingdom of God is in your midst.” I now got it. I understood. God is not somewhere in the sky or far away. God is here among us, within us.

Over time, and after reading so many books and listening to so many speakers on the subjects of spirituality death, afterlife, near death experiences, and various religions and philosophies, I came to understand that I had a misunderstanding of this mystery of God. First of all, God is not a man or even a woman. God is beyond gender, though we may choose a preferred pronoun when needed (He, She, or It). God is a force of life, and even more than that, the fullness of love. People throw that word “love” around a lot.  It’s easy to forget the power of that word, the profound magnificence of what it really means in its truest form. True love is beyond our understanding as well. It is indescribable. 

For me, love is equivalent with what I now understand to be God. God is the Creator and the Source of all Love. We all came from God. A well-known passage in Genesis says that we are made "in the image and likeness of God. These are words that I (and probably most others) initially heard in a way that, as my Dad liked to say, “went in one ear and out the other.”  Since my son’s transition, those simple words that I learned so very long ago took on a whole new meaning. God is the Creator, we come from God, we are made in the image and likeness of God, and therefore we actually are love. Each one of us has this power, this potential. But most of us don’t remember that and get stuck in the materialism of the world and in the search for earthly power. We forget that we are all connected and that we belong to each other, hence, the separation, the hate, the fear, and the wars.

This world is not meant to be perfect. Only the spirit realm, Heaven, whatever you want to call it, is perfect. Here, the whole point is to deal with our challenges and from that there is growth. From that, there is the potential for us to do what we came here to do—love.

There are many names for God – Creator, Divine Source, Divine Spirit, Universe, Love, All That Is. I’m comfortable with the word God but choose what works for you.  There cannot be one name because no words can ever properly describe God. God is mystery. God is greater than the human mind can fathom or experience. People fight over the right word. What a waste of time that is.

Your childhood experiences can also affect your idea of God. If you understand God as a father figure and you had a mean and angry human father, then the word God can have a negative connotation. If you grew up with a loving and benevolent father, then the word God can have a positive connotation. Richard Rohr says, “God is uncapturable in any form, even by our words, by our mouth, and yet as available as the very breath within our lungs.” People search for other ways to describe God. Any of it is right, and all of it is right. For God is personal and therefore each person will have a different interpretation, experience, and words to describe God.

Every day my prayer is to know who God is and to know who I am, both in the same breath, both of equal importance. If I am made in the image and likeness of God, then to know myself is to know God and to know God is to know myself. I found this idea in the Bible as well: “I am in you and you are in me.“ (John 14:20). 

I make references to the Bible because that is the religious book I am most familiar with. However, all major religions have seeds of the same basic truths at their foundation. To put it simply, all roads ultimately lead to the same God. There are various faith traditions and cultures, but these are all different ways of expressing an understanding of the inexpressible, the indescribable, the expansive truth and love of God.

A couple years ago I was struck by the new meaning I found in a simple line from The Lion King. Simba is told by his father, “Remember who you are.” I understood that at one level when I first saw that movie so many years ago. Now I will never hear it the way I did before. It carries a much greater meaning. If we do truly remember who we are, then we will know that we are love and, in that love, connected to God in an unbreakable bond. If we can remember that, then the world will be a better place.

You already have everything you need within you, because the kingdom of God is within you – the indwelling spirit of God, the breath. We (I included) spend most of our time looking outside ourselves for answers, yet when we go within, there we find them, in the silence, the stillness, the still, small voice. That is God. Some call it the higher self. For we are made in the image and likeness of God. We cannot be apart from God.

Looking outside is still worthwhile. We encounter various ideas and philosophies which we can discuss, consider, collect, or throw out. These help to build and shape our own beliefs. But more than anything, the ideas of others cultivate what is already within us. As Thich Nhat Hanh has said, “I cannot teach you anything. I can only water the seeds that are already in you.”

I recently looked through my yearbook from senior year in high school. Underneath my senior portrait was the quote I had chosen to have published. Some people used quotes from great thinkers or writers or even music artists of the day. Others wrote their own. That’s what I did. And as I read what I had written so long ago, I was a bit surprised by it because I could see that my words came from a truth that was deep within, and that I was just now rediscovering. In my 17-year-old

vernacular I wrote, “Listen to others, you can learn so much. But don’t let that keep you from believing in yourself and trusting in your own ideas.” Exactly. The seeds were there, and I have spent my life, and especially this past 5 years since my son passed away, reaching out to others to water the seeds that were already within me. Of all that I listened to, I had been discerning of what felt true to me, and that is what has continued to grow. 

And that truth, that pain, that joy, that love that I feel – THAT is God, holding me, guiding me, and always right there with me. There, in the tree in my front yard, in the rose that I let kiss my cheek, in the brilliant orange sunrise, in the bright glow of the full moon, in the embrace of my husband, and the spark in each one of my children’s eyes – there, is God. Right here. Always here. And when life knocks me down, when it’s turbulent and challenging and sometimes too difficult to bear, all I need to do is look around. And there is God. 

Do I believe God exists? Yes. Do I believe he took my son? No. Do I believe Eric is in Heaven? Yes. Do I believe Heaven is far away? No. Do I believe Heaven is right here? Yes. And Eric? He is, unmistakably, still around. Not because anyone else has told me so. I believe this, know this, because of my own experiences, my own connections with God. And that’s all that really matters.

 

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

Steve - A Legacy of Music

 

My brother left this Earth 43 years ago. Forty-three years! I shake my head at how inconceivable it is that this much time has already passed. I was 20 when Steve made his transition and have lived more than 1 ½ of his lifetimes since then. He was 26, almost 27 when his defective heart finally gave out. Yet the legacy he left behind is timeless. 

It is said that those who have passed away live on in what they leave behind. They do, in so very many ways. Certainly, they live on in our memories, the joyful ones as well as the sad ones (I choose to remember the joyful ones). They live on in the pictures we pour over, savoring each detail and nuance. They live on in the letters and cards they wrote us and the stories we tell about them. They live on in the lives they touched, the effect that was made on the people they interacted with. And, along with all of this, my brother lives on in the music he wrote, played, and recorded. His soul was expressed through his music. 

Steve was born with a congenital heart defect. In layman’s terms, he simply had two holes in his heart. If he had been born today, his condition would have easily been fixed due to advancements in medical technology. But in 1952, this was not an option. My parents knew this, and knew his life would be short, but my siblings and I weren’t aware of his limited lifespan when we were younger. To my older sister and 2 younger brothers and me, Steve was our big brother who we looked up to. He took care of us, as older brothers often do. He was frail, yet he was smart and did well in school. He was not allowed to run or play sports as the stress would be too much on his heart, but he gave us wagon rides down the steep driveway that led out of our backyard (okay, one or two of those rides ended in a collision with the side of the house!), built model monsters and model rockets (which we had the pleasure of launching with him from time to time—the rockets, that is), and he was a musician. 

Ever since beginning piano lessons at age 6 or 7, piano music could be heard daily as Steve practiced. Every day. He took to the piano like a fish to water. It was never a chore for him to practice, it was his passion. And that energy permeated throughout our house, and through each of us. By the time he was about 12, he added guitar to his musical skills, and we were treated to the sounds of his guitar, along with the piano, until just days before he died.

Soon after the arrival of his first six-string came the garage bands. Oh, what a joy that was for a kid like me! For quite a few years, my siblings and I hung out many weekends in the garage, watching Steve and his handpicked young musician friends play some far-out rock music. They were covers, of course, as Steve’s original compositions came later. This was the late 60s and early 70s, and all the guys were hippie-types. Long hair was practically a requirement, with an occasional display of love beads or groovy peace-sign jewelry. As they got older, they enjoyed cigarettes and an occasional beer as they played. They covered many cool songs of the day written by artists such as The Beatles, Buffalo Springfield, Creedence Clearwater Revival, David Bowie and The Kinks, to name a few.  It was loud, it was energetic, it was fun, and I was mesmerized. My mom never minded the loud music, even when the neighbors occasionally called the police to stop all the noise. But my dad was a different story. He mostly tolerated it, yet every so often the power mysteriously shut off and the amplifiers were silenced. I wonder how that one fuse from the fuse box just disappeared?

Along with our daily dose of piano and guitar scales and pieces, and some rock’n’roll garage band weekends, we also had our daily fill of the music of classical composers and professional music artists. Steve had an eclectic album collection that eventually grew to about 1,000 albums. By the time he was a teenager, music from one or more of those albums could be heard playing from his room every day, filling our whole upstairs with the sounds of Beethoven or Frank Zappa, Debussy or The Beatles, Herbie Hancock or The Doors, Neil Young or Jimi Hendrix. Whether he was working on homework or getting dressed for the day or getting ready to go out, we were all well educated in a variety of music genres, styles, and artists. Go ahead – ask me some music trivia of the 60s and 70s!

I had my share of piano lessons as well. I studied for a of couple years between the ages of 8 and 10, took a break for a few years (though still practiced here and there), then took 1 more year of private piano at my high school. I was intrigued by Steve’s innate talent and by the beautiful music that came out of that piano, and for a time I tried to do what he did. If I heard him play a piece I especially liked, and if it was doable for me, I’d pull out the music when he was not using the piano and learn it myself. Of course, I could never come close to the grace and ease in which he expressed these classical pieces, but I certainly gave it a good try. At first, I almost thought he was bothered by my “copying” whatever he was working on. But as imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, he truly did support my efforts.

By the time I got to more advanced pieces in high school, the work became much more complex and took much more time to perfect in the limited amount of time and effort I gave them. These pieces now required much more practice. At the end of that school year, I had to do a recital, and that thought petrified me. The Chopin, Debussy, and Gershwin pieces my teacher had selected for me to play felt like they were just a notch above my actual ability, though, again, more practice might have solved that problem. I dreaded that day, not only because I was embarrassed at the idea of my subpar performance, but also because Steve was planning to be there. My big brother who I looked up and who I knew was a talented pianist, came and sat in the front row. And even after the dozens—yes, dozens—of flubs and wrong notes, he smiled and told me afterward that I had done a good job. I remember how wonderful it felt to have him tell me that, even though I didn’t believe I deserved it. But that was the end of my piano career. I chose to focus on my dance classes instead and leave it to Steve to pave the way to musical genius.

Steve’s gifts flourished even more when he attended the University of Southern California as a music composition major. There, the rigors of that program opened all the doors to his gifted soul. By then, he was composing music at a rapid pace and could often be found at our kitchen table with blank staff paper, a fountain pen and bottle of India ink, notating the complex arrangements in his head. He wrote dozens and dozens of compositions in various styles of music. Most of these songs were performed by the new bands he eventually formed and, thankfully, most of them were recorded in one way or another, whether in a recording studio, or simply with a cassette recorder placed next to his piano. What a thrill it was to attend any one of his gigs, which now comprised of his own rock’n’roll compositions, with a cover piece thrown in there every so often just for fun.

Keeping up with rehearsals and performances became more and more difficult for Steve as his heart continued to weaken. At this point my siblings and I were sadly aware of his limited time with us on this Earth. Though he longed to attend concerts, doing so involved much more walking than his body could handle. By the time he turned 26, his activities had really begun to wane. Steve’s bandmates loved him and helped him out as much as possible. They had to move all the equipment at this point. He was still able to drive, and still had some good days. But his condition was taking its toll.

I have a special memory of one day in October of 1978, just less than 4 months before my brother died. I was now attending USC (Steve’s alma mater) as a theatre arts major and was involved in a production of Federico Garcia Lorca’s Blood Wedding. Steve drove to campus to attend a matinee performance, and once again, sat in the audience to watch my performance. I felt honored to have him there, to have his support (I was much better at acting than piano). Afterwards, he took me to a little local restaurant and bought me dinner. I don’t think he had ever done that before. It was very sweet, such a loving gesture from him. I wish I could remember exactly what we talked about. No doubt it involved USC, theatre…and music.

Two months after that event, Steve wanted to go to our local bookstore to do some Christmas shopping. He wasn’t strong enough to drive, so I drove him there. I parked on the street, about 50 feet down from the store which was located on the corner. It took all his energy to walk from the car to the store – I think it took a full 5 minutes for him to do what would have taken me about 20 seconds – but he was determined to buy these Christmas gifts.  I remember the sadness I felt as I watched him put so much effort into something that we all take for granted.

On February 7 of 1979, I spoke to my mom on the phone just before heading off from my dorm room to a final dress rehearsal for our production of Pippin. Steve was home and had not left his bed for many days. My mom held the phone to my brother’s ear so that I could say hello to him. He could barely say hello back. I sensed what was coming, but I kept that thought at bay. It was too painful to acknowledge. That night when I went to bed, as I was falling asleep, I felt like Steve was standing at the foot of my bed, just there, just for a moment. I thought it was probably a dream. The next day I was told that my brother had passed away right after midnight. Right after midnight. That must have been about the time of my dream. Maybe he came to say goodbye.

I often wonder if Steve would have been the same accomplished musician he was if he hadn’t been disabled. If he had been healthier and fit, maybe he would have spent more time playing sports or running around with friends and less time at the piano and on his guitar. Maybe he wouldn’t have had time to practice as much as he did and write as many musical compositions. Who knows? All I know is that we were so fortunate to have him with us for almost 27 years. I know that he had a huge impact on all our lives with the gift he gave all of us, his family and countless others, with his music. How fortunate we are to still have so many recordings of his music, including many of his hand-written musical notations. How magnificent it was to have a 10-piece chamber orchestra perform one of his most accomplished works at a concert in his honor only 5 years ago. I have absolutely no doubt of the influence his music had on me personally, how much it affected the kind of music I love today. I truly believe that my own joy and passion for music comes from many sources, but mostly from Steve.

Yes, 43 years have passed. Have we forgotten about Steve? Not at all. His essence surrounds us and is brought back to life in the photos and the stories we tell, including this story I tell in this moment. He is here.  And he is here in the music he brought forth and left us. The music, which came directly from Steve’s soul, lives on. And every time we listen to his music, or share his music with others, or tell the story of him and his music, Steve lives on, too.

Thank you, big brother. On this day, February 8, 2022, the 43rd anniversary of your entrance to the big rock concert in the sky, we honor you. And on this upcoming anniversary of your birth into this world, we celebrate you. 

No Judgment Please

We've all been there at some point, in one form or another, or certainly we will be eventually. Someone we dearly love passes away. The pain is so deep, and it feels like we cannot go on. But the way we grieve is as individual as our own fingerprint.

I have grieved—in my own way. My 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident on Mother's Day weekend in May of 2017. My journey has been my own, different than even the journey of my husband or each of my surviving children, even different than the journeys of other parents whose child has passed away. Much of my healing is attributed to the actions I decided to take, shaped by the pain in my soul, the pain that held the history of all my past traumas and losses—and loves.  My healing was shaped by the therapist I chose to spend a year and a half with, and the online support groups I sought out and still spend time with. One of these groups is Helping Parents Heal, a group specifically for parents whose child has transitioned. In this group, we are able to post pictures of our child anytime we want, and no one complains about it. We are able to write how we feel, whether that may be despair or hope. There is no judgement, because there is an understanding that every single one of us does this in her/his own way.     

My journey guides me toward healing and continues to unfold. But there is no reason for me to ever tell anyone else to do it my way. I could be speaking with another parent whose child has passed away, but her/his circumstances would likely be entirely different than mine. The history and relationship with the child would have been different. Many parents had either a shorter time with their child than I did, or a 
longer time. Maybe their child did not die in a a car accident like mine did. Maybe their child passed from a long illness, or from an accidental drug overdose, or from suicide, or was murdered. Maybe that parent lost the only child they ever had.  Maybe their relationship with their child was troubled, or estranged, or more loving than any other relationship they have ever had. Maybe they took care of their disabled child every single day and night for years, and no longer have that daily interaction. I have no idea what any of that feels like. How could I judge that person's grief?

And likely, different parents' past experiences with other losses are unlike mine. Maybe they've had many traumatic losses, or maybe none at all. Maybe they have felt abandonment or, conversely, total support. Maybe they already had a strong foundation of faith, or an unsettling church experience, a loving relationship with God, or no belief in any God whatsoever. Maybe death for them had always been a taboo subject and seen as something to be avoided, or was a topic that was frequently discussed and philosophized. All these differences are going to affect the way a person grieves. So, who am I to tell someone else that they are grieving too much and should be over it by now, or that they are not grieving enough?

Another online support group I spend time with, Grief: Releasing Pain, Remembering Love & Finding Meaning, is inclusive of losses of any loved one. I have seen people in so very much pain when their parent passes away. These are people usually around my age, in their 60s, whose mother or father was in her/his 80s or 90s. Many of these grievers are totally devastated and distraught. The love is so deep and the pain so great that they have a hard time getting through each day. However, my experience with my parents' deaths was very different. My grief was much softer, gentler, and a bit more accepting of this inevitability in life. Although my heart was heavy, I did not experience difficulty getting up in the morning and facing the day. Does this mean I loved my parents less? Not at all. No doubt this difference in grieving was due to a very different history and relationship with my parents, and also due to the many discussions of life and death we had over the years. My grief in this case was unlike the grief of others. There would be no reason at all for me to tell someone else that they are grieving too much, or conversely, for anyone to say to me that I didn't grieve enough. Everyone's situation is unique.

And on the flip side of that, I have learned never to take personally how someone else views my grief, though it did take some time for me to get there. After the passing of my son, I quickly became aware of who I could discuss my grief with and who not to bring it up to. I would love if people could withhold judgment and understand that grief is a personal journey. But I also know that their judgment is based on their own preconceived notions. It would be easy for me to become offended by or angry at people who make comments about my grief. But the truth is, I know they have absolutely no idea what I have been through in my life, just like I have no idea what they have been through in their lives. I have finally found the grace to just let them be and assume they mean well. I know who I am, and I know why I need to do what I do. This is quite a lesson I have learned, though by no means always easy and certainly far from perfected.

In our society we are quick to judge. We judge people by their appearances, the clothes they wear, and the cars they drive. We judge people by whether or not they have a college education, and whether or not they make a lot of money. We judge people by the houses and neighborhoods they live in and the schools they attend. We judge people by their personalities, whether they are friendly and outgoing, or quiet and reclusive. We judge them by their religious beliefs and political affiliations We are a society of judges, always measuring someone's value, someone's worth, whether or not someone belongs in our group, whether or not they are good enough. We assume that we do is the right way, the only way, and if someone does it another way, it must be wrong. I hope people can begin to step back for a moment and allow others to feel what they feel and be who they are. Rather than judge them for not being like us, wouldn't it be loving to allow others to be who they are and work through grief in their own way? Rather than judge, just offer love and support. Just offer your presence and be a witness to their grief.

You might wonder why I continue to visit these online support groups 4 years and 8 months after my son's transition. My answer is that I continue to learn from the stories and experiences of other grievers. I am reminded of how it felt in the beginning, so that I remain compassionate when someone in my own community experiences the loss of a loved one. I am inspired by those who have found ways to grow and even thrive from the physical separation from their loved one. I am touched by those who speak of their pain and their love, and I can only hope that any one of my posts might be helpful to even one other person. Of course, even though most of my days can be busy, eventful, challenging, or even filled with joy, I still have my harder days where the grief makes itself known and I take the time to retreat into the shadows for some self care. The grief will never go away completely. I will never be done grieving. It lives within me, in my heart, right next to the joy of my memories and the joy of the present moment. So, on the days I wish to post a picture of my son and share a memory or poem I wrote (and I hesitate to post too often on my main social media pages), I know I can always do so in the support groups. I will always receive supportive comments to help me cope, reminding me, once again, of the love that is offered, that holds us up and carries us through.

I have said it before, and I'll say it again. We are here in this earthly experience to, among other things, help each other along the way. Rather than judge, why not reach out a hand to help someone up, or simply provide a listening ear. Offer the compassion you might hope someone would offer you when you need it. Remind yourself that there is no way you could possibly know what that person has been through before this loss because his/her past experiences might be radically different than your own. Remember that the reality is that deep within each of our hearts, we just want to be heard, accepted, understood, and allowed to be who we are. In truth, we are all connected. And that connection is love.

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

A Journey Toward the Meaning of Life

 

I offer these thoughts. If they resonate, they are a gift to you. If they don’t, let them go.

Why are we here?

This is an age old question that most every human has pondered or will ponder at one point or another during his/her life.

This question cannonballed its way into my life four and a half years ago when my youngest of 4 children, my 24-year-old son, Eric, was killed in a solo car accident. Talk about blindsided. Nothing made sense anymore. Life lost all meaning. I no longer felt I had a purpose. This beautiful life that I had meticulously built along with my husband was shattered. The unthinkable had actually happened. What is the point of all of this? Why are we spending so much time assembling our lives when they can be broken apart in an instant? What kind of game are we playing?

Why are we here?

It is a mystery. That is what the monsignor of our church said when he stopped by our home the day after Eric’s transition.  My husband and I were comforted not only by the caring gesture of his visit (even though he had a huge church community to attend to) but also by what he said. When he came in and sat down on our couch next to the lit candle and graduation photo of Eric, his first words were, “It’s a mystery.” He did not claim to know the answers, and he didn’t placate us with the idea that it was God’s plan. He simply left it at mystery. And though I wanted more than that from him, I would eventually see the great truth in this. 

I believe Monsignor understood that no matter what he said, it would not make it better, it would not give us a satisfactory answer. I believe he knew that this is a question each one of us has to answer ourselves. I believe he knew that this was a very personal conversation between God and me, and he could not participate in that conversation. It was my journey to take. 

The other thing he said was that people will tell us that it will get better with time and we will eventually get over this. He said, “That’s rubbish.” He told us we will have days when our son’s memory will bring us a smile, and other days when his memory will be like a dagger in the heart.  He didn’t try to fix us. He pulled no punches. He not only gave us the gift of a visit, but also the gift of the truth. We so appreciated this. 

So, for the last 4 ½ years since that horrendous day, I have been searching for the answer. I have read well over a hundred books that relate in any way to the subjects of life and death, spirituality, and afterlife, as well as how each of these themes are viewed by various world cultures. I have listened to hundreds of podcasts on these same subjects, many of them from the same authors of the books I have read. I have pondered and prayed, mulled over and mediated, discussed and deliberated, and to date I have made some discoveries.  I hesitate to say I may have found some answers, for this is an enormous question which is not easily answered, and which we must always continue to contemplate. But something began to resonate. Something clicked.

When my son passed away, nothing else mattered. All the “little” things in life, like what car I drove and what size my house was, what clothes I wore and whether or not I was having a good or bad hair day, no longer had any importance whatsoever.  Even seemingly bigger things like which college my kids got into or whether or not we could even afford college for them in the first place, lost any relevance. When my most significant reason for being here, my child, disappeared from my grasp, I knew that all that mattered at all was that deep bond of love I had with him, the same one I have with my husband and 3 other kids.

So as I foraged through books and podcasts, sifting out words of comfort and wisdom, I found a common theme, one which matched what I had been feeling.

Don’t hold your breath. You’ve heard this one before, as have I. But now it had a much deeper meaning. 

It was love. Simply love. A love so great that from it flows compassion and kindness.

For you see, when you are broken open, you now have space for the light to come through – if you allow it. When you are flattened to the ground in complete surrender, with no strength left to kick and fight, you will finally allow peace to surround you, hold you. Your heart softens with compassion for, first of all, yourself. And then, when you are ready, this compassion can flow from you to others around you. 

As I looked around, I saw that I was not the only one. There were others suffering as well. And as I picked myself up and began to see that I was connected with so many others who had also lost their loved ones, I knew there was no choice but to do for them that which had been done for me, to offer to them the same kindness and compassion that had been given to me and my family. No more need for measuring who deserves it or not. No more judgment. We all need love. We all need understanding. We all need compassion. 

Orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Mary C. Neal, had a near death experience when she was submerged underwater for almost 30 minutes during a kayaking accident in southern Chile in 1999. She tells about the indescribable love that she experienced when she was in Heaven. One of the biggest takeaways for me from her book Seven Lessons from Heaven was that she was shown how even the smallest act of kindness done here on Earth is looked upon by those in the spiritual realm as huge. Again, no measuring. She said she was able to see the ripple effect that extended out 20 or 30 times from that one small act of kindness. 

Various faith traditions teach the connection between suffering and love. The Buddhist philosophy teaches that it is through suffering that our hearts become tender, making us more likely to extend compassion to others. Father Richard Rohr, founder of The Center for Action and Contemplation in Albuquerque, New Mexico, says that it is through great love and great suffering that we come to God, or certainly that we can come to God. He says that if we don’t transform our suffering, we will certainly transmit it. 

Grief specialist David Kessler explains that it is possible to make meaning after a loss by, among other things, honoring your loved one who has passed away.  And one invaluable way to do this is to help others dealing with this same challenge, extend a hand out to those in need. 

I found that by offering acts of kindness, even small ones, I give to others as others had given to me. This is what Eric did. After his passing, dozens of his friends told me stories of his benevolence to so many of them, as well as to many people he had only met just once. So I do it for him. I can make something good out of this extremely challenging reality of now having to live without his physical presence. 

I began to understand, in my heart, deep down into the core of my being, that this is what it is all about. This simple word that we have all heard from as far back as we can remember – love – is the big lesson. 

My daughter, Vanessa, has had many dreams where Eric is with her. They hang out, talk, laugh and tease. She told me that in one of these dreams Eric told her that we are here for the experience. Yes, the experience of this life, the experience of our humanness. We are here to feel all of it, the joy and the pain. We are here to be awed and amazed, to see the miracle in the mundane, and the extraordinary in the ordinary.

It was my suffering that brought me here. It was my great loss that catapulted me into new territory.  I have discovered that not only are we here to love, but also to serve, forgive, and show compassion, which are extensions of love. We do this, not for the acknowledgement or the merit points, but just because.  I always knew these qualities were important. But now I really know. And these are not just traits. These are actions, these are energies, these are the power and the meaning…of life. 

There is still mystery, as Monsignor said. This is all so much bigger than my little brain will ever comprehend. And that's okay with me now. Monsignor was wise to let me discover this on my own. For now the space in my heart is filled with a greater awareness of why we’re here, an awareness he would not have been able to explain to me that day after Eric moved to Heaven. It became my truth, my awareness. And from this awareness, I have found peace.

Ram Dass, an American spiritual teacher and the author of the 1971 book Be Here Now, is famously quoted as saying “We’re all just walking each other home.” This couldn’t resonate with me more. We are all here not only to love each other, but also to support each other and hold each other up. In this way we help each other through the inevitable challenges. There is indescribable beauty in this. And this is where we find God.

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

Connections

 

Yesterday I got together with a friend I had not seen in about two years. During our wonderful conversation over lunch, catching up on all that had transpired since I last saw her, she told me that her brother had passed away 16 months ago. I was naturally surprised and saddened to hear this. She was well aware of my son’s transition in May of 2017, and knew that I had written a book (Look Around: A Mother’s Journey from Grief and Despair to Healing and Hope) about it a year ago. However I wasn’t sure if she knew the depth to which I had written about the connections we continue to have with our loved one in spirit. I gently expressed to her my belief that my son and her brother are still around in spirit, and with no hesitation she wholeheartedly agreed. Then, with only slight caution, she told me about something that had occurred the day after his passing. 

That morning, still fresh with grief, my friend was getting ready to leave to face the grim business of arranging her brother’s services. As she opened the door and stepped out, a small gust of wind blew into her face and enveloped her. It had the distinct sent of his cologne and she felt an immediate sense of his presence.  Of course she looked around to see if anyone else was there, but no one was. She was immediately overcome with an indescribable peace, a peace that provided her with a few moments of absolute love from her brother, and which eased her grief for those moments. She felt it was his way of sending her his love and saying all was well. 

When a loved one transitions, someone who is the world to you, it feels like you have lost a part of yourself. This is exactly how so many people describe it. We feel that way because of the connection we have with him/her, a deep connection at a level we can’t even fully express. The truth is, this connection is eternal. Sometimes we don’t realize this because the loss of his/her presence is so overwhelming. Our loved ones’ physical bodies very much represent how we know them, yet the truth is we are all so much more than that. Whether we realize it or not, we are also strongly connected to their essence, to their soul, and that connection will never go away. 

Our loved ones have moved into a purely spiritual existence that we do not detect with our five senses. We live in a three dimensional world, as well as one dimension of time. Our loved ones who have passed have moved into a greater reality, greater dimensions that are still right with us but invisible to our human eyes and inaudible to our human ears. 

However there are moments where those two realities, theirs and ours, can cross. In those moments we become aware of their presence. And when this happens, it is almost as if we get a glimpse into their world as they exist now. It is a surreal moment, a moment of peace that cannot be described in our human words.

When this integration of the two worlds takes place, we feel such joy that we wish to share that with others we know. Yet this miraculous event is so hard to truly and fully express to anyone else. Trying to explain this to someone who is slightly or even fully open to this possibility is not too difficult. But of course expressing this experience to someone who is skeptical or even cynical about life beyond this earthly realm can be a bit painful. It is usually dismissed or explained somehow in human terms which usually include, “You have quite an imagination,” or, “That’s what grief can do to your mind,” or, “You must have been dreaming,” or of course, “You’re crazy!” Yet there is a knowing deep in our hearts that a connection has been made. It’s best not to share something so beautiful and personal with skeptics. Keep this amazing gift for yourself.

Most of us have been raised to believe that all we see, hear, touch, smell and taste is the only reality. If we can’t see it, it must not exist. But what about sound waves and light waves? What about electromagnetic fields and radiation. Yes, we see the results of these energies. We hear the sound transmitted from a speaker, and we see the car headlights in the night. But we don’t actually see any of these energies. Are they there, or not? It has been determined by scientists that of course they are there since the evidence is all around us. 

So what about the scent of her brother’s cologne that my friend smelled? No one was around. No one had passed by. The sidewalk was empty. What was that? 

I can hear it now. “It’s just her imagination.” For some, that is enough of a justification, a nice and easy way to explain it away. However, she hadn’t been thinking about his cologne. She hadn’t sat and wished and hoped to smell it. When she least expected it, it was there.

I have heard too many stories similar to this one that have no solid explanation. I have heard and read hundreds and hundreds accounts of these connections. Some of these experiences include interactions with nature, such as a bird hanging out outside someone’s window for hours at a time, a bare dormant plant in the middle of winter suddenly blossoming the next day, feeling a gentle and loving hug while sleeping, receiving a text out of nowhere from their deceased loved one that says “hi,” even hearing or seeing one’s loved one, etc. The list goes on.  I am willing to bet that most of you reading this have a story or two of your own. And I can also bet that those of you who have had an experience similar to these (if you haven’t already talked yourself out of it) probably hesitate to tell some people about it for fear of being ridiculed. I don’t blame you. I don’t like being ridiculed either. Arguing will get you nowhere. Everyone’s beliefs are different. Let it be. Keep it in your heart, because in your heart, you know.

Albert Einstein said, “Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another.” It cannot be destroyed. As I see it, the energy of our physical bodies changes at “death.” There is only death of the human body. Our true self, our consciousness, shifts into the purely spiritual. And the connections remain—if we are open to them.

During those early months after my 24-year-old son had passed away in a car accident, I had learned about self-guided meditations. I would soothe myself by guiding myself to a beautiful place of my choosing, usually a sandy beach with clear blue water and palm trees. I created many details that included a table and two chairs overlooking the water where I could sit with Eric, have a latte, and talk, enjoying the breeze and the scent of the ocean. I admit this was completely my imagination. I knew it was something created by my mind. Regardless, it brought me some comfort. I actually felt like I had spent some time with him.

So for many months after Eric left his physical body, I cried each night when I went to bed. I had held it together for most of the day, but the emotions came out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I couldn’t do anything about this outpouring of grief. Out it came. Then, I would do the self-guided meditation. I usually spent about 10 minutes guiding myself through a lovely pathway of trees, flowers, hills and grasses that eventually led to that glorious beach. I then spent another 10 minutes with Eric, talking with him and telling him how much I loved him. This would calm me, and I usually had no trouble sleeping after that.

But one night I was extra tired when I went to bed. I said to Eric that I was going to skip the pathway and just see him at the table overlooking the beach. In my imagination, I sat at the table and saw him approaching me from a short distance, wearing his usual jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap. This, I had set up. The next thing that happened, I had not.

Within the first 20 seconds of the meditation, as I cried, I heard… in my right ear... “I’m right here mom.” I heard my son tell me that he is right here. In my ear. I had imagined the beach and the rolling waves and the breeze. I had imagined the table and the chairs and Eric coming towards me. But I had not imagined him telling me that he was right here. That took me totally by surprise. 

Peace, the peace that surpasses all understanding, was mine. I was surrounded by it. I was enveloped and held by this love. It was a gift from God and from my son. It was a glimpse. A connection. 

There is no need to ever explain myself. I know what that was. Just like my friend knew what that scent was. Just like so many others whose accounts I have heard or read knew what that bird was, or that blossoming flower on an otherwise dormant tree was, or that hug while they drifted off into half sleep was, or that text that came out of nowhere was. We just… know.

This story is only one of dozens, probably hundreds, of connections I have had with Eric. They have all been recorded into many journals of mine. And sometimes, when I go back and read them, I am amazed all over again.

If you ever are blessed with a special connection with a loved one who has passed, I encourage you to not toss away the possibility that it really is your mom, your dad, your sibling, your child, or your friend. Take that moment to notice how you feel. Take that moment to test it in your heart. It’s not about what someone else might say. It’s what you know to be true deep within. Chances are it is that someone with whom you have an eternal connection.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life, and Death, on Lillian's Terms

  

A week ago was my mother’s 90^th birthday. She was not here to celebrate with us in the usual way because two and a half years ago she took off—she left her physical body and ran ahead of us to join her loved ones on the Other Side (also known as Heaven). She couldn’t wait to see her parents again, her sisters, some of her dear friends, and especially her son, my brother, Steve. She made it quite clear during her last year here on Earth that she was ready to move on. She was not at all afraid to die. She felt her work here was done.

Lillian was one of 6 daughters born to Armenian natives for whom death and loss were a close companion. You see, they had to flee Armenia in the 1920s due to the Armenian genocide which was taking place in their homeland. My grandparents had witnessed the massacre of hundreds of their own friends and family (among the more than one million killed in total), including their own parents and siblings. As they fled across the Syrian desert, they witnessed the deaths of many of the people with them who succumbed to starvation. They watched others attacked and slain by the machete wielding oppressors. My grandparents’ own 2 babies (not included in the 6 mentioned above) did not survive due to disease. In fact, my step-grandmother who came into the pictures years later and had survived these atrocities, told us how she went on to birth 12 babies, only to have all of them die in childbirth or infancy. I had no idea how my ancestors could have survived all this. 

According to my mother, some of these experiences were the bedtime stories told to her and her sisters by my grandmother. It was not at all meant to upset. It was my grandmother’s way of sharing what had happened, telling the stories of their lives, and probably was a necessary way for her to express her pain. I mean, the pain has to go somewhere.

With this history of her family in her in her back pocket, as well as in her DNA, my mom faced the many adversities of her own life with grit. She had a tumultuous marriage with my father, and their weekly, sometimes daily, arguments came to blows on a few occasions. Their 16 year age difference, clashing generations and cultures, and my father’s own rageaholic personality (no doubt drawn from his own painful past) were a perfect recipe for a dysfunctional family environment. But she forged on raising us 5 children with love and commitment. She was often exhausted, and sometimes depleted of joy. Yet her resolve to take care of us kept her going.

Mom was a violinist as a young woman, and was expected to set that aside when she married at age 18. Her passion, her outlet, was squelched. Her firstborn son, my older brother Steve, was born with a congenital heart condition that left 2 holes in his heart. In the 1950s and 1960s, surgery was out of the question. At age 21, she began the journey of caring for a child who would not live a full life span. My mom’s own sister died of tuberculosis at age 36, and her mother died soon after that. Then eventually, by 1979, my older brother’s body was too frail and sick to hold on much longer, and Steve’s spirit was set free. My mother, naturally, was in bitter grief. In all the years to follow, she endured the pain of missing him by listening to audio cassettes of the music that my gifted musician brother had composed and recorded. This helped her to feel close to him.

My mother’s coping mechanisms were in place. She was a smoker since age 16, a drinker (at times), and a gambler. She took prescription pills to help her go to bed at night and different pills to help her get up in the morning, as was typical in the 50s and 60s (check out the lyrics to "Mother's Little Helper" by the Rolling Stones). She loved the distraction and atmosphere of the horse races and Las Vegas and spent time engaging in these activities whenever the opportunity arose, usually a few times a year. These were the rare occasions we saw our parents having a good time together. Yet in 1974, when the strain of her stormy marriage became too much for her, she even attempted, and survived, suicide…twice. Interestingly, each time, she informed one of us after she had taken the potentially lethal dose of tranquilizers so that we could intervene. I don’t think she really wanted to go. It was a cry for help.

                                                             

That is not to say my mother didn’t make sure to take good care of her kids. All 5 of us were well fed and clothed, hugged and kissed, and indulged on birthdays and Christmases. We were driven to dance lessons and scouts, taught to bake and sew, read to, and she was always there for our recitals and graduations. We were very much loved. And of course, each of us, as well as our own kids, was taught how to play Black Jack as soon as we could count to 21!

But we also, thankfully, saw the healthier coping mechanisms that helped her make sense of the stresses and heartbreak in her life. She had been a writer since childhood and as an adult spent time writing novels as a way of expressing her deepest feelings.(Despite numerous submissions to various publishers, none of her books ever made it to print.) She went back to school at age 50, after we were grown, to earn both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in English, and another bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. These then allowed her to teach English at the local community college. By now my dad had retired and mellowed. And from time to time she even dusted off her violin and played many of the old classical pieces she used to play. Mom was intelligent, witty, strong-willed, funny, and outspoken. She was a firecracker. Her students adored her, and people who met her for the first time were endeared by her wild spirit, sense of humor, and heart of gold.

So in 2018, 49 years after her son Steve had passed away, 15 years after my dad’s death, 2 years after her boyfriend of 13 years made his exit, and a year after my son Eric, her grandson, had been killed in a car accident, my mother’s health began to fail. She was now 86 going on 87, and she had no intention of sticking around much longer. Her body was becoming more feeble, and her mind fluctuated from very forgetful to sharp-as-a-tack. She refused to go to doctors anymore, so we pretty well assumed her stomach pain might be due to stomach cancer, as tests from a couple years previous had indicated that possibility. Despite all her smoking, her lungs never developed cancer. But quit smoking? Not on your life! She could hardly eat anything anymore, but don’t anyone dare take away her cigarettes!

In her last 5 months, Mom became very frail and needed 24 hour care to make sure she was getting the right dosage of her medications (provided by hospice) and was well fed, at least as much as her tiny tummy could allow. And believe me, she protested often because of the cost of the care. We also discussed the possibility of an assisted living facility, a very nice one nearby, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “I want to die in my own house!” I guess I couldn’t blame her.

We had two amazing women, two absolute angels, who took good care of her and gave her a lot of love. When they weren’t there, my siblings and I took turns spending time with her, chatting, picking up groceries, watching Jeopardy and Seinfeld, and doing the crossword puzzle. Gone were the days of her getting out of the house to do senior aerobics at the gym or visit with her friends. Most of them had died by now anyway.

When I was there visiting my mother, I’d have a cup of tea with her. She was a talker and I was a listener—for the most part. We talked about what was happening in our lives now and about wonderful memories of the past. We talked about her dad and mom, Steve, my dad, and my son Eric. Sometimes she would glance at me with a bit of a foggy look in her eyes and take a moment before she’d ask, “Did Eric die?” Those were the moments when the dementia became a bit evident. I’d tell her yes, and she would cry for a bit.

But often she was perfectly lucid. And she was quite funny. She’d make jokes, and then I’d joke back. She’d laugh at my jokes and I’d laugh at hers. She had developed a bit of a dark sense of humor as she approached death. On her bad days, where the pain was more apparent, she’d straight out tell me as I was leaving, “Well, I don’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow. So I’ll say good bye now.” And she wasn’t kidding! She wasn’t sad about it. She was very matter of fact. And I’d say, “Well I hope I do see you tomorrow.” I was pretty sure I would. Then the next day I’d see her and I’d say, “Well, you didn’t die,” and she’d say, “I guess I was wrong. But I’m rarely wrong!” Once she even was having a pleasant conversation with the handy-man who was doing some work in the kitchen for her. When he was done, he asked her if there  was anything else he could do for her, and without a beat she said, “Sure, could you kill me?” and then laughed about it. Honestly. That woman! I told you she was a firecracker.

My mother and I talked about death. She told me she was looking forward to it. She felt she had done her job and wanted to be with Steve and the others. She also reported seeing Steve and Eric, her parents, and my dad around the house from time to time. I had heard about this. As a person approaches death, they are often already beginning to become aware of the spirit world. They sometimes touch that space between this dimension and the next. This brought me much comfort.

She would slowly walk me around the large backyard to show me which plants were growing, which flowers were blooming, and which trees were producing fruit. The fig tree and the peach tree were her pride and joy. And then, as we sat again at the little circular stone table and two chairs in the patio area, she’d have another cigarette. She’d look around, enjoying the beautiful day, the magnificent trees and the blue sky, and on some days she would say, “It’s a great life.” This always gave me pause. She said that life was great!  After all she had been through, all the pain, the struggles, the fights, the losses, the death of her beloved son, the despair, the desire to take her own life, the grief…my dying mother, at age 87, sat in the backyard with me and told me that life was great.

Mom died on December 16, 2018. My sister told us that, just hours before, she had walked my mom to the restroom, even though my mom could barely make it. But she insisted. Then my mom asked for a cigarette, and though she could no longer inhale the smoke, she just held it to her lips for a moment. (A cigarette to the bitter end!) She then went to sleep and never woke up. She had done it on her terms. As difficult as she had been to deal with at times, I had to hand it to her. She did it her way. I had to respect that.

There’s always a lesson…in everything. My mom taught me how to live. Despite everything she had gone through - all the tears she shed, all the abuse she took, all the times she wailed about the unfairness of life, all the times she cursed this earthly existence - when all was said and done, she was able to look back over all of it and say, “It’s a great life.” I still am blown away by that. I am still awed by the deep wisdom in that. I still stop and ponder the truth in that.

Thank you, Mom, for this gift you have given me, you have given all of us. I will live my life on my terms. And when I join you where you are, we can have a cup of tea and a cigarette.

Happy birthday, Mom.

No Pain, No Gain

 

You’ve heard the old saying, “No pain, no gain.” The older I get, the truer those words ring. We spend most of our lives, if not all of our lives, resisting the hardships, the challenges, and the pain. And understandably so. Who wants pain? I’m not about to raise my hand when asked that question.  Short of putting up with the physical pain of a strenuous workout because we know the results will be worthwhile, or (for some women) accepting the pain of childbirth because we know the prize is miraculous, we do everything in our power to escape pain.

In recent years I have thought about this notion of no pain, no gain, in light of a blow from left field that struck me and my family in May of 2017. The greatest heartbreak I could ever imagine came to our family when my sweet, handsome, talented son was killed in a car accident. Boom. That was it. The pain was indescribable, gut wrenching, and brutal. We had no idea how to endure it.

These past 4 years have been a journey, and that is an understatement. I found myself, early on, deciding to figure out not only how this could possibly have happened to me, to my family, but how to stand up and live again. What do I do now? I had no control over this. I had worried about this worst-possible-thing-that-could-happen-to-a-parent since my first child was born, but all that worry didn’t stop it from happening. I was plunged into the depths of despair, floundering like a person without swimming skills who had just been thrown into the water, spitting and sputtering and gasping for air.

This is how it goes. This is grief. No one is expected to escape the pain. The grief fills every part of you. It holds you and caresses you, then pulls you under and back to the surface again. Sometimes the waves take you for a ride, and you are completely powerless to control your emotions as you are helplessly tossed and turned. Then the waves subside and you rest, catch your breath…until the next wave. No point in resisting. This is the expected tumult of unwelcomed change. My family and I went through this for many months.

During the rest periods, I voraciously read book after book after book about death, afterlife, near death experiences and spirituality. I listened to a multitude of podcasts about these same subjects. I found Helping Parents Heal, an amazing online support group for parents whose children have passed away.  I found a wonderful grief specialist and went to therapy once a week. I developed a newfound spirituality, an understanding of a God who does not punish and take away, but of a God who is the Creator and the Source of all Love. I found people, beautiful souls, who are beacons of that pure and loving light who could surround me and support me. And at some point, I began to find my sea legs and was able to stand up again, shaky, but upright.

And so now here I was with a choice. I could choose to suffer for the rest of my life. I could play the role of a victim, of “Why me?” and I could tell myself daily that I would never get over this, that I would never find joy again, and that life was horrible. I could hate God, hate my life, and hate all people who still had all their children. I could force myself to never laugh, or smile, and if I accidentally did either, I could feel guilt and become angry at myself for daring to feel good when my son was not here.  

Or I could choose to live. I could choose to find the joy in life that my son had found in his. I could choose to honor him by caring about others, helping others, and showing compassion to others as he did. I could choose to see the best in others, forgive others and love others, just as he did. I could choose to find adventure and joy in life. I could choose to look around and find the beauty, the amazement, the miracle, in everything around me. If I found something to be funny, I could choose to laugh wholeheartedly and full-bellied, just as he would have. And in doing so, I would feel him laugh along with me. Not that the longing in my heart for another hug from him doesn't bring me to tears on some days. But little by little, a new understanding of my purpose here began to unfold. Yes, no one is expected to escape the pain of grief and loss. But maybe, just maybe, one can grow from it.

Viktor Frankl, psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, wrote, "Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose that response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom." When I read that, I was struck by the depth of wisdom that resounded from those words. Here was someone who had survived the atrocities in and around the extermination of millions of Jews during World War II. Yet, Frankl found he had a choice in how to respond to that. Those words gave me great pause. As I contemplated this teaching, I found the truth in it. 

Dare I say that pain can be a teacher? My growth as a soul since the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life has been phenomenal. It is something I never expected, could never have predicted. But now I look back and I see. The perspective from where I am now enlightens me. I see a bigger picture than I ever could have imagined, one that I never was able to see before. And it is good. It is all good.

This is a world of contrasts. This is a world of opposites. If we don’t know the dark, we can’t know the light. If there is nothing but light, we eventually won’t even notice it anymore. Thich Nhat Hanh, the inspirational Vietnamese Buddhist Zen master, poet, scholar, and peace activist, teaches this same concept. He says, “If there is no left, then there can be no right. If there is no down, then there can be no up.” This is how it is on this Earth. That is why we have good times and bad times. If we only ever have good times, we would not be able to appreciate them. When everything is just the way we want it, there is no need to grow.   But when things are not as we want them, then we seek to make them better. And in that search, we become more of who we truly are.

Pain pushes us down a path of expansion. We can fight that growth, or we can flow with it. Grief is often compared to a river. We are pulled along, experiencing the turbulent waves along with the smoother rides. To fight the river would be exhausting. To flow with the river will eventually bring us to peaceful waters.

So my choice is to flow, to allow, to take what has happened to me and to see the rainbow. I choose to take the pain I am given and grow from it. I choose to surrender control.  I have learned to trust. And I have found that when I do these things, I find peace.

May you, too, find that peace which surpasses all understanding, even if only glimpses of it each day. In the words of 16th century Spanish mystic, Teresa of Avila, “It is there for each and every one of us.”

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