Tag Archives: conversation

Papa’s Stocking

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I attended a Hospice Memorial service just before Thanksgiving several years ago.  The room was filled with families and friends who had experienced the death of someone they loved during the past year.  It was a time of remembering.  And a time to focus on the journey of living through grief.

Loss is one of the few experiences besides our birth that is universal.  We would be hard pressed to find a single person in a crowd, who has not had some personal contact with grief.  How is it then that grief can feel so solitary?  Perhaps that mixture of solitary and universal is why talking about our grief brings both pain and relief.  But talking about loss and the grief that follows is important if we are to weave both joy and sorrow into our own rich fabric.

I don’t remember the name of the speaker at that Hospice service, but I remember the personal story he told about finding joy in the midst of grief.   After his wife’s mother passed away, his father in law came to live in their home.  He quickly became an integral part of their daily lives.  And then last year, in the fall, Papa had died.  The man, his wife, and two daughters were left with the empty spaces that Papa had once filled.  As Christmas drew near, the depth of their loss was magnified.  Christmas traditions that had been a source of joy, were now a reminder of Papa’s absence.  This was especially true when it was time to hang their Christmas stockings.  There was Papa’s stocking, empty.  Just like his chair at the table.  Just like the hole left in their hearts.

They began to talk about the pain of Papa’s absence, and the dilemma of how to have Christmas without him.  A new tradition, a ritual of healing, was born out of that conversation.  Papa’s stocking would be hung in its place on the mantel, with slips of paper near by.  In the days leading up to Christmas morning, family members wrote their thoughts, memories, feelings about Papa and dropped them in his stocking.  On Christmas morning after presents had been opened, and their own stockings emptied, they read the notes from Papa’s stocking. There were tears, and laughter, and connection with each other and with Papa on that Christmas morning.

I don’t know if they hung Papa’s stocking beyond that first year he was gone.  But I do know their Christmas story is a wonderful example of partnering with grief to create a moment of celebration that will last a lifetime. They had discovered that although Papa was gone, he was not lost to them.  Sometimes healing comes not from avoiding the painful moment, but from stepping into it to create a new meaning.

“a person of sorrows, acquainted with grief”

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"a person of sorrows, acquainted with grief."My grandfather died at sixty nine, after a life filled with farming, ranching, and carpentering on the side.  My great grandmother, Nora, was still living and ninety years old.  She had lost her oldest grandson, and less than two years later, her husband.  She had been a widow for thirty five years.  I was devastated by my grandfather’s death.  But, I guess I thought my great grandmother had seen so much loss and grief in her ninety years, that it was different for her.  Maybe she had gained immunity from loss.  And then she was in front of his casket, weeping and repeating, “My baby, oh, my baby”, a mantra that captured all she had lost.  In that moment I knew there was no age limit, no statute of limitations, no point at which losing your child felt less, rather than more.

John Claypool wrote Tracks of a Fellow Struggler, following the death of his ten year old daughter from acute leukemia.  He reminds us that we are all “a person of sorrows, and acquainted with grief”, for grief is ours whenever we lose something we value.  Claypool identifies loss and grief , not as isolated events, but as an integral part of our life journey.

“Learning to handle these in a healthy way–learning how to lose, so to speak–is one of life’s most important challenges.  It can hardly be begun too soon.”

He acknowledges our attempts to protect our children from grief, while pointing out that…

“as soon as a child is old enough to love something that can be lost, that one is a candidate to become ‘a person of sorrows, acquainted with grief.’  Very few get very far without experiencing loss in some way.

“The truth is–for every one of us–that there is no way to avoid the trauma of loss if we love even a little.  This is what makes the task of learning to handle grief so important.”

I think my great grandmother had spent her life “learning to lose”.  She was well acquainted with grief.  I watched her handle loss by returning to life, from my earliest memories until her own death at ninety-two.  I also watched her step into the painful presence of loss when my grandfather died.

I have not had to find life after the death of a child.  Having stood by as friends entered this dark night of the soul, I have asked myself the question a colleague of John Claypool asked.  “Those of us who have not been there wonder what it is like out there in the Darkness.  Can you tell us?”  Claypool’s response was both profound and ambiguous.  “Yes and no.”  Perhaps the path to learning to handle grief begins with the courage to start the conversation.

“The first thing I want you to know…”

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There may be no loss so out of sync as the death of a child.  And as if that monumental death alone is not enough, the death of our child brings a partnership with loss that spans our lifetime.  I heard an interview a few years ago with a mother whose young son had been killed in a bicycle accident.  She described the breadth of this loss by saying,

“When I woke up the next morning, I was surprised that I was still here.  I couldn’t imagine how I could have survived his death.  A year later, I was still surprised.  It’s been 10 years, and I still don’t understand how I’m here.”

She voices for every parent, the perpetual dance of grieving for your child while continuing to live your own life, and theirs.

My first experience with the permanent impact of a child’s death on a parent came when I was twelve years old, sitting on the bed in my Grandma’s bedroom.  She was cleaning house as I followed her from room to room.  There was a group of photographs on the wall by the door.  They were the last pictures of my Dad’s older brother, Junior, taken a week before he died at age 13.

He came home from school, saying he didn’t feel good, and in less than two days was dead from spinal meningitis.  His funeral was held at home under quarantine, with only family present.  He was something of a mystery to me, made more so by the black and white photographs that had been enlarged and hand painted in pale, transparent colors.

Grandma cleaned and I sat on her bed, staring at those pictures.  Then I said, “Grandma, tell me about Junior.”.  She opened her mouth to speak, and instead began to cry.  I have no memory of what happened after that, of what she did or didn’t say, of how I got out of the room.  I just felt the power of my question to make her cry, and the depth of her wound.  Later, after I was grown, I wondered if her tears were only tears of pain, or also tears of thanks, of relief, that someone remembered and asked about her son.  I knew my Grandma as a hard-working, caring woman, with a delightful, childlike laugh.  Somehow she had continued living, while carrying this loss just below the surface.

Doug Manning, author and speaker on grief, tells about a friend leading a group at a local funeral home, for parents who had lost a child.  An 80 year old woman was the first person to arrive.  The group facilitator asked if he could help her, assuming that she was at the funeral home for visitation.  She told him she was there for the group, but was uncertain about whether she should stay.  He asked her if she had lost a child.  She told him her story.  That her son had been stillborn at a time when people didn’t talk about grief.  That her husband and family refused to talk about the loss.  For nearly 60 years she had been grieving in silence.  She went on to say, “My husband is dead now, and it’s just me.”  The man asked what she would like for him to know about her son.  Her response…”The first thing I want you to know is his name is Tommy.”  She had never spoken his name aloud.

Maybe my Grandma was waiting, just like the 80 year old woman was waiting, for someone to ask about her child.  To join her in giving her child’s life meaning and significance, sometimes through the simple gift of speaking a name.

Connection

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Saturday was an incredibly full day.  It began with breakfast at one of our “regular” places.  I ordered what I “usually” order.  Later that morning I sat in a church sanctuary, celebrating the life of a longtime friend who finished her race in this life and crossed over into eternity. There was wonderful “catch up” conversation with a friend over a lunch that extended into the afternoon.  Then the spontaneous decision to drive to another town to catch the play “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels”, and finally back home to crash on the couch with a dog who thinks I hung the moon.

As I snuggled with the dog I replayed the day.  Not just the time spent, but the emotions felt.  I thought about the gift of connection. In the course of my day I had experienced…

  • the connection and comfort of routine.  Those things we do over and over, day in and day out, that ground us in the familiar.
  • the connection of remembering and celebrating one who enriched and changed us in this life on her way to the next.
  • the connection of friendship, of shared space and conversation that warms like an old flannel shirt.
  • the connection of laughter as I joined a community of strangers to watch a play.
  • the connection of a pet who loves me without judgement or hesitation.

Resting there on the couch I felt profoundly thankful for the connections of the day.  I was glad to be reminded of the connections across the years and the ways they had challenged and sustained me.  I hoped to step into the week ahead more mindful of the space we share and our impact, for good or bad, on each other.

And then Tuesday came.  April 19.  The sixteenth anniversary of the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.  Tuesday came and reminded me of the powerful connection of shared experience. If you were living in Oklahoma on April 19, 1995, you probably remember where you were and what you were doing at 9:02 when the Murrah Federal Building was bombed.  Shared experience invites us to rise above what separates us.  On April 19, 1995, an act intended to destroy led us to common ground and gave us a reason to connect.  We connected then to rescue, to grieve, to grow, and eventually to celebrate our resilience.

Celebrate connection!   The small and the large of it.  The quiet and the loud of it.  The joy, and even the pain of it.  Most of all celebrate the timing of it and choose to connect now, with family and friends, with occasional acquaintances, with total strangers.  Connect with those like you, and not, with God’s creatures, and with yourself.  Look for the “tie that binds” and just connect.

Just a piece of paper. . .

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I stepped into the seventh grade literature class to watch and discuss scenes from the movie “Freedom Writers”.  A boy greeted me with “I know you!”  I smiled, thinking of the time spent over the years with students at SMS.  I assumed he remembered me from another class, the hallways, or at some school event.  He said, “You talked to my grandparents.  You gave them a piece of paper for me to sign.  I signed it and it’s in a frame on my bedroom wall.  It’s my promise to stay in school and to not do drugs or join a gang.”

It took me a minute to shift gears and realize his grandparents must have come to a parent involvement night when he was a fifth grader.  We had watched “InsideOut”, a documentary about the epidemic of school drop outs and the value of staying in school.  The parents were given certificates to take home to their children.  They were encouraged to talk with their kids about their education, asking their fifth graders to “contract” with them to choose school instead of dropping out.

Positive outcomes are always good news.  Coming from a seventh grade boy made it even more special.  As I replayed the scene throughout the day, I began to think less about my part in the outcome and more about the power of a piece of paper.  For two years a piece of paper hanging on a boy’s wall had reminded him of his grandparent’s commitment to him and their investment in his future.  That framed piece of paper was their celebration of his commitment displayed in a prominent place.  It was a subtle, daily message that they expected him to keep his part of the bargain.  A paper statement of their belief in him.  And he clearly got it.  Just a piece of paper, printed in bulk from my computer, handed out to multiple fifth grade parents.  Just a piece of paper, turned into so much more by grandparents and a grandson who believe in possibility.

My youngest daughter created a time capsule in a shoebox as an eighth grade science assignment.  She spent several days filling her box with bits and pieces of her life.  I didn’t know the contents of her time capsule until ten years later when the science teacher, now administrator, brought my daughter’s box to me.  I raised the lid for a walk down memory lane through the keepsakes chosen by my daughter to represent her eighth grade life.

There were snapshots, trinkets, movie tickets, drawings, and pieces of paper…post it notes…from me, dropped in a lunch bag, stuck in the front of a binder.  Notes that said, “I love you”, “Have a great day!”, “I’m proud of you.”.  Pieces of paper that an eighth grade daughter chose to keep at a time when becoming a person separate from her mother was part of her job.

Remember the MasterCard commercials that listed items one at a time followed by their price tag.  Then the resonant voice read the last thing on the list, usually something involving human connection.  After a pause for effect, the voice said, “Priceless.” The commercial reminded us the value of some things goes way beyond a dollar amount on a price tag.

Sometimes a piece of paper is just a piece of paper.  Sometimes a piece of paper is a relationship, a child’s drawing hung with a magnet on the refrigerator door, a reading award, a “have a great day” post it note in a lunch sack, or a boy’s signature on a certificate that says “I will stay in school”.  That’s when a piece of paper becomes. . . “Priceless”.  Create a priceless relationship moment in someone’s life today.  All it takes is a piece of paper.

Maybe it is that simple.

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A few years ago I joined a group of women at a “thank you for your commitment and service to education” brunch at the school district superintendent’s home.  There were administrators, teachers, support staff, most with many years of service educating our children.  We enjoyed good food, good conversation, and the connection that comes with a shared purpose.

I said my “good-byes” and stood to leave.  On my way to the door one of my colleagues said, “Before you go, give us some words of wisdom.  You always have such good things to say.”  There are a dozen reasons why a sudden, unexpected request requiring a quick, verbal response turns my brain into a black hole and my mouth inoperable that I won’t go into now.  All the visiting had stopped and all eyes were on me.  I think I said something like a profound “Uh……….” which bought me a little time.  And then it came to me.  A question I had been asking myself almost daily for the past several months.  So I said:

“Nearly every day before I walk into school I ask myself, ‘I wonder what would happen if we were all just nice to each other today?'”

Everyone smiled, made a few comments, and I made my exit.  The question stayed with me.  I hear it in my head at work, at board meetings, listening to the news, observing parents and their children, and listening to political candidates.  What if it really is that simple?  As simple as being nice to each other.  How might things change if we were just nice to each other. . .

  • in discussion and debate
  • in difference and disagreement
  • during conflict and confrontation
  • with adversaries and antagonists
  • with family, friends, and even strangers

Perhaps Plato had pondered this question when he said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

The Essential Conversation

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I love books.  My idea of a great time is going from section to section in a bookstore, the bigger the better, looking for titles and covers that spark my curiosity or speak to an interest or need.  I have been known to buy a book because a title caught my eye and I trusted the contents to be just as interesting.  “The ESSENTIAL Conversation:  What Parents and Teachers Can Learn From Each Other”, by sociologist, teacher, and parent, Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot was one of my best “title” purchases.  If the title hadn’t caught me, the introduction would have sold the book.  The author wrote:

“I believe that for parents there is no more dreaded moment, no arena where they feel more exposed than at the ritual conferences that are typically scheduled twice a year–once in the fall and once in the spring–in schools. . . it is also the arena in which they [teachers] feel most uncertain, exposed, and defensive, and the place where they feel their competence and professionalism most directly challenged.”

After a quick read, the book went on a shelf until a few months ago.  As school came to a close I thought back over nine months of encounters with students, parents, and teachers.  I explored ways to make those times more helpful, more effective.  I found myself thinking of how our interactions as parents and teachers are occasionally like angry ex spouses, anxious and defensive.  We know that children often get lost and compromised in the crossfire of divorce.  I began wondering how often children are also hurt by our failure to work together as families and schools, parents and teachers.

Parents and teachers are two tremendous resources with the power to impact our children and society.  The times I have watched adults step past their anxiety and uncertainty to talk to each other in a parent/teacher conference in order to help a child succeed in school have excited me. Unfortunately we often avoid the encounter completely.   Or we approach our meeting as adversaries, becoming defensive and territorial in ways that rob us of the very thing we want, to be a part of preparing our children for a healthy, successful adulthood.

I thought of “The ESSENTIAL Conversation”, and what an appropriate, meaningful title it is.  I pulled the book off the shelf and began to read again, more thoughtfully this time.  I reviewed my own school experience trying to imagine my parent’s “conversations” with teachers.  I recalled sitting in the parent chair across from teachers as we discussed my children’s performance and progress.  I wondered if both the teachers and I were worried that we would be “blamed” for the problems and would have to give up all credit for the successes.  I took some comfort in Lawrence-Lightfoot’s thoughts:

“From my point of view there is no more complex and tender geography than the borderlands between families and schools.”

“. . . my own hard-earned wisdom as an educator and social scientist concerned about these matters did not prepare me for the depth of emotion and drama I felt in parent conferences.”   “I always suspected that other parents were experiencing some version of my anguish, but that they too were struggling alone and making it up as they went along.”

“I could also tell that teachers had their own deep concerns,  their own sense of exposure and vulnerability.  And I knew that most of them had not been adequately prepared in their professional training programs to build relationships with families as a central part of their work. . .”

We are less than one month into a new school year.  How can we take advantage of all our family/school encounters in ways that encourage our children to learn and enhance their learning environment?

Whether you are teacher, parent, or both:

  • Remember this “conversation” isn’t about you, it’s about your children.  Learn to calm your own anxiety so it doesn’t get in the way of working together.
  • Believe that sharing your observations with that other adult will allow you both to discover solutions to problems and will magnify the celebration of success.
  • Recognize each other’s efforts.  Kudos help us know we “did good” and motivate us to do more.
  • Be willing to start the conversation and to keep it going even when you disagree.  Tolerate the discomfort for growth.

For schools:

  • When you say parents are welcome at school, really mean it.
  • Encourage family involvement and look for creative ways to make that possible.

For families:

  • Be present in your child’s school experience.
  • Know their teachers and their curriculum.
  • Attend school activities.
  • Communicate with teachers in person, by phone, and in writing.

“The ESSENTIAL Conversation” considers “how the tiny drama of parent-teacher conferences is an expression of a larger cultural narrative.”  For me it is a reminder that the “tiny drama” of parent/teacher conferences isn’t so tiny after all.   You be the one that begins the conversation.

The Car Connection

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There is no denying that we are a mobile society. We value our independence and the freedom to come and go as we please. For many, myself included, all it takes is to be without our own transportation for a day to leave us feeling the frantic need to GO SOMEWHERE. The American love affair with cars cannot be denied, but I wonder if we sometimes miss the greatest byproduct of that connection. Our cars are more than a way to get from here to there. Yes, your car gets you places, but it also gives you time alone and time with others. In fact, thinking of our cars as “relationship labs” or “communication capsules” gives us the chance to savor, struggle with, and ultimately grow from the wonderful, and sometimes heartbreaking experiences that take place.

Some of my earliest “car connection” memories are of riding in my grandad’s pickup, bumping across pastures as he tended to ranching chores. He would talk to me about what grass to sow next year for grazing, which steers were doing well, future improvements he wanted to make. As he talked, he asked me what I thought about his plans, and I believed he really wanted, maybe even needed my input. Those moments sent me toward adolescence knowing someone thought I had something to contribute and valued what I had to say.

It’s hard to keep track of all the “teachable moments” I’ve been given because I was in a car, going somewhere, alone or with someone. There have been quiet, secure moments with family or friends and painfully silent moments of differences and disagreement. There have been tears from laughing when my children said something funny and tears from hurting with them when they hurt. There have been serious, life changing conversations and lighthearted moments of silliness. I have used time in the car to prepare myself at the beginning of the day or debrief at its end. Over the years I have even suggested that clients schedule car time when it became clear that some of their most effective communication took place in the car closed off from outside distractions.

How do you use your car time? Are you learning how life looks to your children and their friends as you drive them to school or other activities? Do you listen to books on tape to stretch your mind or to enjoy a good story? Has your car been the sanctuary where you prayed for strength to go on or gave encouragement to someone who needed it? Have you learned to be as comfortable in the quiet, being with yourself or with others to the rhythm of the tires and the engine as you are with talking and laughing to the backdrop of the radio? Do you ever turn off the A/C or heat, rolling down the windows to remember the feel of the air and the sounds as you drive?

Take a walk through your own car moments, both good and bad. Think about how you have used those moments to become who you are. A second glance may give a deeper meaning to some moments and the chance to put a healthier spin on others. Looking back at yourself as a part of someone else’s moment may reassure you that you brought your best self to that encounter. Or you may end up staring your worst self in the face and deciding to do something different the next time. Whatever you discover, I hope you will be reminded that time in the car is not a pause or dead space in our living, but a big part of what connects us to ourselves and each other. The impact of those moments outlives us. Those moments with my grandad are still with me and now I get to be the “Nena” that gives those gifts to my own grandchildren.

So, start you engines and experience the connection!

Why Blog?

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People blog for a lot of different reasons.  They blog to make us laugh, cry, heal, listen, and change. They blog to question, to rant, and maybe even to annoy.  I am blogging to think.  Actually, I’m blogging to think out loud.  Something happens when we speak our thoughts or put them on paper. In that moment we have the opportunity to hear ourselves more clearly, maybe even differently, and to know ourselves better.   Thinking out loud also creates the possibility of thinking out loud together.  As we respond to each other’s observations, stories, hopes, and concerns, we weave a rich cloth of human connection that has the power to extend our reach and to enrich our souls.

Now for my thoughts, and perhaps a conversation about resilience, relationship, and hope.