Sometimes life’s curveballs land right between you and the people who once mattered the most. When you are young, navigating the complexities of life and friendships, your emotions can get tangled up in arguments and hurt feelings. Distance may create walls that seem impossible to climb. But the aging process has helped create a shift in some of my most difficult relationships. I believe this change is because we are beginning to view the world through a different lens, one etched with the wisdom of time and the stark reality of life’s impermanence.
A few weeks ago, for instance, a group of us had gathered for a brunch at my house that reminded me of the incredible power of time and forgiveness.
The atmosphere was electric – in the best way possible. We reminisced about old times, poked fun at each other with gentle jabs. We listened to stories, to dreams simmered and unshaped, the paths we’d taken as a result. What struck me most was the overwhelming sense of love. In spite of all the tough times, we were still here, still connected by a shared history. Everyone left that brunch feeling lighter, closer, and reminded that even the most strained relationships can be nurtured back to health, like a wilted flower receiving a much-needed shower.
A friend once shared a truth that stayed with me: in the kitchen, surrounded by the murmur of conversation, a home finds its heart.
A week after the brunch, I received a thank-you note from one of the group. It was a simple gesture, a few heartfelt lines, but one sentence struck a chord deep within me: “Your house is so warm.”
It might sound simple, but those words meant the world to me. Throughout my life, I’ve always dreamed of having a “warm house.” The warmth I’d craved wasn’t about square footage or architectural style. My desire resided in a place that radiated not just heat, but feelings of belonging, comfort and love.
And here I was, feeling as if I was living the dream. The recent brunch served as a sweet confirmation of our 23-year journey, filled with joyous celebrations and moments of shared sorrow. An important reminder of the enduring connection that fills every corner of my house.
The world around us might change, relationships might evolve, but some things remain constant: the fragility of life, the power of forgiveness, and the enduring warmth of a welcoming home. A place that reflects the camaraderie shared not just in meals to feed the stomach, but in the nourishment of “soul” food exchanged and savored.
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To backtrack for a moment: Like many, I carry invisible scars. Some days, venturing out feels like navigating a minefield. There was an event out of town, one that involved a precious child I adore. Logic dictated I should be there, celebrating with everyone else. Yet, a deep, primal instinct urged me to say no and stay home. Guilt gnawed at me, the familiar monster of “shoulda, woulda, coulda.”
With a sigh, I embarked on errands. As I wrestled with the “should haves,” a familiar wave of loneliness washed over me. Trips, at last completed, I climbed into the car and turned on the radio. The lyrics, a powerful ballad by Melissa Etheridge titled “This is Not Goodbye,” which I had never heard before, transcended physical presence. The lyrics spoke of goodbyes that weren’t endings, but simply chapters turning.
I pulled over, unable to contain my emotions. In that moment, it became crystal clear. It was not about blind faith, but trusting the divine spark within us. Even when it feels counterintuitive to follow the spark that guides us on our unique paths.
By honoring my intuition, my own needs and saying no to the event, a space had opened up. A space of grace that, quite literally, allowed a visit from my son, Marshall, who had passed over four years ago at the far too young age of 26. However brief, it was a confirmation that love endures, that some connections defy the boundaries of time and space.
So, the next time that nagging “should I?” creeps in, take a moment. Breathe. Listen within. You might just be surprised by the unexpected beauty that awaits when you honor your own truth. It might just guide you towards something far more magical than you could ever have planned, reminding you that you are always held, loved, and guided.
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As a child raised in the Ukrainian Catholic Church, I spent countless hours participating in rituals. Crossing into adulthood, however, these memories transformed into associations with aching knees from kneeling, a stiff back from standing for what felt like an eternity, and a constant glance at the clock’s hands that seemed frozen in time, like a nagging hemorrhoid.
Despite my aversion to the rigid structure of my religious childhood memories, as an adult, I found myself drawn to the role of Cubmaster and leading my son’s Cub Scout troop for several years. While vastly different, the organization provided a surprising sense of comfort and familiarity through its own set of rituals. This experience reinforced the idea that while we may evolve throughout life, fundamental human needs, like the desire for connection and belonging, endure.
These memories and discussion of heritage brings me back to the day that my older brother, Michael, passed on March 18, 2002. It was one of profound grief that forever altered me. Later that year, when Bruce Springsteen’s album “The Rising” was released, the song “You’re Missing” became a source of immense comfort, its lyrics resonated deeply within the void left by my brother’s absence. I sang along to it repeatedly as I drove aimlessly through our neighborhood. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the steering wheel in a silent, unconscious ritual.
Two decades later, this March and my brother’s passing feels particularly poignant, perhaps triggered by a beautiful blog post titled “Photographs,” Reclaiming the Forgotten, written by Anand, the son of my dear friend, Preema, whom I consider my Indian karmic sister.
In the moving reflection, Anand remembers his brother, Shyam, who passed away in 1994. “Nobody has asked to see my brother’s picture for a while. In a house full of books & papers, stationery & cutlery, clothes & bags, old letters & broken hardware – that I don’t have a ready picture of this feels like a small betrayal.”
Reading these inspiring words, a realization dawned. Over four years ago, following our family tragedy, I, too, had unknowingly committed a small betrayal. Grief narrowed my world after losing my son, and I had pushed my brother away. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten him or erased him. It was more that the raw pain of losing Marshall had painted gray shades over everything, etching little space for anything else.
To my surprise, as Anand delved into photo albums, reminiscing about his brother, I found myself drawn to a different kind of search. Borage seeds, to be precise.
These vibrant white flowers have thrived in our front garden for the past two years, and I felt compelled to plant a third batch yesterday – a little earlier than usual, on the anniversary of Mike’s passing. Planting the seeds felt like a fitting tribute to leaving room for my brother’s memories. It was a simple act that promised to become a cherished annual ritual. (My photo albums in the attic of Mike as well as my son can’t wait much longer either!)
After reading Anand’s beautifully written elegiac blog, which triggered so many other layers of grief in me, I also started to reread a blog, Big Brother Musings, I had written about Mike two years ago. That particular blog includes a letter I wrote in Mike’s honor. The following is an excerpt from it, “Not because you were handsome, strong, generous, compassionate, highly intuitive and intelligent and a war hero to boot, but because you knew that everything, no matter how utterly defective, stained, sinned or doomed, could root, grow and live under one condition: that it is planted in a bedrock of unconditional love.”
Was it a coincidence to purchase the seeds for planting in memory of the bedrock of his legacy?
The letter ends, “Dear Big Brother, I hope I see you someday. Feel your arms around me again and see the twinkle in your eyes when you gently whisper, ‘Peace.’”
This spring as the seeds sprout and mature, I hope to begin each day gazing out my window, the sight rekindling a sense of peace and gratitude. Though flowers bloom only during certain seasons, faith, in the face of loss, can blossom and flourish year-round, only needing a minimal space of its own to take root.
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The wind howled, whipping my hair into a frenzy as I stood on the familiar shoreline of Sherwood Island State Park. It was one of the windiest days of the winter, yet there I was, drawn by an unseen force to this place of memories from my young adulthood, offering me once again a refuge I desperately needed.
Suddenly, tears welled up, hot and heavy. Tears for George, for the loss of a dear friend, for the fleeting nature of youth, and for the profound absence of my son, gone too soon just over four years ago. It were as if my defenses had crumbled, leaving me raw and exposed to the harsh winds of life.
The release of pent-up grief became a cleansing storm, mirroring the fury of the wind around me. And then, nearly an hour later, something shifted. Exhausted, but paradoxically refreshed, I looked around. The wind still raged, but the world seemed sharper, more vibrant and my senses heightened, my heart open to the raw beauty of life.
In that moment, faith wasn’t about words or doctrines. It was about the wind in my hair, the sand beneath my sneakers, the immensity of the ocean stretching out before me. It was about feeling fully alive, without restraints or judgments, simply existing in the present moment.
As I returned to my car, three small, smooth, white stones caught my eye, each one whispering tales of the sea. They were like perfect replacements for the missing ones I’d left at my son’s gravesite – the ones inscribed with our family’s names, now likely swallowed by the earth. Clutching the newfound stones in my palm, I carried them back, already picturing them marked and repurposed. It felt like a symbolic victory, a reclaiming of strength after weathering the storm.
I realized the wind still felt strong, however there was a lightness to it that intensified my sense of victory. I had faced my pain, embraced the rawness of life, and emerged feeling more connected, more alive than ever before. The beach buoyed me up as it always had and reminded me that even in the midst of grief, life persists, an ever-changing evolution, ever-renewing, just like the tide rolling in and out, forever constant, forever powerful.
Remember, your faith may not look like someone else’s, but it doesn’t make it any less valid. Trust your own journey, find solace in the unexpected, and know that you are never truly alone.
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As the clock flickers towards midnight, a familiar ritual unfolds. Champagne bubbles, confetti dances, and resolutions whisper into the starlit sky. This time, however, as the year draws to a close, let’s rewrite the script. Forget the forced resolutions, toss the tired expectations. Instead, let’s ignite a revolution within, breaking free from self-doubt and crafting a haven of self-acceptance.
And this revolution has already begun for me. It lives in the wise gifts you’ve shared: your words and kindness like vibrant brushstrokes painting light onto the canvas of my being. From your help, I’m learning to embrace vulnerability, letting my empathy shine like constellations while dancing to the rhythm of my own unfamiliar steps, waltzing with joy, tangoing with grief, and pirouetting through loss across the canvas of life.
Because of the many gifts you’ve given me, I raise my glass to you, my blogging community friends. May your untamed fires illuminate the path ahead, and may your brushstrokes of faith paint your personal masterpiece, abstract or otherwise, in the coming year. Happy New Year to you all!
Finding Faith and Empowerment in the December Night Sky
No matter where you live or what traditions you hold dear, I invite you to take a special moment this Monday, December 25th, when many celebrate Christmas, to simply observe the vastness of the night sky.
Above, twinkling like diamonds scattered on black velvet, are countless stars. Each one, a testament to the incredible power and mystery of the universe. Some, long extinguished and no longer with us, yet their light continues to shine. Their existence reminds us that even in the face of death, something beautiful and enduring can remain.
As you ponder the celestial dance above, allow your mind to wander beyond the limitations of our earthly existence. Imagine the countless galaxies and planets swirling through the cosmic void, each harboring untold stories and unfathomable wonders. In this vastness, we can find not only a sense of humility, but also an exhilarating sense of possibility.
So, under the watchful gaze of the night sky, take a moment to reflect, to marvel, and to find strength and inspiration for the journey ahead.
This Monday, let the stars inspire you to believe in the impossible, to dream bigger, and to reach for the light of faith.
Even when doubt whispers and darkness looms, remember your own light within you. The smallest spark can ignite a fire like the loneliest star that can guide a ship to shore. Dim or bright, unearth your light, and let it rise. Be the beacon that guides your own journey, and in doing so, illuminates the way for others lost in a starless night.
Note: I mentioned this artificial Christmas tree experience in last week’s blog post.
The attic stairs groaned under my weight as I lugged the artificial, five-foot Christmas tree down.This year, decorating it was my mission, but it turned into a stark reminder of what had been and what was no longer.Over four years had passed since I had last touched it, the weight of tragedy replacing the joy and family healing it once symbolized.
As I set it down in the living room, I remembered way back to 2009 when the economic recession hit. Despite the hardship, our four-member family had weathered the storm. As per tradition, my then husband, two children and I had brought home a freshly cut tree that year. The next day when I had stood back to marvel at the tree I had finished decorating by myself (no one else liked decorating), the entire tree had toppled over on me! It was a strange, almost foreshadowing event, a prelude to the emotional avalanche that would engulf our lives just a year later. My sudden divorce, husband’s abandonment, the financial ruin, the loss… it all came crashing down the following year in 2010 like that heavy Douglas fir.
My soon-to-be ex-husband’s breakdown also had shattered our family in that year, leaving just me and my two adolescent children to face an uncertain future together. During that sad Christmas season, in the gaudy, multi-colored artificial tree we found at Walmart, my daughter and I saw a reflection of our broken selves, along with a flicker of determination to rise again. And rise again the three us us did, against all odds. Despite its disco ball appearance, the artificial Christmas tree symbolized strength, and we had purchased it, replacing our usual fresh tree that year. When we looked at it, it filled us with faith in the future, and we enjoyed it every year until 2018.
But then came 2019, the year that shattered what remained of our world. My daughter and I spent Christmas in front of greasy cartons of Chinese take-out food, the bare house echoing with sorrow. Holiday decorations lay banished in the attic, mere ghosts of past joy. In 2020, I ordered a three-foot “pencil” tree and a few handfuls of decorations that became our new holiday tradition.
This Christmas, stroking the Walmart-bought tree, memories of 2019 washed over me, the sharp sting of grief still fresh after all this time. The idea of decorating it with its own ornaments, relics of childhood Christmases, which I had also fetched from the attic, exasperated my silent ache, a reminder of the son I’d lost too soon. The once joyous act of decorating the family tree now felt like a painful, unbearable ritual, each ornament a monument to a life that was stolen from us. I opted for the familiar comfort of the pencil tree and its decorations.
Yet, returning those old treasures to the attic felt impossible. As tears welled up, a spark of something else flickered within me. While the pain of being a survivor remained, the memories of other past Christmases reminded me that the same decorated artificial tree had weathered countless storms alongside our one-time family of three, and had become a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of fleeting life.
And that’s when I knew what I had to do. I decided to let it go. I posted an ad online, offering the Christmas tree for free.
The first two responses led to disappointment, but then came a message that tugged at my heartstrings. A single mother, struggling to make ends meet, desperately wanted the tree for her four-year-old son. My heart softened, and I did the unthinkable. I decided to give her not only the Christmas tree, but almost all of the rest of it — the lights, the ornaments, even the memories they held.
In that moment, I knew this was more than just giving away holiday decor. It was about passing on a flicker of hope, a spark of joy that could illuminate someone else’s holiday season.
“My son would have wanted your son to have it,” I explained after informing her of my decision, her profuse thanks still ringing in my ears.
Final Letting Go …
Since I was going out that evening, I left the bundle outside my garage door for her to pick up. Before pulling out of the driveway, I took a final photo of everything. A wave of bittersweet emotions washed over me. Sadness for what I had lost, but also a sense of relief and liberation.
This Christmas, like the last four before it, my home may not be filled with the familiar sights and sounds of our pre-tragedy celebrations. But in my heart, I know that the spirit of Christmas lives on. It lives on in the kindness of strangers who lend an empathetic ear, in the joy of a child, and in the quiet strength that allows us to rise from the ashes and stand ourselves tall, like a noble fir.
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“Take a second mortgage on the house and get one of those … It’s a vanilla bean; they’re expensive.”
In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, Chef Jean-Pierre’s melodious French accent echoed through our house. My partner, Mark, was deeply engrossed in one of the chef’s YouTube videos, determined to master a recipe for crème brûlée, as a tribute to my late son Marshall, who loved the delicate custard dessert.
Thanksgiving Day arrived, and sweet, as well as curried, aromas blended seamlessly with the roasted turkey and simmering gravy, filling our home and mingling with the bittersweet scent of memories. As my daughter, her BF and my life partner and I gathered around the table, our hearts held a mixture of gratitude, sorrow and unwavering love.
This Thanksgiving, our fourth without Marshall and his wry humor and roll-up-your-sleeve helping attitude, was a poignant reminder of the profound impact he had on our lives for his brief 26 years on earth.
Inspired by last weekend’s conferences, I hoped to rekindle the warmth and joy that Marshall brought to our Thanksgiving gatherings by not only making one of his favorite desserts, but also his signature curry pumpkin coconut soup.
I had special-ordered white ceramic dessert dishes, only to be baffled by the sudden appearance of a crystal clear one in the sink that no one could account for. (Later, it was revealed to me that the dish was my dear childhood friend, Anna’s.)
Marshall Matters
This was the first holiday that I decided to set a place at the table for my son. To my astonishment, Marshall’s photo slid out from the cutlery, as if guided by an unseen force. Immediately, I knew to place the photo from 2008 front and center on his designated chair. The place setting was a simple gesture, and it brought a sense of comfort amid our grief.
The meal was a symphony of flavors and memories. It began with the creamy, aromatic soup that evoked Marshall’s infectious laughter and his love for curry in each sip and ended with the velvety crème brûlée, nesting in its delicately caramelized crust that reminded us of his sweet tooth and his insatiable curiosity for new culinary experiences. Marshall mattered, and so did my mom, dad and brother Michael. Although they were no longer physically present, their spirits were woven into the very fabric of the gathering.
As our stomachs filled so did our hearts. In the quiet moments between laughter and tears, there was a sense of peace, a gentle acceptance of the inevitable.
This past Thanksgiving, though tinged with sadness, served as a testament to the enduring power of faith, love and the resilience of the human spirit. It was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always light to be found, and that love’s embrace extends beyond the confines of mortality, like the lingering aroma of a cherished spice.
1 tablespoon olive oil 1 medium onion, finely chopped 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 tablespoon ginger, grated 1 tablespoon red curry paste 1 (14-ounce) can diced tomatoes 1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin puree 1 (13.5-ounce) can coconut milk 2 cups vegetable broth 1 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon black pepper 1 tablespoon lime juice, plus more to taste
Garnish(Optional):
Fresh cilantro leaves Pumpkin seeds
Shredded Coconut or Coconut milk Lime wedges
Instructions:
Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes.
Add the garlic, ginger, and curry paste and cook for 1 minute more, until fragrant.
Stir in the diced tomatoes, pumpkin puree, coconut milk, vegetable broth, salt, and pepper. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Using an immersion blender or a regular blender, puree the soup until smooth.
Stir in the lime juice to taste.
Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish, if you like, with cilantro, pumpkin seeds, shredded coconut, coconut milk and/or lime wedges.
Chef Jean-Pierre’s Recipe for Crème Brûlée in Honor of Marshall
Ingredients:
4 whole eggs ½ cup granulated sugar or ¼ sugar and 2 ounces white chocolate 12 ounces whole milk 12 ounces heavy whipping cream 1 pinch salt 1 tablespoon pure Tahitian vanilla extract or imitation vanilla extract
Equipment:
4 ramekins or small baking dishes Large saucepan Mixing bowls Whisk Fine-mesh sieve Culinary torch or broiler Instructions:
Preheat the oven to 325°F (163°C). Place the ramekins in a baking dish and set aside.
In a saucepan, combine the milk, cream, white chocolate and vanilla extract. Heat over medium heat until just simmering.
In a mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs, sugar, and salt until well combined.
Gradually whisk the hot milk mixture into the egg mixture until fully incorporated.
Strain the custard through a fine-mesh sieve into a clean bowl to remove any impurities.
Divide the custard evenly among the prepared ramekins.
Carefully fill the baking pan with hot water to reach about halfway up the sides of the ramekins.
Place the baking pan in the preheated oven and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until the custards are set, but still slightly jiggly in the center.
Remove the ramekins from the water bath and let cool completely on a wire rack.
Refrigerate the crème brûlée for at least 2 hours, or preferably overnight.
Enjoy your Chef Jean-Pierre’s Crème Brûlée in honor of someone you love!
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When I was an adolescent, Mac, along with my other peers, called me the “Bag Lady.” I don’t blame them. My purse always looked like a carry-on piece of luggage. I could have easily stuffed a 20-pound turkey and a few bags of stuffing inside, with room to spare.
I was never able to get away with slipping into the classroom at middle school — and later high school — late. As I precariously balanced my purses, the silver bracelets that looped up to my elbows, transforming my arms into two gleaming pipes, jangled and clanged incessantly. In an attempt to muffle the jarring symphony, I shuffled my feet and swayed my hips, but I always found myself teetering on the brink of toppling over.
I know getting detention for tardiness is not ideal, but it was worth it to me. My bags bulged with hardcover journals, precious cargo I clutched close to my heart. Pages upon pages overflowed with my innermost thoughts and feelings: poems, doodles, to-do lists, secrets, deep thoughts, quotes. Every inch of space was filled, a testament to my teenage angst and yearning for self-expression.
In middle school and high school, my journal was my sanctuary, a place where I documented every triumph and heartbreak, all my fleeting thoughts and deep-seated emotions. Each page was a snapshot of my life, a personal drama that unfolded before my eyes. Even my to-do lists were epic sagas, with tasks labeled “MUST DO!!” and “VIP!!!” in fiery red ink. I was the heroine, the only one who could save the day (or at least finish my homework).
With each pen stroke, I became the director of my own life, crafting a story that was uniquely mine. My journal was my canvas, and my pen was my brush.
Mac would sometimes ask me for my purse. Naive as I was, I’d hand it over without hesitation. He’d hold it up like a prize at auction, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“A bowling ball!” he’d exclaim, his voice laced with mock surprise. “It must weigh a ton.” He’d heft my purse in the air, his arms straining under the weight. Then he’d hand it back to me with a chuckle, and we’d move on to another topic without further drama.
I clutched my big bag as if it were a third hand, no matter where I went: to school, to work, or on my frequent trips to Florida. Everything inside felt as permanent and essential as fingernails. As I grew older, my time was consumed with raising a young family. My journals disappeared, replaced by small notebooks filled with inspirational quotes. But my bags remained oversized, bulging with a wallet, coupons, comb, brush, blush, and more.
Then, about seven months ago, something strange happened. Without making a conscious effort, I switched to small crossbody bags. My big, bad bags became a relic of the past.
In the wake of my trauma, I realize that my love of carrying big, bad bags was a metaphor for my fear of letting go. I was terrified of losing control, of not being enough, and of missing out. But four years ago, my life was turned upside down. I lost my son, and the future I had envisioned for myself, for us, was shattered.
I still live in a haze, waiting for Marshall to pop out of the corner. On my daughter’s recent birthday, I realized that she is now older than her older brother, who was buried with his wisdom teeth intact. She will soon be getting her wisdom teeth removed.
Compared to that loss, do I really need an extra tube of lipstick? I’ve realized that the more possessions I cling to, the heavier my burden becomes.
After experiencing a crash course in letting go, all that’s left is to trust. As unwilling as I was, I’ve retired my hero cape. I’m not anyone’s savior, not even my own. My director role has also taken a hit, falling into obscurity. I may have a unique voice, but I don’t set the stage.
I’m learning to let go and trust that certain things are beyond my control. I’m learning that I don’t need to be defined as a victim. I’m learning that pity isn’t what I want. I’m learning to trust myself and make decisions on my own, because I am a competent adult. My newfound trust stems from finally accepting this simple fact: I am enough, just as I am. Without faith in myself, who can I put it in?
As I trudge into year five without my son unexpectedly emerging from a hidden corner, I’ve learned that the things I really need can’t be carried in a bag. They are carried in my heart and soul.
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Disclaimer: This blog post contains sensitive content that may be a trigger for some readers. Please read at your own discretion.
Orange and brown leaves danced and twirled across the brittle grass, driven by a gust of cool air outside my window. Inside, the warm and safe air was filled with the scent of my pumpkin spice candle. Last week when Halloween finally arrived, I rejoiced in the ghost town appearance of our cul-de-sac, where not a single trick-or-treater dared to venture.
It brought to mind a member of our suicide loss survivors support group on Facebook who had posted how young kids ran in front of her house and screamed, “Hanging! Hanging! That’s where the hanging was! Bad luck! Bad luck! The house is bad luck!”
The recipient of this horror was a mom whose adolescent son died by suicide in his bedroom. Surprisingly, the mom paid little attention to the comments. She told the group that the bullies were simply kids who didn’t know any better and were doing their best to process the information that adults had presented to them.
Remembering this vulnerable mom in our facebook group brought a chill that ran down my spine. Was that what the local families thought? Was that why no one had come to our door?
I realized that I wasn’t going crazy. I was crazy. The emotional rollercoaster was relentless, a ticket to the unthinkable place that became my everyday endurance. I summoned my rational mind and washed away the wave of trepidation that engulfed me, leaving me empty. Past Halloweens with my young children filled the blankness. I envisioned my ex-husband’s expert pumpkin carvings, smiley symbols of hope and abundance for the future.
Remembering only propelled me into the vastness of despair. Again, I reined in my emotions, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness. I hadn’t bought any candy to give out, which was what I had wanted, but now I felt a pang of regret.
At that moment, my phone rang and I answered it. It was my dear friend, another bereaved mom.
“Anybody on your street? Did you get any trick-or-treaters?”
“Nope. Did you?”
“Seems quiet.”
We started talking about our plans for the upcoming week and other trivial things, but then about 10 minutes later, she suddenly remarked, “It sucks.”
My heart sank. We paused for a moment, our silence speaking volumes. I felt my friend’s grief through the phone line, and it mirrored my own.
But then something unexpected happened. I sensed a surge of love for my friend. It was a deep, intimate love, born of shared pain and understanding. It was the kind of love that helps us get through and paints a sign of five letters: FAITH.
“It does suck,” I said, my voice breaking.
We didn’t need to say anything else. We simply sat there on the phone, holding each other close in spirit. It was a moment of profound connection, and it was exactly what I needed to wind down and get back to breathing a bit.
After I got off the phone, I crept to my bedroom and collapsed into bed, grateful for the fresh, clean sheets, the warm heat, my good friends, and the infinite book selection on my Kindle that stretched before me like a starlit night sky.
All at once I realized that I had forgotten to extinguish the candle. I bolted out of bed and into the hallway, and as I blew out the candle on the mantle, I felt a warm glow in my heart.
For a moment, I was transported back to pumpkin patches and hay rides from long ago, when nutmeg pierced the air and squirrels zipped through carpets of fallen leaves, stashing their acorns for the upcoming winter. I heard the laughter once again of our young family, the joy on their faces as we picked out their perfect pumpkin to be carved.
And in that moment, I realized that even in all the sorrow and all the sewage, the love you once had for the season can still reawaken. Even if it was only for a second, it was love, still.
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WTF? (Where's the faith?) 