I MOVE IN AND OUT OF SHADOWS

I lay in the darkness trying to will myself to sleep
But images and sounds of that last day play
Over and over in my mind like it was yesterday
I try to will it away but still it remains
And sleep, impossible sleep, evades me and eventually
As hard as I struggle against it
The time of day I hate the most arrives.

Light begins to tinge the darkness
The sky becomes an ugly muted gray.
And with it the birds awaken and begin
Their morning songs.
When the day is bright, I love the
Songs of the birds - songs melodious and cheery.
But not now. Now it is just a reminder
That once again I have failed at sleep.

I give in to my failure and accept
What is coming. Not only will I be
Sick to the far reaches of my soul by my memories-
Memories so tragic they rip my heart out-
I will be exhausted. Emotionally
And physically exhausted all day. Every minute.
I will drag myself along wanting nothing more than
The comfort of my bed and deep, peaceful, dreamless
Sleep.

As I begin my day with dread
Thinking that nothing good
Could possibly happen
The sun begins to rise.
The gray sky slowly becomes a mixture of gold,
And varying shades of rose, orange,
yellow and crimson.
I cannot turn my eyes away.
Too quickly it is gone.
But for a short time
I see it in all its glory.
Such breathtaking beauty.
A miracle that happens each day.
Each morning.
And then again in the evening.

Clouds may obscure it at times
But it is still there.
Temporarily hidden from our view.
The songs of the birds
Suddenly sound sweet.
I close my eyes and
lift my face towards the heavens
A soft smile plays upon my face
I want to remember the joy of
This moment. The peace. The happiness.
The contentment.

I move in and out of shadows.

Then it happens. As soon as I begin
To find comfort and joy in my little
Piece of personal real estate
Guilt creeps in. Guilt that I am happy.
I suddenly find myself back in that
Dreaded gray place
Where everything is shadows and illusions.
You left me. You died and left me.
I no longer exist as I once did.
Do I exist at all? I mean really exist.

I look at my hands and arms
I see my barely visible image
In the mirror.
I am almost translucent
I am without substance in this
Strange empty place I live in - alone.
I pull my collar tight
Around my neck as if to keep
What is left of ME inside.

Like the shadows formed by the sun
And that lay upon the ground
Or shadows that climb up walls and ceilings
I can pass effortlessly through
Them and they through me.
We are layer upon layer of
Gray, oddly shaped shadows.

I hate this colorless gray world.
I long for the sunrise and sunset
For the blue of the ocean
And the green of the forest.
Such beauty. Such amazing beauty.


I move in and out of shadows.

Darkness. Light.
Depression. Joy.
Tears. Laugher.
Friendships. Isolation.
Grief. Sorrow, Sadness.
Gray skies. Gray days.
Gray Life.

But if I wait, color will return.
Unexpected and glorious.
And I will savor
And drink in the joy of the moment.
I will lay upon the grass
With my arms spread wide
Allowing the colors
To fall upon me and the Sounds
of Movement and life to fill me.
I will capture each second
Of this amazing gift.

Until it disappears once again and
Sadness covers me like a wool blanket
In summer - heavy, hot, and uncomfortable
And unwanted.
I do not have the strength
Or the ability to turn away
When the darkness of the night
surrounds me and sleep evades me
And memories of you push
Everything else away. My tears falling
Endlessly. I'm barely able to
Catch my breathe.
Heart beating so rapidly
I fear it will explode.

I move in and out of shadows.

Darkness. Light.
Depression. Joy.
Tears. Laugher.
Friendships. Isolation.
Grief.

RELIGION AND SIGNS

(Hand embroidered by Linda DuBos)

I say this with some reluctance and trepidation - but I will say it nonetheless - religion can, at times, be mentally and emotionally handicapping. When I was a little girl, I accepted everything I was told by my Sunday School teachers and by my pastor as the absolute truth. I was a little sponge - absorbing and believing. I never questioned anything. Why should I? These adults certainty knew what God wanted me to learn. Never once did I consider that these dear, loving individuals were interrupting scripture as they understood it or that they were just repeating what they had been told the scriptures meant.

When we lived in Texas, we were members of the Southern Baptist Church. They were very strict in their beliefs about what was right and wrong. Then when we moved back to Maryland there was no Southern Baptist Church near us so we joined the Disciples of Christ Church. A much more liberal thinking group of church goers. I wondered why the things that once were so wrong were now okay but it was just fine with me because now I got to do some of the fun things I couldn't before. At this new church, like at the old one, I listened, absorbed, and believed. And I felt great love and joy in my heart.

Then on January 18, 2010, my son - my wonderful, amazing, loving son - died by suicide and suddenly all those fire and brimstone messages I had listened to in Texas, messages which had been buried somewhere deep under and beneath all the other and more appealing messages of love and forgiveness, were now exploding to the surface of my conscious mind; and were tearing my already broken and bruised heart into a million bloody pieces. When, as a child, I heard all these frightening things, they didn't affect me one way or another because they had no relevance in my life. There were basically just words to memorize. Now all those things I had heard about those that commit suicide being condemned to the fiery pits of Hell overwhelmed me. I so wanted and needed a sign that Christian was okay. Then I remembered hearing that some considered "signs" as coming from a source of evil. Suddenly all that light and love and joy I had lived with all my life turned black and ugly and I struggled between what I had been taught and what my heart told me was true.

At the funeral service of my adoptive father many years ago, a sparrow few into the church. It flew low over the heads of the congregation and many people tried to bat it away but it lighted on my Mother's outstretched hand. Although it should have been frightened, she told me later than she could feel it's little heart beating against the palm of her hand and it wasn't racing. There was just a soft, steady beat. It set there a few moments allowing my Mother to stroke it's back before it took wing and flew out the window of that little Georgia church. Everyone said it was a "sign" and it was received with joyful, grateful hearts and many expressions of "Praise God".

Even in the memory of that beautiful, sacred event, ugly voices from my past whispered "signs" should be rejected and never sought after. Fortunately for me (and my mental and spiritual well being) my very spiritual and loving father-in-law, Robert DuBos, explained away my fears and in doing so gave me abiding peace. He will never fully understand what a great gift he gave to me. He gave me the ability to accept the circumstance of my son's death and begin the long, slow process of healing. Without his words and his love, I would have been stuck in a mire of fear and doubt that would have sucked the life out of me. I will be forever grateful and indebted to this humble, loving servant of our Father in Heaven.

Now that I had gotten over my paralyzing fire and brimstone fears, my heart was once again open and receptive. First of all I'd like to say that I was not looking for any "signs" or Heavenly messages. In fact I hadn't even thought about it. I was, at that point, just trying to get through each day without self destructing. So when it happened it was truly wondrous.

It was an ordinary February day. Quite unremarkable except that it was winter in the Pacific Northwest and the sun was shining. It was not the usual overcast, rainy day that we had grown accustomed to. Sadness and depression still sat on my shoulder like a pirate's parrot squawking it's sad, unhappy song - just as it had every day since Christian had left us - but the appearance of the sun lifted my spirits. The curtains over the living room windows were partially closed against the dampness and the cold making the large Victorian room with it's dark furniture and crystal chandeliers appear semi-dark and gloomy.

As I crossed the living room, I could see a soft glow reflecting on the walls adjacent to the door which connected the living room and the entryway. Sunlight was streaming in through the french doors. As I rounded the corner and entered the foyer, I froze in place. There in the brightness of the room and directly in front of the buffet was my Christian. He stood there facing me and on his radiant face was the most beautiful, peaceful smile. And as we stood there looking at each other, and although he didn't utter a word (nor did I), his countenance said, "I'm fine. I'm happy. I'm at peace and I love you."

I don't know how long we stood like that but it wasn't long. Just long enough for him to let me know he was alright but not so brief that I might wonder later if I had imagined it. I did not imagine it. He was there. Solid in form - just like he was when he was living. What a blessing! What an incredible, awesome gift! I drew in my first deep, cleansing breath since I heard those fatal words that told me my son had died by a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. And I gave thanks to our Heavenly Father for allowing me to receive this visitation from my son. This affirmation that life continues on after death and that there is peace and happiness in the afterlife - even for those that die by suicide.

There have been other things too. The heady, warm spice of his cologne will fill the room and linger there for minutes before slowly dissipating. Christian had taken great pride in his appearance and felt that his cologne should also be a reflection of him and his personal style. It was very important to him. For him it was the whole package - how he looked, how he dressed, how he carried himself, and even how he smelled. The whole, complete package.

And there were the not so obvious signs. Not initially obvious anyway. We have down-filled pillows on our living room couches and whenever one of the tiny feathers would find its way to the surface of the pillow either Christian or I would pull it out and dispose of it. About two months after his death, I began to find white feathers all over the house. Not tiny feathers but rather large white feathers. At first I wondered where they coming from but didn't really give it much thought. There was no room in my heavily burdened and grieving mind for thought about something so mundane as feathers.

But then more and more and more feathers were appearing and I began to become a little annoyed. They were everywhere. Upstairs, downstairs, on the beds, lying on the carpets, even in the bathrooms. Everywhere. I as getting so tired of picking up feathers. Then a friend online happened to mention that finding feathers was one of the signs that a departed love one was trying to communicate with loved ones they had left behind. With a new perspective, these annoying feathers became sacred to me; and then just as suddenly as they had started, they stopped. It was as though as soon as I recognized what their purpose was, they were no longer needed. Now the only time they reappear is in times of great personal stress when I need a reminder that I am not alone and that Christian is watching over me and sending me his love.

There are those that feel they must explain away these forms of communication. They will say that the bereaved, in their desperation, will search for signs, imagine signs, confuse the ordinary with the extraordinary in our very great need to satisfy ourselves that our deceased loved ones are okay and are watching over us. It is true that we want nothing more than to know that our loved ones are okay; HOWEVER, I know for a certainty that not all signs are created or invented by desperate minds. A lot of signs are tangible - meaning we can reach out and touch them, pick them up. Some things defy explanation.

I believe that those we love do reach out to us from behind the veil. I believe God wants us to know the life survives the grave. I believe that our loved ones show this to us through the afterlife communication of "signs". These signs can be life affirming because they let us know that life goes on. While it is possible, I don't believe the purpose of signs is to convert people to the truth of religion but are given as a gift from a loving Father in Heaven and are given regardless of our belief system or our doubts. I believe that it is a validation that not only does life continue beyond the grave but that our deceased loved ones are alive in the spiritual world and continue to be of service to others on the earthly plane - especially to those they love.

While fear has its place in religion, there are times when fear must give way in favor of a kinder, more gentle, more accepting, forgiving, and loving philosophy. There are great lessons to be learned through "signs"..... that life goes on, that at death we only shed our physical bodies, that we will be reunited with those we love. But the most important lesson is that God is Love. It is through His love that signs are given and received. I believe that whatsoever we seek in pureness, we will receive in pureness.

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JOHN 3:16 For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.


John 11: 25-26 I am the resurrection, and the life, saith the Lord, he that believeth in Me, thought he were dead, yet shall he live. And whoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.

LOVE ONE ANOTHER

Devastating, horrifying, unbearable Grief: a Mother in Somalia - September 2011


Those of us that have lost a child know how devastating it is, how emotionally paralyzing. Some of the parents in the various online support groups I belong to have lost more than one child. I cannot begin to imagine the depth of their pain.

Yesterday I was reading random news reports online and came upon an article about the famine in Somalia. Reports about the famine is nothing new. News stories had been in the newspapers and on television for a while; and then the stories slowed down and now have almost entirely stopped. This headline stopped me in my tracks: "750,000 Somalis are at risk of starving within the next few months". The article appears in the THE GLOBE AND MAIL, dated Monday, September 5, 2011, and is written by Geoffrey York. The article begins like this:

"As the last bit of life drained from his frail body, Ahmed Nur was still tethered to an intravenous tube. His father brushed his fingers over the boy's eyes to close the motionless eyelids. He gently pulled a sheet over his son's face and removed the tube from his thin arm.

'Don't cry, don't cry' the neighbors said to his mother, Khadijo Mumin. 'God gave him to you, and God is taking him back.'

But she wailed with grief, even as they hugged her. 'I'm losing all my children now,' she said through her tears.

Of her five children, two have perished since Sunday, and two more are lying sick and weak in the same Mogadishu hospital room where eight-year old Ahmed slowly faded away on Monday."

As I read about the Mumin family, tears streamed down my face. There are no words that can describe the degree of agony these parents must be feeling, the helplessness, the despair.

The rest of the article is paraphrased as follows:

Ms. Mumin and her dying family, who have trekked from camp to camp in search of food for the past year, are an omen of a much greater disaster that threatens to come. The United Nations announced on Monday that four million Somalis - more than half of the country's population - are now living in famine zones, and 750,000 are at risk of death within the next few months.

Tens of thousands have already died in the famine this year, killed by a lethal combination of protracted drought and a ban on food aid from international relief agencies by Islamist extremists who control most of southern Somalia. Hundreds of people are dying every day in southern Somalia because of the famine, and at least half of the victims are children, the UN said. Across much of East Africa, including Kenya and Ethiopia, more than 12 million people are in desperate need of food aid.

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This is not a story about a single family that is suffering an unbearable, mind-bending loss. This is a story about an entire country in mourning. A story about the impending death of many, many more children and adults. A story about desperation and cruelty.

There is nothing that I can do to change what is happening and what is going to happen but I can acknowledge that I am aware of the situation. And through this acknowledgment show respect and understanding to the people of Somalia and the other African countries affected by the famine.

They are not just a people in a distant land. They are our earthly brothers and sisters that we are spiritually bound to. We do not need to know them individually to care about them. Just as each of us in our online grief support groups may never have met in person, we still love each other and support each other in our shared experience of grief and pain and suffering. We have felt the very same pain felt by Khadijo Mumin and her husband. We know their feelings of helplessness and desperation and depression. We know what it is like to be emotionally bankrupt. And some of you have watched as your own child faded away and died - just as Mr. and Mrs. Mumin did. To the people of Somalia: we understand and we hurt with you and for you,

Let's take a moment and, if you are so inclined, offer a prayer to our Heavenly Father on behalf of the people of Somalia and the other people in Africa suffering under the affects of this terrible famine. I thank you for your compassion.

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ST. MARK 12: 29-31 And Jesus answered him, the first of all the commandments is, Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord: And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, an with all thy strength; this is the first commandment. And the second is like, namely this, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these.

SORROW'S HANDS

Journal entry written April 15, 2011. This entry was written on a day when I was feeling especially good about myself. I felt that I had turned a corner in the healing process - and perhaps I had. The problem with sorrow and grief is that it never totally releases you. Not ever.

Once sorrow was all I had
It tore me down until
There was nothing left of me.
In the beginning I was thankful for it
Without it I would never have survived.
Survived? I was reduced to a mindless puddle
of hurt, pain, anger, and so much sorrow.
But it let me know I was still alive, still feeling.
Day after day passed and Sorrow and I
Huddled together. In bed. On the couch.
My only real companion.
But slowly, very, very slowly and without me realizing it
Sorrow began to pull away.
Some days he wasn't there at all.

I found my wobbly legs could once again support my weight
Then one day there on my bed beside me I found my heart
Not bloody, tattered, and torn
But whole and perfectly formed.
I looked for my old friend Sorrow wondering how this could be
Where had he gone? Why wasn't he there walking beside me?
Why was I seeing the brightness of the sun
And the blue of the sky? Why did I hear the songs of birds
And the wind as it blew by?
I could feel he was close
But he no longer enfolded me in his wings of grief and despair
Which had been oddly comforting
Because I knew those were the right things to feel
When your heart has broken and you've cried until
There are no more tears.

I searched and search until I was weary
And laying down I fell into a deep, deep sleep.
And there in my dream I saw Sorrow.
He was holding me gently between his fingers
He had built for me a foundation on which I could grow
He had looked with his knowing eyes into my soul
And seeing what I needed
He had taken the broken pieces
And with his artful hand and his artist's towel
He created from my broken and shattered mind
A new beginning. Not a replica of the old me
But a new me, a different me.

As I watched I saw, before sealing it all up,
He had tucked in hope and faith
A new understanding and acceptance
Of those things I cannot change.
And with the most tender touch he softly added
Permission to enjoy life again.
And when he had finished
He lifted me up with his strong arms and powerful wings
Gently kissed me and set me free.

TEN YEARS LATER - 9/11

Fireworks exploded over the waters of Hood Canal illuminating the night sky in a kaleidoscope of color. Fireworks set off as a memorial dedicated to and commemorating the victims of September 9, 2001. Usually such a grand display of sight and sound is followed by simultaneous expressions of delight and awe but tonight there was only reverent silence. Families huddled together on blankets with arms wrapped around one another staring silently into the night sky. Our deeply ingrained memories of that day brought with it such feelings of sadness and loss. The more we learn, the more tragic it is. The more faces and the more voices we see and hear, the more personal it becomes.

On that day ten years ago today, we lost not only innocent lives but we lost our innocence as a Nation. We realized that our greatness as a country - the United States of America, a super power- could not and would not protect us from attack by a determined enemy. A terrorist organization backed by great wealth that had vowed to destroy us and end our way of life - al-Qaeda. A vow fueled by fierce hatred. Previously it felt, in our naiveté, that we lived under a protective bubble that nothing could penetrate. We believed that our streets, our cities, our states would always be safe from foreign attack. On 9/11 we learned how wrong we had been. This was an attack of epic proportions. Not a single attack on a single target but multiple attacks on multiple targets all on the same day. National Security did not protect us. Our military did not protect us. We were unprepared and vulnerable.

We grieved together and individually over the loss of life. We felt pain for those that had lost loved ones - the survivors. We felt empathy for those that had lived through it and would live forever with the nightmares and memories of their ordeal. We felt pride for the first responders and sadness for those 344 brave firefighters that gave up their lives in unselfish service to others. Nearly 3,000 people died in the suicide attacks by al-Qaeda operatives on that day and continues to threaten the health of far more even today.

However, as brutal as the attacks were and in spite of the great loss of life, the enemy did not defeat us. We would not allow them to knock us to the ground and stand on our heads. Our resolve rose to a level that I had never experienced in my life time. We came together and stood shoulder to shoulder singing our national anthem; and with great pride in our Nation and in ourselves we stood a little taller in the weeks that followed. This enemy had not destroyed our spirit. Our shock turned into anger and our anger turned into courage and strength and determination. Out of the ashes a phoenix rose. We were no longer a single person living our separate and individual lives, we were at last a Nation indivisible and united with one mind and one heart and one purpose.

I remember the details of that day so clearly. Only two other public events have affected me so profoundly - the assassination of President John F. Kennedy - a day of great sadness; and the day the first man walked on the moon - a day of great celebration. On September 11, 2001, at 5:30 a.m. Pacific Standard Time my alarm went off. As was my custom I laid in bed slowly waking up as I listened to the morning news. Being three hours behind the time on the east coast, I was just becoming fully awake when the announcement was made that at 8:46 a.m. Eastern Standard Time an airplane had flown into the North Tower of the New York World Trade Center. The board caster said that the occupants of the building had been told to stay where they were and to not evacuate the building. He said everything was under control and would be fine - surely a horrendous and tragic accident. I thought to myself "how can things be under control".

I immediately woke my sleeping husband and turned on the television. At 9:03 a.m. we watched in horror as the second plane flew into the South Tower and we witnessed the devastation that unfolded before our eyes. So great was our shock that it took a a while for it to register that our Nation was under attack. Then we learned that a third plane had flown into the Pentagon and a fourth had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. Within two hours both towers had collapsed. Part of the Pentagon was on fire. Our world would never be the same. To this day I am still in awe of how such a well orchestrated plan could be carried out with such precision. Who in National Security wasn't listening with due diligence? How could the planning of such a large operation escape notice? or did the powers that be choose to ignore the warnings?

While we will never forget 9/11, I must wonder, what happened? When did our pride, our togetherness first start to slip away? When did we fall back into fighting against each other instead of standing together tall and proud? When did political affiliations begin to drive a wedge between us? Maybe we're just more comfortable always being in conflict with one another. Does capitalism or our natural competitive nature breed this type of behavior? Why is it so hard for us to work together? I know that the freedom of choice and the freedom of speech are two of the things that make our nation so strong; but do you ever wonder if those things that make us strong are also the things that make us weak. A lot of the time we are so busy defending our position that we stop listening and stop being receptive to the ideas of others.

We have a congress that can't seem to agree on much of anything; and members of that great body that take pride in not agreeing just because they can. Our citizens have lost their jobs and in turn their homes to foreclosure. Our economy is in the toilet. There are very few jobs available and hundreds of applicants for each job. Increasingly more and more families are finding themselves homeless and in need of public assistance. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. In my opinion, the rich are riding on the backs of the middle class and those that are forced to live below the poverty level.

Where is the understanding, the compassion? Why are the programs that benefit our most needy citizens the programs that always get cut first? The suicide rate, not only in this country but throughout the world, is at epidemic proportions. Our mental health programs are rapidly disappearing. Those suffering from depression, bipolar disorder, post traumatic stress, and other mental health problems have no where to go, no one to turn to. Do we even need to question why suicide may seem to be the only option for these depressed and desperate souls?

We are engaged in a war that was entered into under false assumptions. A war that has almost bankrupted our nation and took the lives of far too many of our brave men and women in the armed forces. Too many are coming home physically or mentally maimed - or both. Is it a war that we should continue to fight in? Is it a war that we can win? I don't know. I must rely on those that are closer to the situation and more knowledgeable to answer those questions. My opinion would only be just that "my opinion". I do question if after all these years of dumping American money into foreign economies if the Arab world likes or respects us any more than they did prior to 9/11; or are they laughing all the way to the bank. I read just recently that there is money to be made in war. I see this war as being financially beneficial to every one except the United States. And another point, why does a barrel of oil cost us so much if these oil rich countries are our alias?

I just get so tired of all the fighting. It took tragedy to bring us together and the struggle of every day living to drive us apart.

We do have genuine heroes in this country. Good men and women that put others before self and for that I will be forever grateful. 9/11 in its tragedy brought out the best in us. If only we could recapture those qualities once again. God bless all of us and God bless America.