Learning to Live the Loss

Posted on February 27, 2016 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Image 3

If there were a day to strike from the calendar—Feb 27 would be that day for me—a day three of the most beautiful young people on the planet departed, eleven years ago. Every day in the news, I hear of events that would make others wish to erase another day.

As I type, a reminder pops up in the corner of my computer screen- A day to get through. A month ago I typed those words on this day. Now it asks me if I want to close or snooze—could erase be an option?

I find that the dread of a day can be worse than the day itself. As I was writing in my journal the day before, I decided music should be a part of this preparation. “All right, God—you can select the songs.” I put the setting to random. I never know what will play, usually a mixture of spiritual, folk, John Fogarty, Christmas carols, and my foreign language lessons. I had the sneaky suspicion I was trying to put God to the music test, just to see if He was listening.

The first song takes me back to when my now-in-heaven-daughter was thirteen. This was a signature song for her that year. Through the register vents Twyla Paris would sing: God is in control, we will choose to remember and never be shaken, there is no power above or below. Oh-oh-oh God is in control. That is a great start. I could not have picked better.

The next song is from the Christmas album given by that same daughter her last Christmas, and Sue Chick sings … Heaven comes down, the hearts of men rise … do we dare take a chance … and the heart longs for more. Then Steve Bell tells me that Into the darkness we must go, gone, gone is the light.

And I notice increased number of age spots on the hand that holds the pen. I sit there thinking this is kind of silly and any moment the Arabic lesson would come through. I was interrupted by a call from the florist for a delivery. But, song after song encouraged me. At song 14, I thought perhaps I should get on with my day. Johnny Reid finishes the set of fifteen with I left my hometown years ago … to let all this love surround me. I would have said, to let all this beauty surround me. And I realize Love and Beauty often feel synonymous. Both are heavenly gifts. I contemplate the power of the words, and the themes of love, loss and suffering … songwriters capture the struggles we have. Music soothes and inspires, it reminds me that I am not in control, I am not alone on the journey, and I must continue. Sauntering in sacredness is an option.

I sent my sister-in-law a thank you for the flowers, she responded with an email about an image she had of new green shoots coming forth. Later that afternoon, I went for a walk … and found a likeness of her vision:

Never before have I seen shoots in February. These green and burgundy shoots brimmed with hope of new life. For this day, I head to the mountains, to contemplate the gifts of the journey … and to sit in the beauty, this is what I left my hometown for.

From John O’Donohue’s book Beauty, a poem by Dietrich Boenhoffer:

The Unfilled Gap

Nothing can fill the gap When we are away from those we love and it would be Wrong to try to find anything

Since leaving the gap unfilled preserves the bond between Us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap.

He does not fill it but keeps it empty, so that our communion With another may be kept alive even at the cost of pain.

Thoughts of a Pacifist on Remembrance Day

Posted on November 12, 2015 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Image Reply

quote-the-pacifist-s-task-today-is-to-find-a-method-of-helping-and-healing-which-provides-vera-brittain-52-87-11

The bagpipes lead the crowd of several hundred to the cenotaph for the wreath laying. Children are shushed, hoods pulled over ears as the zero degree temperatures cause minds to entertain indoor coffee options by the fire. But for a half hour wreathes are placed in honour of those from this area that lost their lives in battle. A wise-for-his- years middle schooler poet reads his Remembrance Day poem and thanks those who have given their lives for our freedom. Tears frost in the corner of my eyes, as I feel the pain of mothers who have lost sons; these lost in combat.

While a high school student reads In Flanders Fields, I stumble on the challenge, to Take up the quarrel with the foe. Haven’t enough quarrels been taken up, and passed on? Who is our foe? (My mind asks if it could be faux pas on our part?) The very definition of foe keeps changing, as the nature of conflict is revised. Philosophical debates about war are easy, when battle zones are far removed. Daily the media gives images of some foe that brings terror to peace; all viewed from the comfort of my armchair, with a remote to help keep it removed from my life.

Two years ago I visited the American Battle monument in Carthage, on North African soil. I had no idea that 2, 841 soldiers were buried there, row on row. Overwhelmed I viewed the white crosses, while my heart sighed a collective sorrow for all the mothers grieving the loss of these sons. I wonder if this generation of mothers wants to take up the quarrel with the foe? Or is the foe the idea that peace cannot be achieved without war? I am not a militant activist or pacifist, but I wonder about the high cost of conflict.

And the possibility of peace, especially as we begin the season of Peace on earth, Goodwill towards men. Oh that it would be so. How does the song line go?

Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

Bertrand-Russell-war-quotes

Some Assembly Required

Posted on June 12, 2015 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Image 3

All GARDENING is LANDSCAPE PAINTING. William Kent

SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED

I was on my annual pilgrimage to The Garden. My brother-in-law says I would get the reward for gardening from the greatest distance. Some people have garden plots on the city’s edge, as opposed to the 14 ½ hours I drive to garden for one week each June. This is not just any garden; it began with two large holes of the heart represented by the two components of the lake, at which point a bridge crosses over to the garden … This is the memorial project dedicated to my son, my daughter, two wonderful young people no longer on the planet … two young people who had spent many summers at the camp this project is now a part of.

This year I had ordered three concrete park benches and a picnic table to replace weather worn wooden/wrought iron benches. This is what I ordered …

I had invited friends to be there for the delivery at 1:30 Tues afternoon.

It had been overcast and intermittent rain for the first two days of the week. I postponed the bench delivery, as it was pouring rain, and I wanted pictures for when they would arrive … besides who was going to sit on the park bench on a rainy day? The next day was set up for better weather. The man I had communicated with, was not in when I called to change the delivery date … but another customer service rep took the message; he said he would first tell the delivery people, and then he would inform Daniel about the change as well. You’re sure? I ask, Yes I will be sure to pass on the information.

So while it was rained, my sister and I went to purchase plants that were to be admired from the new benches. We arrived back at the garden, with the newly purchased plants and with feet that had been in cold, wet runners and socks for the past three hours. My toes were wrinkled, and the hot chicken noodle soup had worn off.

“Look at those tracks, someone has been here” my sister said and pointed to wide mudded ruts ….

And then – “Do you think they dropped them off?”

This is what I got.

At the same time a text message arrives from the maintenance guy: Parkside Lumber made the delivery … looks like some assembly is required 🙂

This was not what I expected, this was not what I had ordered.

I had not ordered pieces of a picnic table, no where had I read that I was to put this together. It never even entered my head.

I called back to Daniel, the polite young man I had met the day before, I had spoken with him by phone several times from two provinces away. I asked as to why they had come when I had postponed. More importantly these were pieces this was not a picnic table. He was not quite as understanding as I thought he should have been. He asked, How did I think these pieces could be shipped etc … takes up too much space, obviously they can’t be shipped already put together. In my head I wondered how much time I needed to spend at meditation in this prayer garden?

“When I order a dress from a catalogue I do not expect to have to sew it together.”

“I don’t think that is a fair comparison.”

I did and the only one that came to mind at the time … No where had I read that they were unassembled. Mostly it was the disappointment. This did not meet my expectations.

I had thought it would be something else … I thought, that if I ordered a bench, it would arrive looking like the picture, the picnic table would look like a picnic table.

My brother in-law chuckled at the dress concept, and added- when you buy lumber you don’t expect it to come in the form of a house. No, but if the lumber advertised itself as a house, I might?

Some assembly required …

Oh I know that applies to many areas in life, my expectations exceed the horizons.

On a happy note, I called Bob again, my go-to-guy at the camp, (he could probably tell how near the tears were) he thought he could send some help over the next day.

Park bench angels with strong backs … angels that thought this was like Lego for adults.

The picnic table instructions were hard to read, after being drenched in the rain. Did I mention that they were short 6 nuts and bolts, and the steel plates had holes that were off by half an inch? All’s well that ends well, I guess? I had coffee on the bench. I dunno, those lumber people, and God … they seem to promise things I can misconstrue so easily. And at least one of them gets away with it all the time.

Hope is the Daily Choice

Posted on March 6, 2015 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Standard Reply

Hope is a Choice … Again and again

The holiest of all holidays are those

Kept by ourselves in silence and apart,

The secret anniversaries of the heart …

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The longer I live, the more I realize how unsettled life becomes. I don’t know if being settled is the divine plan for life. I think the plan is more likely for us to be disturbed. Disturbed into action, forced exploration.

It would be easier to find a comfortable place to settle, but life has a way of unsettling, of pushing me out of my comfort zone. Note to self—comfort is important in underwear and shoes! I need firm foundations and footwear to navigate the Life journey.

Ten years ago, this was the funeral day of my son and daughter. This day does not bear the emotional weight of the day of the accident, but March 5 always tugs my heart. It was also the same day of my father’s funeral, fourteen years earlier. And the words spoken that day as the woman in black knelt beside two caskets about to be swallowed by the earth. the graveside service concluded … she was the last to leave–this woman dressed in black turned out to be me, between gaping twin holes, pieces of her heart in caskets. And she whispered to the ground, to the air, to the emptiness, to the darkness she forced the words out of her mouth …

We do not grieve as those without hope … But would that hope carry her? She prayed it would. And I am here to tell you that she has fought for that hope, been graced by it and continues on the journey. Hope comes in different forms, in small glimpses, a sunrise, a flower in asphalt, a baby’s smile. Struggle is often hope’s companion. It also arrives as a gift, and if hope is a gift, there must also be a giver of it. Gifts are meant to be opened and shared, not to collect dust on a heart shelf. Hope carries many people through dark days.

Words that have challenged and encouraged me this past month, from the book of Blessings by John O’Donohue. To Bless the Space Between Us: From A Morning Offering

May my mind come alive today

To the invisible geography

That invites me to new frontiers,

To break the dead shell of yesterdays,

To risk being disturbed and changed.

May I have courage today

To live the life that I would love,

To postpone my dream no longer

But do at last what I came here for

And waste my heart on fear no more.

A song by Phil Wickham – dedicated to many others who look forward to a reunion in Heaven:

Heaven Song, by Phil Wickham, album—Heaven & Earth, released 2009.

with lyrics:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqLulbmdbLg

Heaven Song /same song with images:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-U-hOMunpWo

Artist: Phil Wickham Album: Heaven & Earth Released: 2009

Hope is a Choice

Posted on February 27, 2015 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Image 6

Whoever you hold in the heart of you

Is forever and always a part of you.

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. Ps 116:15 NIV

Ten years ago … the world lost three wonderful young people, my son, my daughter, my future daughter-in-law … leaving a massive vacancy.

This morning, my still-on-the-planet daughter called to remember the day of loss … she told me how she and her husband had been at a cafe and were speaking to their three children about the remembering. And the sadness felt because the children never got to meet their auntie and uncle … My daughter was getting teary and her five year old asked “Why are you crying Mom?” She explained the loss, and my granddaughter(8) spoke up to say … “Oh we’ll meet them already.” “Really?” asks Zech (5) “when?” “In heaven,” his sister explained confidently. “Oh,” he said, down cast, “That’s like in a hundred years.”

I can tell you Zecher, I feel that way too, sometimes. But, for me, having two treasures in heaven, makes the prospect of eternity, that much more tangible.

I know there are many others that carry the weight of sorrow, and loss … May you be blessed this day.

Hold on to Hope, it is a gift.

Hope is a choice

Hope has given me my voice

to question to doubt, to scream to shout

Hope has been in the midst

as a spark, as a river

a cause to shiver

Hope behind, hope before

Hope surrounds as it opens and shuts the door

The taste of hope and I want more

More of the source, more of the truth,

more of the grace it has given

I want Hope on this earth

And a taste of Heaven.

The edges of God are tragedy. The depths of God are joy, beauty, resurrection, life. Resurrection answers crucifixion; life answers death. Marjorie Hewitt Suchoki

IN remembrance of Brittany Jane Marie, Jordan David Isaac, Jamie K, all three shone like the stars of heaven … you are missed more than words can say.

Jocelyn is the author of: Who is Talking out of My Head – Grief as an Out of Body Experience

Owning My Story

Posted on January 20, 2015 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Image 2

Brené Brown

From an email sent to a friend:
If you are reading this now … I hit Send
If you aren’t reading this, you won’t even know this conversation almost took place.
I am chuckling as I started this email four hours ago ….
Sometimes I feel incredibly young at heart, sometimes I feel like the vulnerable little girl, wanting to be accepted, sometimes I feel as though I could be a hundred years old.
And I fear I might hit send, and regret it … or hit delete and regret that even more ….. Well, it’s coming your way.

It seems whenever I meet up with someone new, I have to play the little “how much do I want them to know about me?” game. This is the mental jockeying done with new encounters. Will they be a small part of my life, a work connection, a friendship, deep, superficial?? The mental assessments happen very quickly. In a recent conversation, I realized I said something that would lead to revealing more of myself than I might have wanted … I said, “they contacted me after having read my book.” As the words tumbled from my mouth, it registered in my head that in all the conversations we’d had, I never mentioned my book. The reluctant author in me, does not want patronized sympathy in place of genuine friendship.My grief story is generally not the first thing I share with others. And yet, I have had the most meaningful connections with people, because of the willingness to be vulnerable. But the little voices in my head warn me, as I verge near the precipice of letting someone in on the painful parts of my story, that when I let my guard down I risk getting hurt. Vulnerablility Stephen Russell has said that “being vulnerable is being open for wounding … being open to the wounds of life means also being open to the bounty and beauty. Don’t mask or deny your vulnerability: it is your greatest asset.” (I can’t say that I am in complete agreement with him—my greatest asset?)
Now I know I don’t want to be, or need to be a jellyfish, exposed to everything, self-protection is needed for survival, but I also know that I want to be willing to risk. I’m still working on the risk plunge, but I am further in that direction in the wanting of it, of trusting my instincts of when to risk. I have not yet succeeded, but I’m taking great aim towards this thing. And then when I get hurt, as inevitably still happens … recovery time is lessened.
I try to keep a soft shell around my heart, it allows for more expansion.

Madeleine l’Engle said: When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown up, we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability … To be alive is to be vulnerable.

I also used to think, I would have the answers as I got older … instead I see the number of questions increase.

(Jocelyn has published a book on grief; Who is Talking Out of My Head – Grief as an out of Body Experience, available at DWFriesen Press, and through Amazon)

Doubts re-All Hearts Come Home for Christmas

Posted on December 11, 2014 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Standard 1

The voices in my head argue this one out: The Magic of Christmas pitted against the: ‘this is not what I expected for Christmas’ … but I can accept either position at any given time, even at the same time. What is the beauty of Christmas? And why have I traveled thousands of miles to be with my daughter and her family for this Advent season? There is a part of me that hungers for connection, for beauty, for the fulfillment of a longing I cannot exactly put my finger on. I know that the bonds of love are a huge part of the craving, being in the same air space with those I love, rekindling memories and crafting new ones. Every recent December, my own mother expresses a wish that she could experience ALL her family to come home at Christmas. And my heart does a split in two again, as I am reminded that two of my children will never come home for the Advent festivities on this planet. Death acts the grinch at Christmas.

And yet, in a desert land of North Africa where the “Joy to the World” is not sung, I watch my daughter intentionally celebrate the season, the reason, I am reminded of the hope and the peace spoken of as my grandchildren light the Advent candles. Around the kitchen table small fingers glue tissue paper to make a lantern light craft. And a song played in my head, from when my children were crafters at my kitchen table, One small child in a land of a thousand, one small dream of a Saviour tonight.(Sung by Evie) A knock from the back door lets us know the neighbour and her daughter arrived in the midst of glue and tissue, and speaking of light of the world … and then the flow goes Arabic, and I step back and keep glue on paper. The girl is invited to make a lantern and the head-scarved mother asks the reason for what they are doing. More Arabic, and messages about the light of the world are spoken, and a fourth tissue lantern goes to another home.

One small child in a land of a thousand One small dream of a people of light. One small hand reaching out to the starlight

One small saviour of life

So each year as I think of hearts coming Home at Christmas, I try to focus on the meaning of where I am truly at home. I am a spiritual being, and my heart is at home within the embrace of my spiritual Father. And my heart feels warmed by the light.

The Inch Worm

Posted on September 24, 2014 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Standard Reply

Downsizing of Dreams

My life moves ahead in Fits and Starts

I am the Inch Worm

Folding in half for each step ahead

Vulnerable, easily squished

But I am not the Inch Worm

Because I have Skin

A backbone that aches

Pain lets me know

That I am alive

I taste Joy in this

Velvet Morning

Pink Skies give Way

To a Brand New Day

To Inch Ahead.

Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.

Vaclav Havel-Czech Playwright and President

Tribute Tarries

Posted on August 22, 2014 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Image 2

(Photo by Joel Krahn, African River tributaries)

Like a river that flowed and reached into dry corners
she spread her love and acceptance
Beneath Martha she hid her Mary soul
But that woman, she knew how to clean ….
She opened both her well vacuumed home and her heart …
Her brother said, her walls always had a window,
a window that had been recently cleaned …
She loved, she accepted, she cared, she stayed in touch …
All spokes led to the mamma … the hub of the family.
I don’t think she ever missed a game.
She was loyal, caring, kind
Her faith always practical
Thank you for being my friend.

The initial message of her passing came via email … and said that she “had gone to her eternal rest.” One thing I know about my friend, she wouldn’t want to be in eternal rest. She was an active person. I don’t think rest is what Heaven’s about. I used to wonder about eternity … if it was going to be forever anyways, I saw no rush to get there. But after I had two term deposits, my perspective changed. Randy Alcorn’s book, Heaven, paints a phenomenal picture of experience and beauty, an exciting future he believes will greet us upon arrival. He is convinced that we continue on in our creativity, and work in the eternal future. Somehow, I don’t think my friend will be vacuuming her days away.

While kayaking last week, heavy with thoughts of my friend’s life, and the upcoming funeral, I saw the most exquisite flowers, unlike any I had ever seen before, what made them so unique? They were underwater. I have seen enough seaweed and lily pads, to know this was exceptional … I kayaked over the clear blue green mountain lake waters again, to be sure my eyes had not deceived … yes, there a few feet below the water glass top, tiny yellow and white flowers smiled up at me … the water dimmed their colours, but they truly were blooming where planted. What a picture of hope for me … under the ocean of grief new flowers can bloom.
The reason I like Sudoku is that there are nine squares, nine numbers fill those squares, only one way to do it. Simple, clean, no deep mystery.
Grief is not like that.

Emily Dickinson says:
On subjects of which we know nothing, we both believe and disbelieve a hundred times an Hour, which keeps Believing nimble.

Our Daily Becoming

Posted on July 17, 2014 by whoistalkingoutofmyhead Image Reply

The person inside struggles to get out
Eyes open … head shakes in terror … non-recognition … fear …
And my heart drops to my toes … this is not my friend
The next day …. I see her in those same eyes, my friend has returned
The intensity of the ICU waiting place…
The question lingers for me, Where has the she been in this time of unconsciousness? … while body fights for breath, tracheal tube blocks words from lips … but, this last evening, she responds with slight smile, the eyes are hers … lips shape words that cannot yet be voiced.
Intensive care—a reason for the name. Three other heavily monitored people share this sacred space … under heavy equipment security … machines record and alarm. The machined man diagonally across … at one point … seven staff members rush into his cubicle … curtains close to keep us out … and yet in the crack I see … syringes inject another fight for life. And the next day another body occupies the bed.
And sometimes I want to ask the nurses not just to look at the machines, but to look into my friends’s eyes … to know the person inside …. the beautiful person she is … and I cannot ask them that, as they are busy saving lives … but I myself can do that, I can look into her blue eyes and express caring.
… jazz vespers at church next to the heart hospital … as the melody begins … the minister speaks of the music’s power that transcends the cares and speaks to the soul … and it does.
And back to hospital room, back to hotel … and we discuss on patio in beautiful evening, in beautiful city, under full moon the heavies of life … over white wine … and we contemplate the recognition of who is the person … and how we have been challenged with the homeless people, the nameless faceless people, the hospital bed people, the walking on the street people… and a mouse sneaks along the edge of the patio … we are startled … no screams, but we do move back one table… and then someone else asks us “Do we have change so he can buy something at McDonald’s?” And we cannot walk by him, he has entered our space … I ask him his name, he is Keith … we ask if he has a place to stay, as my friend is looking for change … and gives him a bill … he assures us he will not buy wine … and she hands him the bill … he leaves and we look at each other and marvel at the day … so many people on this planet … our desire to be known … our desire to be cared for … our gratitude in life … being one of many walking the face of this city, this planet … from long hospital corridors, to musicians on the street, to biking the city, to our friend … the intricacies, delights and beauty of the day.
Wow, was all we could say … and God is good.

Our Daily Becoming

Adam Clay
Like animals moving daily  through the same open field, it should be easier to distinguish  light from dark, fabrications  from memory, rain on a sliver  of grass from dew appearing  overnight. In these moments of desperation, a sentence  serves as a halo, the moon  hidden so the stars eclipse  our daily becoming. You think  it should be easier to define  one’s path, but with the clouds  gathering around our feet, there’s no sense in retracing  where we’ve been or where  your tired body will carry you. Eventually the birds become  confused and inevitable. Even our  infinite knowledge of the forecast   might make us more vulnerable  than we would be in drawn-out ignorance. To the sun  all weeds eventually rise up.
Poem from Poem-a-Day/ Poets.org by Adam Clay

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