I waited for destiny to step in and decide. It came in the form of two policemen with paperwork from the psychiatrist stating that I was no longer able to care for myself. Handcuffing me when I resisted, the police hauled me out of bed and drove me to the emergency room of a third-rate hospital. For twenty-four hours, wearing nothing but a scanty hospital gown, I lay motionless on a narrow bed in a windowless closet of a room. I felt like a spectator watching myself fade away, observing my spirit pass through my pores like air slipping quietly from a worn-out balloon.
Then, suddenly, I realized I wasn’t meant to die this way. It wasn’t my time to die. I’d been to hell and survived. I was alive for a reason, a purpose I sensed to be intertwined with Garrit’s death.
When I stepped from the hospital into the world, I finally felt ready to find a way to live with the bundle of pain I carried inside. Shortly afterward, I left Baltimore and moved across the country to start life over in Santa Fe. There, I began to reconstruct the parts of my being most shattered by Garrit’s death and to pare from my life all that seemed superfluous or false. As I came to feel more intact at some core level, a brittleness that had grown around my heart since Garrit’s death seemed gradually to soften, as if preparing to fall away.
The process of reshaping my life will probably take years. At times, it feels like a painful rebirth, yet a rebirth that is necessary if I want to do more than exist. Although I’ve made a conscious decision to live, I have wondered what will prevent me from sinking again. I found that with the will to live came something that makes the unbearable more bearable. Difficult to name, I think of it as a whisper of promise coupled with grace. When the pain threatens to pull me under, that whisper keeps me afloat, lightening the weight of my sorrow, gracing me with a new sense of compassion for myself and others.
My life has irrevocably changed. I will never be the person I was. While I don’t know who I will become or where my path will ultimately lead, the heartbreaking loss of my son will always remain a profound part of me. Yet, at the same time, the capacity to feel joy again is germinating inside; simple pleasures I used to take for granted have taken on new value. This paradoxical mixture of sorrow and promise seems to be the nature of the process of my grief and gradual rebirth.
Now, though winter reigns in Botswana, spring is here, greening the landscape. Children play outside, delighted with themselves. Crocuses and daffodils shout with color. With such abundance of rebirth in the air, it seems cruel that Garrit cannot return to life. There are moments when I want to stamp out the flowers, snap each bud in half and pretend that other people’s children don’t exist.
And yet, just today, I came upon a boy about Garrit’s age and size humming quietly to himself as he drew lines into the soil with a stick. Though I felt the familiar clench of pain in my throat, instead of turning from the sight of that boy, for a second my heart softened. A fleeting smile passed between us, tracing a slender finger of hope across my flesh.
Molly Bruce Jacobs
Ashley’s Garden
“Mommy, would you be sad if I died?” Disturbing words quickly tumbled from the mouth of four-year-old Ashley, taking her mother, Kathleen Treanor, by surprise.
“Of course, I would, Ashley. I’d miss you terribly.”
“But don’t be sad, Mommy. I’d be an angel watching over you.”
With a wink and a promise to stay close by her side, childish giggles soon filled the air. Yes, everything was back on key, with no more talk of four-year-olds going to heaven before their time.
A few days later, Kathleen brought Ashley to Grandma LaRue’s house. Grandma was a wonderful sitter, whose home overflowed with love, comfort and joy. Without a doubt, crafts and homemade cookies would soon be on their way.
After tenderly kissing Ashley good-bye, Kathleen jumped in her car and hurried off to work. She’d hardly arrived and settled comfortably in her chair, with a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee, when she heard it. A huge blast rocked Oklahoma City, and just as quickly destroyed her world.
Confused and unsure of what happened, a coworker flipped on the television. Everyone in the office stood in reverent shock as the news began to unfold. There’d been an enormous explosion at the Murrah Federal Building. Kathleen could hardly believe her eyes. Not in my hometown, she thought. Not here! Soon, young mothers were running back and forth in a frantic search for their children. Kathleen was horrified to discover there’d been a daycare in the building. My God, the children, she thought, as she began to pray for the desperate families.
Within moments, her sister called with unimaginable news, unraveling the last shred of Kathleen’s protective shroud of peace. Luther and LaRue Treanor had taken Ashley to their social security appointment, which was inside the Murrah building. Suddenly, the room began to spin. Surreal humming filled Kathleen’s ears. Ashley was in that devastated structure—the one she was watching on the news!
It took days to discover their complete loss. But slowly, the details came forth. Her mother-in-law and father-in-law, along with Ashley, were found among the dead. Kathleen immediately slipped into a deep, dark depression, not able to comprehend how evil minds could change the destiny of so many innocent souls.
But months later, Kathleen recalled a prayer she’d uttered just days before the bombing, pleading with God for a message of hope to share with a hurting world. Then her mind raced to Ashley’s words just before the explosion, “Don’t be sad if I die. I’ll be an angel watching over you.” Suddenly, Kathleen realized she was being prepared for a mission far beyond her understanding.
In gratitude for the peace only God offers, she planted a memorial for her daughter. Today, Ashley’s Garden is adorned with a graceful weeping willow, a fountain and an abundance of lively, brilliant flowers. For all who see it, the message is clear. Life goes on. Joy follows sorrow. Light rises from darkness.
Through five years of journals and endless prayers, Kathleen’s dream to see her daughter’s legacy shared within the pages of the book Ashley’s Garden have finally come to pass, and her prayer for a healing ministry has reached far beyond her dreams.
When Kathleen awoke on the morning of September 11, 2001, along with the rest of the world, she froze in disbelief. America had, once again, been struck by the evil of terrorism. In that moment, she knew, her words of hope and healing would reach far beyond the borders of Oklahoma. They would now take her to New York City.
So, along with survivors and victims’ families, she boarded a plane and flew toward her destiny. It was there she saw the ultimate fulfillment of prayer as she escorted grieving individuals, one by one, to Ground Zero, beginning the long, but vital, process of healing. By meeting the Oklahomans, the people of New York were able to see firsthand that time and faith heal all wounds.
No one knows what the future holds, but for now, Kathleen’s on a mission, reaching out to the hurting, the wounded and to all who grieve with an inspiring message of hope born of prayer.
And back in Oklahoma, Ashley’s Garden still blooms.
Candy Chand
Two Answers to One Prayer
Steve Wilson is, like myself, a presenter of humor programs. When I interviewed him, Wilson told me about an incident that happened to him related to humor and grief.
“I had always gone out,” he said, “to talk to community groups about standard psychological subjects—like marriage, divorce, raising kids, stress, depression and things like that. One day,” Wilson continued, “I got a call from a woman at a cancer clinic who runs a group called Make Today Count. She heard that I give talks and asked that I come and address the group. I told her that I had a new talk on humor. She said, ‘That would be wonderful. I think the group would really like that.’”
Wilson was excited to do it. His mother had died of ovarian cancer when he was twenty years old so he thought it would be great if he could be of some help to these people.
There were about thirty-five people seated in a circle that night. To get the meeting start
ed each person told the group their name, the kind of cancer they had and the stage of treatment they were in.
The first person said, “My name is Susan. I have a brain tumor. They were able to do surgery, and now I’m getting radiation.” Then Susan’s parents introduced themselves. After that, a young man, who was also there with his parents, announced that he had lymphoma.
“I started to realize,” Wilson admits, “the gravity of the situation these people were in—and there was a room full of them.” As each person went around the room, Wilson started to feel inadequate and questioned whether it was right to discuss humor under such circumstances. “Here were people with really catastrophic illnesses in their lives. I worried that my program wasn’t appropriate.”
To ease his fears, Wilson said a prayer: “God, if this is where you want me to be and there is something in this message that you want these people to hear, then I hope this is the right thing and that you will help me in what I say.”
The prayer was answered in two ways.
First, a man who was introducing himself to the group said, “My name is Lester, and I’m pissed off. I have cancer of the liver. My doctor told me I had six months to live. That was a year ago—and I gave away my winter coat.”
When everyone in the group started to laugh, it was a validation for Wilson that the group wanted to laugh and that a person in a serious situation could indeed poke fun at himself.
With the knowledge that humor was indeed appropriate, Wilson started his talk. He told jokes, played with props and explained the value of humor. It was going well. The crowd was laughing loudly and really appreciating what Wilson was doing.
Then there was a knock on the door. A woman opened it and stuck her head in the room. She said, “Listen, I’m trying to run a support group in the room next door . . .” Wilson thought to himself, Okay, now I’m in trouble. But the woman continued, “and my group would like to come in and join your group.”
It wasn’t until after the program that Wilson found out that the second gathering was a support group for those who had recently lost a loved one.
This was the second answer to his prayer. “People who came together to support each other in their grief,” says Wilson, “wanted to be where the laughter was.”
Allen Klein, M.A., C.S.P.
My Grief Is Like a River
My grief is like a river—
I have to let it flow,
But I myself determine
Just where the banks will go.
Some days the current takes me
In waves of guilt and pain,
But there are always quiet pools
Where I can rest again.
I crash on rocks of anger—
My faith seems faith indeed,
But there are other swimmers
Who know that what I need
Are loving hands to hold me
When the waters are too swift,
And someone kind to listen
When I just seem to drift.
Grief’s river is a process
Of relinquishing the past.
By swimming in hope’s channels
I’ll reach the shore at last.
Cynthia G. Kelley
Reprinted from the January 1988 issue of Bereavement magazine
Legacy of Love
On November 29, 1999, our son Jarod ended his life. With his death our world changed forever. What followed this tragic loss was an incredibly difficult journey, as our family was plunged into an abyss of grief.
We had no concept, until then, what grief really was and how difficult a journey it could be. In the beginning, it was hard just to get through a day; the four of us were all grieving at different points. Our home was in total chaos. We didn’t know how to help each other, because we were so wrapped up in our own grief, not realizing that, as a family, this process would be ongoing for the rest of our lives!
In the beginning, it was as if we were suspended in time. The situation was unbelievably devastating. It was extremely difficult to focus on the simplest of details, as our thoughts were constantly of our loss.
As time goes on, we have found that the bouts of immense sadness have come further apart and for shorter periods of time. We are learning to deal with the void that Jarod’s death has left in our lives.
Often, the stigma of suicide rests heavily on those left behind. Who are we to judge? We feel our reaction as a society should be one of love, not judgment. Is it fair that all the kind acts and good impressions of our son be forgotten and blotted out by his final, tragic act? This is terribly sad. Jarod was a very kindhearted and caring young man. There were no warnings of any kind, resulting in total devastation for his family and the community. Jarod was a freshman in college who worked part-time, and was active in the community coaching his brother’s baseball and soccer teams. He was respected and loved by many, both young and old. So we ask, “What happened?” Were we too busy loving him (and he loving us) not to see any warning signs? There were no outward signs at all. He tried to protect us even to the very end and beyond.
We are eternally thankful to have had the opportunity to have been his parents. We bear no shame in that Jarod ended his own life. We are extremely proud of the person he was while here on Earth with us.
We now know that a time will come when the days of joy from having time to spend with Jarod will overshadow the sorrow of the brief time and apparent unfairness of his death. We feel that life is a gift, and whatever time we have, however brief that may be, should be utilized to enrich the lives of others. Events occur throughout our lives for no apparent reasons—destiny, as some will say. We simply need to have faith, and we don’t need to know why in order to have acceptance. We believe that there are forces that bring us into being for a particular purpose. However, we do sometimes choose a different path, as is evidenced by our son’s tragic decision.
Jarod’s time with us was brief, yet very meaningful, as he made many positive and lasting impressions on all those he came in contact with. He glowed brightly and intensely, and therefore used up his light more quickly than others. He felt certain that we would understand, and on many levels we do. We have focused not on his choice to remove himself from life, but rather on the incredibly positive influence he was on all those lives that he touched. It is also important for us to remain focused on the fact that Jarod will live on in our hearts forever. We feel that Adam and Lori will have a great deal of difficulty with the loss of their brother. For them, it feels as though he chose to leave them behind, and that is very difficult to understand. A parent has gained a very different perspective on life in the first place, having been an instrument in creating it and having had to learn to accept its mortal quality right from the beginning. For us, there was a time without Jarod before his birth. For Adam and Lori, there was never a time without him, until now. So older siblings and parents seem so permanent. It’s a rude awakening to discover that they are not!
Our friend, Holly, who also lost her son to suicide, had told us of her desire to craft a patchwork quilt made with her son’s clothing. Inspired by these thoughts, we also felt moved to assemble a quilt after sorting through Jarod’s clothes. It was extremely difficult to bring his clothes back into our home. As we touched and smelled his earthly garments, we shed tears of sadness and joy, recalling memories of Jarod attached to each piece.
Assembling the quilt became the first step toward passing through our grieving process, as we knew it would be very easy to stay stuck in the grief. Instead we put that grief to work in a positive way that we hope can inspire others who have suffered a horrific loss. Stitched together, grief, healing and remembrance became the quilt that we refer to as our “Legacy of Love.”
Over a period of about five months, we stitched the pieces of Jarod’s life together in a magnificent work of art—a quilt in his memory. The project became a balm that has helped to ease our bereavement. With every stitch, the horrible rift has gradually mended, easing shock, disbel
ief and pain. Our quilt is distinctly different from traditional handcrafted pieces. Each block is a unique representation of a different facet of Jarod’s life. Every stitch stands as a tribute to an outstanding young man with a ready smile and a passion for any activity he embraced.
For months, I sat at my machine cutting, piecing and sewing. As the family watched the process, they decided to design their own personal squares. Jarod’s dad, Ed, assembled a square that features suspenders, matching tie and a white shirt inclusive of the buttons and pocket, a valued gift from him to Jarod. Lori, who is Jarod’s younger sister, chose one of Jarod’s shirts. She used it as a backdrop for photographs of the two of them together throughout their lives. Adam, Jarod’s younger brother, added a letter he wrote to his brother the summer before, thanking him for being the best big brother a boy could ever have in life, and the cover from a baseball they used to throw around together. To this legacy of love, we added car keys, attire Jarod wore, pictures of family members, his favorite baseball cap and much more.
Crafting the quilt caused many raw emotions to surface. But doing so helped our family to cope with our grief in the best possible way—as a family. We know this quilt has really helped us a great deal with the healing. We tried to put his whole life into the quilt. Finally, at the end of June 2000, the quilt was finished just in time for what would have been Jarod’s nineteenth birthday. Friends and family were invited to our home for a special quilt signing. They added memories and messages to the back of the quilt. Our home was full all day long. When people came into our home, we could see the “Oh, I remember when he wore this” expressions. The memories aren’t just for us; they are also for others who knew and loved him.