When I was a young man, the preachers would often talk about finding God’s will for our lives. I found that to be beyond my comprehension. I had no idea who I was, so how could I even begin to know what I was supposed to be or do with my life. I am not sure I ever solved that riddle. I seemed to just stumble into my life and careers and somehow ended up doing work I could never have dreamed of until I was doing it.
Read MoreToday is September 25. My wife of fifty-seven years died twelve years ago today. I think of her all the time of course but in September each year the memories flood my mind. These memories are usually not just about her death, they relive our life together and rejoice in the love we shared. Those thoughts reenforce three things I have found true about grief.
First: It never goes away, our loved ones live on in our memories. No one is dead until they are forgotten.
Second: Hopefully in time gratitude replaces some of the pain. We either become grateful for what we had, or we will remain a victim of what we have lost.
Read MoreA woman in her seventies showed up early to the first night of a grief seminar for grieving parents. She was not sure she should be there but the leader welcomed her, and since they had time he asked her about her loss.
She said “fifty years ago I gave birth to a stillborn son. Almost immediately my husband buried the body somewhere and on his return said that it was over and done with and we were not to speak of it again. I named my son Tommy.
Read MoreI have carried a couple of buckets with me for the last twenty years. They are my props when I am talking about what helps people with their grief. I ask someone to hold one of the buckets and tell them to imagine they have just lost a loved one. The bucket represents their feelings and I asked them to express what feelings they think would be in their bucket. I ask the audience to join in and words like pain, fear, grief, loneliness, empty, anger, guilt and sometimes relief. I then ask what thoughts
Read MoreI was pitching at a church camp slow pitch softball game. A bed of red ants had chosen the pitching mound as the ideal place to build their nest, so I had to pitch and stomp dance ants at the same time. I wished I could have communicated with the ants that I really meant them no harm but just did not want them to harm me. It hit me that the only way I could do that was to become an ant myself.
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