He whisked away the debris, and last week returned with a brand-new pane of glass. After he fitted it into the cabinet’s frame and stepped back, sunlight streamed through the living room window, painting a vibrant rectangle across the wood floor and glimmering on the new, freshly cleaned mirror in the china cabinet.
Francisco and I both exchanged a smile before he packed up his things and left for the day. I wanted so much to believe that like the new pane, our lives too had the capacity for renewal. Of course, unlike the mirror, I couldn’t replace my personal cracks and chips or the inevitable wear and tear, but did the flaws erase the inherent beauty? Or did they add a layer of character, a testament to the full-life lived? Was I, I wondered, a human version of Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold.
In that moment, I felt a shift. Perhaps it was the undeniable symbolism – the brokenness replaced by something whole and new – something solid like gold. Perhaps it was the inherent optimism of spring, a season that whispers promises of renewal. After the quiet slumber of winter, those first few hyacinths were already poking out from the ground in my backyard while the robins ribboned around our premises, dancing in their warm orange coats.
A surge of wishful thinking swept over me. Briefly, I donned the familiar rose-colored glasses, picturing the year ahead. Perhaps the persistent bad luck plaguing our house would finally dissipate, carried away by a spring breeze. Perhaps sunshine would outnumber the storms. But even with that hopeful vision, fragments of doubt remained. Still, the point was to hold onto faith, a force both internal and external, that could guide me through life’s uncontrollable twists and turns.
So, as I stood there, facing down another battle with depression and PTSD, I chose hope. Hope that transcends the cycle of good luck and bad, setbacks and triumphs. I chose moxie too. After all, isn’t that the spirit of spring? A belief that even after the harshest winter, new life, new beginnings, and a whole lot of sparkle await me.
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We’ve all heard that broken mirrors bring bad luck. Seven years to be exact. Well, six years ago, a stray mattress shattered the mirrored back of our small china cabinet. I shrugged it off at the time, preoccupied with other matters.
A few months ago, my dear friend Michelle recommended a wonderful handyman. Recently, while he was working on some odd jobs, our conversation turned to the china cabinet’s broken mirrored back.
“My wife won’t allow any broken mirrors in our house,” he said, his voice heavy with an unspoken worry. His words clung to the air, making the shattered reflection before me appear ominous. The cracks seemed to mirror the fractures in my own life, the hardships I’d endured, and the raw pain of our family’s tragedy.
Even though I was raised in a superstitious family, I didn’t really believe a piece of glass held any power over my circumstances. Fortunately, I do have a little more faith than that — but just in case — I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Maybe the broken mirror brought the bad luck into the house! I want it out as soon as possible!”
A few weeks later as the mirror came out, there was such a lightness in its place. I felt this sense of renewal – not in a superstitious “now things will be perfect” sort of way, Instead, it felt like a chapter had closed and getting rid of the broken mirror felt incredibly liberating.
During a conversation with Michelle, she mentioned something a friend, who had recently retired from the corporate world, had shared: “Hope is not a strategy.”
The wisdom resonated with me. I realized that removing the broken mirror was the true strategy. In doing so, I found hope. Perhaps the real power lies not in the shattered glass itself, but in the courage to choose change and embrace hope.
We all hold on to things, physically and otherwise, that no longer serve us. Whether it’s an old teacup with a stain, an item of clothing with a tear, or even a situation or person we can’t seem to move on from… sometimes letting go is the most cleansing and rejuvenating action we can take.
What are you holding onto that it may be time to release?
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A common refrain in the face of tragedy, often dismissed as a platitude.
But in Akin’s stream of thought, a main character in Stay With Me, Ayobami Adebayo reveals a powerful truth: Sometimes, the most profound emotions reside in the absence of words.
“I realized that the ground under our feet had just been pulled away, we were standing on air, and my words could not keep us from falling into the pit that had opened up beneath.”
Through grief, we confront the universal cavity life eventually carves, a void even the most eloquent language cannot fill. That’s Akin’s experience when he grapples with the devastating loss of his second child and is forced to reveal the truth to his wife, Yejide.
Without revealing the entire powerful story of Stay with Me by Ayobami Adebayo, let me say this: it’s a poignant exploration of love, loss, and the intricate bonds of family. While it delves into sensitive topics and doesn’t shy away from life’s harsh realities (trigger warnings advised), it also offers a captivating portrayal of Nigerian culture and societal pressures in the 1980s.
Can Yejide and Akin, the central characters, rise above their suffering? To answer that, we must first define what constitutes suffering and what defines strength? Does abandonment, for example, truly shield us from pain or, simply, compound matters?
If you haven’t read the book, prepare for twists and turns, even taboo ones.
The reason Stay With Me resonates with me is that the novel’s message transcends the specific narrative. It challenges the notion of starting life with grand expectations of a perfect world. Instead, it urges us to embrace reality – a reality where loss is inevitable, where storms are guaranteed. It’s in navigating these storms, in weathering the tides of hardship until true faith reveals itself.
While I was immersed in Stay With Me, my friend Pat presented me with Winter of the Heart, Finding Your Way through the Mystery of Grief, by Paula D’Arcy. This book, gifted to Pat by a mother who had lost her daughter to suicide, was part of a grief resource bundle. As I delved into its pages, I realized the uncanny connection – both books explored profound themes of loss and grief, making Pat’s gift feel divinely timed and deeply meaningful.
Here’s an excerpt from a section called, It’s Your Turn from Winter of the Heart: Although loss feels personal and isolating, it’s common to all humankind. Countless men and women have traveled this road; many are walking with us right now. The book of Ecclesiastes repeats the phrase “There is a time.” It’s true. Eventually there is a time when we all lose someone or something of great value to us. We expect grief in the wake of deep loss, but even everyday losses and unmet expectations may surprise us with force. The common experience of loss binds us all. We will each take a turn one day; we cannot escape life. We can only meet our circumstances with a deepening awareness of what it means to live life fully.
Instead of chasing some nebulous concept of “happiness,” what if we set our sights on a life that’s full? Consider the dictionary definition of “full”: packed to the brim, complete, lacking nothing. Now, compare that to “happy”: a fleeting state of well-being and contentment.
Life typically isn’t a neatly plotted story with a guaranteed happy ending. Nor does it have to contain a heart-wrenching Stay by Me plot line. But in a full life, the twists and turns, the moments navigated by blind faith, become chapters in a rich and vibrant story.
“I have no words,” becomes a celebration of life’s unpredictable nature. Because in a full life, the ending isn’t written yet. It’s an open book, waiting to be filled with the messy, magnificent adventure that is called your life.
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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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In 1993, while my infant son, my first born, lay in the NICU, his pediatric cardiologist plopped a hefty textbook about pediatric cardiology onto the surface of the nurse’s station. In fact, one of the chapters was written by my son’s doctor himself. This dense tome, a relic of a pre-internet era, was to become my constant companion, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.
Seventy-two hours after giving birth on January 18 of that year to a seemingly healthy baby boy, my world, which had already been turned upside down by a seven-day stretch in the Labor and Delivery room and an unexpected premature delivery, spun out of control. Doctors diagnosed my son, Marshall, with not one but two congenital heart defects – a ventricular septal defect (VSD) and an atrial septal defect (ASD).
A VSD is a hole in the wall that separates the heart’s lower chambers (ventricles), while an ASD is a hole in the wall that divides the upper chambers (atria) of the heart. Fortunately, the ASD would heal on its own within the first year of Marshall’s life. However, the VSD, shockingly, turned out to consist of multiple holes, not just one, and only open heart surgery could repair the condition.
“A Swiss cheese heart,” his doctor said in his description to me, painting a vivid picture of my son’s condition. I can still recall the doctor’s words, “Ventricular septal defects are the most common congenital heart defects.”
At the time, I interpreted this statement as a reassurance that we were dealing with a relatively common condition. Okay, we’re with the majority. It’s good. My affirmation helped me put one foot in front of another on those endless shining granite-colored titled hallways that seemed to loop around like never-ending hamster wheels.
However, while researching this blog post, I came across a startling statistic: “About 1% of babies born in the United States have a congenital heart defect, such as a hole in the heart.”
This statistic struck me with a jolt. In so many ways, as I’ve previously written, there was nothing typical about Marshall’s birth, life, or death. He truly was a one-percenter.”
Good thing back then I didn’t also know that almost 7 out of 10 infants born with a hole in the heart survive into adulthood, because I would have also obsessed about the three infants who don’t survive into adulthood.
As a new mother, I was understandably overwhelmed by the news of my son’s congenital heart defect. Textbook statistics and medical jargon did little to soothe my worries, and I couldn’t help but focus on the possibility of complications.
Despite my fears, within the first 10 months of his life, baby Marshall underwent two successful surgeries and emerged stronger and healthier than ever. However, our journey was far from easy. During his first year, he struggled with colic, an uncontrollable crying (screaming) condition that left us both exhausted and frustrated.
Hearing the constant wailing was heartbreaking. It was as if our son was in constant pain, and no amount of comforting or soothing helped. Both his pediatrician and pediatric cardiologist assured us that colic was unrelated to his heart condition, but it was hard to believe that a seemingly healthy baby could be in such distress.
As a stay-at-home mom, working as a freelance writer, I felt the weight of responsibility more heavily than ever. The endless cycle of crying, feeding, and soothing left me drained and desperate for a solution. One night, actually early hours of the morning, in a moment of sheer exhaustion and despair, I had a horrifying thought: what if I just tossed my son out the window?
The thought was fleeting, but it shook me to my core. I realized that the stress of caring for a colicky baby had pushed me to the brink.
Fortunately, I had been actively involved in various therapeutic undertakings as well as a 12-step program over the past nine years. These interventions, which I still consider to be the most profound healers in my life, provided me with the strength to navigate this challenging period. I had a reservoir of coping mechanisms and strategies for dealing with whatever life threw at me. I remained grateful for the power of faith and fellowship, and most importantly, my son taught me an invaluable lesson: the essence of unconditional love.
You see, exhausted and at my wit’s end after recounting the sleepless nights, I would often conclude my sharing in support groups with the poignant declaration, “I’m learning how to love.” It was a testament to the profound impact my son had on my life.
Gradually, the crying subsided, and Marshall’s congenital heart defects became a successful chapter in our lives. He grew into a healthy toddler and our routine returned to a semblance of normalcy, though our son’s unique challenges remained. He was a fighter, determined to live life on his own terms.
For instance, administering his medication was a daily battle. The only way I could manage it was with the help of my 80-something-year-old dad, who would hold him down while I forced drops of medicine down my son’s throat. Similarly, buckling him into a car seat was another 20-minute ordeal. Marshall had an aversion to being confined, and he would resist it with every ounce of his mule-like strength. I vividly recall a struggle in the back seat of our car at a grocery store parking lot. It took me over 20 minutes, the golden number, to finally secure him in his seat. When I left the back seat, ready to hop into the passenger seat, an older woman, with her arms crossed and a face contorted with rage, confronted me. She shook her head, likely assuming I had just beaten my son in the back seat, but she didn’t investigate any further and, instead, stormed off without a word.
Dental appointments were an entirely different ordeal. Marshall’s fear of the dentist was so intense that he became hysterical in the waiting room. On one occasion, his behavior was so disruptive that a staff member reprimanded me; I mean, the responsibility always falls on mom, right? From then on, we scheduled our appointments at off-peak hours when we could avoid the presence of other children. While it was embarrassing to have to make special arrangements, it was the only way to ensure that Marshall received the dental care he needed.
Wouldn’t you know it? Marshall’s dental issues were far more severe than those of an average child. He seemed to be a one-percenter when it came to tooth problems, so we were frequent (solo) visitors to the dentist’s office.
Around the age of five or six, Marshall seemed to have outgrown his fear of the dentist. We arrived for our appointment, and everything appeared to be going smoothly in the waiting room packed with other children. However, as the hygienist approached wearing her workday garb, Marshall bolted up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. It took nearly an hour of coaxing and reassurance to convince him to come out. Despite the setback and leaving a few kids and their parents frazzled, we managed to complete the appointment, just as we always had.
“I’m learning how to love.” My update to my fellows remained the same — week after week; month after month; year after year.
When Marshall first entered kindergarten, some of his behavior was a stark contrast to what had turned into, at least for a good deal of the time, a calm demeanor at home. Specifically as soon as he arrived home and got off the school bus, he ran around the house, screaming uncontrollably. Little did I know that a lot of his behavior stemmed from the actions of his teacher — a story I won’t delve into at this point.
Consulting with the school’s psychologist revealed that Marshall exhibited exemplary behavior in class — a trait that remained consistent throughout his school years. What the psychologist further explained was that he channeled his pent-up emotions from the classroom and school grounds the minute he stepped off the school bus and onto home turf, a safe zone where he was unconditionally loved and able to express his true emotions and feelings. In this case, it was a lot of fear and frustration from performing properly on the world’s stage. Great! This knowledge helped me enormously. I bit the bullet.
Marshall’s determination to live authentically, even within the haven of love and trust, often sparked conflict with those closest to him, the casualties of his relentless quest to shed the shackles of his false self, which I didn’t learn about until his last year on earth. Once someone told me I should have received the Purple Heart medal (which my eldest brother Mike actually did, along with a few other medals, while he was in the service during Vietnam) for raising my son. I agreed wholeheartedly.
Throughout the challenges and joys of parenthood, I never lost sight of my gratitude. First, for the privilege of becoming a parent in my 30s, a rarity among my generation in those days, and second, for the honor of nurturing the most precious gift on earth: human life. It’s a concept that still amazes me to this day.
Admittedly, I didn’t always handle motherhood perfectly. I made mistakes and fell short many times. But through it all, I discovered that the extraordinary act of prioritizing another’s needs above your own — the essence of motherhood — was my ultimate purpose and it still is.
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A few months ago, as I was recounting the experiences of raising my son to my dear friend Michelle, my co-author of her memoir. I told her how, especially during the many trials, I would often reiterate, “I’m learning how to love.” And then, as we conversed and I reflected on the profound impact my son had had on my life, I added, “Out of all the lessons he’s taught me, he’s taught me how to love the most.”
To that statement, she amazingly replied, “He still is.”
She couldn’t have been more accurate. Marshall would have been 31 this coming Thursday, January 18. The pain of what was and what could have been, as my therapist Louis, who had lost a daughter of his own, had promised, has softened through these years, but it remains a constant presence. My life has taken on a different dimension, with everything now filtered through the lens of his absence. Marshall is forever young at 26, and I am forever a heart broken senior citizen who understands the fragility of life at the first heart beat.
It brings to mind a podcast, All There Is with Anderson Cooper, (September 21, 2022) with Stephen Colbert: Grateful for Grief. The excerpt is below:
Anderson Cooper: Wow. Something I’ve been feeling a lot with my kids because they’re so perfect. There are these moments of such frailty that, my heart is breaking at just the beauty of this experience. And yet there’s this sense of sort of the awareness of the frailty of it.
Stephen Colbert: The first experience that I had holding my first child, my daughter. The first thing that occurred to me was, how beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end.
How beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end. I repeat that line all day in my head and it never fails to rekindle my sense of gratitude.
In this new, old world of mine, I’m totally indifferent, and that’s okay. I do not need a textbook to interpret my lot, for it is a journey reserved solely for me not bound by external factors, but my own inner compass. Yet without question, intrinsically I know the the path was carved for me to walk; the metaphorical bullet others dodged, but I took the hit. Each step, a small victory over the overwhelming feeling of defeat that threatens to consume me. The hallways endless; granite tiles, cold and unforgiving. Faith forward, my final spin on the hamster wheel of life.
Damn. I’m learning how to love — without victory, without reserve.
Love transforms you. It stretches your limits until you feel like you’re in a league of your own, a realm that only a select few will ever experience. It breaks you down, only to rebuild you stronger, more resilient, and more capable of love than you ever thought possible, a medal of honor with no comparison.
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Imagine this: a cherished ceramic vase, shattered into a hundred pieces. Grief hangs heavy in the air, mirroring jagged shards scattered across the floor. However, instead of discarding the wreckage, you choose Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. Using careful hands and a patient heart, you join the pieces, each gilded seam tracing the story of the vase’s fall and rebirth.
I mentioned the art form in last week’s blog. Kintsugi, meaning “golden joinery,” is more than just a repair technique; it’s a philosophy. It celebrates the idea that brokenness is not an ending, but rather a new beginning, infused with unity and strength. In the same vein that I wrote about last week, what if we applied this philosophy to our own lives, especially when they feel tragically broken and faith seems like a distant dream? Especially when we believe our brokenness defines us.
How do we apply kintsugi in our own lives? The first step is to stop pretending the cracks don’t exist. Ignoring them only prolongs the suffering. Let the tears flow, let the anger roar until it dissipates. Then, with courage, reach into the depths of your pain, your vulnerabilities, your struggles. Only then, through this act of bravery of facing what hurts the most, can the healing begin.
The next phase of the process is to embrace the imperfections. I get tripped up in the fact that our society often glorifies the “perfect,” airbrushed version of life. But Kintsugi reminds us that beauty lies in the authentic, in the unique imperfections that make us who we are. Embrace your scars, your stumbles, your quirks. They are the gold that makes your story shine.
From that vantage point, it’s easier to lift your head high and seek out the light. Do you not see it? I remember over 39 years ago, I could not see beyond the darkness, and the world around me seemed equally eclipsed. As fate would have it, my journey of crafting my own kintsugi began when I panned in the rubbish. It wasn’t the fear of judgmental stares that fueled my courage, but rather a community of open hearts, unjudging ears and warm embraces. People who saw my worth, not my cracks. Slowly, like moss finding purchase on a weathered rock, self-compassion aided me to recognize the shimmering parts of my life’s inventory, like gold dust on the wind. Accepting my fractures became the catalyst for healing. I gained a new set of eyes to see myself not as a broken vase, discarded and forgotten, but a work of art in progress.
My kintsugi journey is far from over, and, I’m guessing, neither is yours. As the new year unfolds, let us walk this path together and continue to share stories, tips and resources. Let’s kintsugi together, one shimmering piece at a time.
The clickety-clack of red shoes against the pavement announced her arrival long before her presence did. Each step towards her therapist’s office echoed a question thrumming in her heart: “Do I still believe?”
January 2nd; the new year kicked off, but the same relentless storm of challenges remained: job lost, debt mounting, love departed, health fading, leaving her grappling for faith.
Then, her gaze snagged on the crimson glow of her shoes. A whimsical purchase, worn for the first time today. They felt like a spark, a whispered counterpoint to the storm. Even in the depths of despair, beauty clung on, defying the shadows.
The woman arrived at the office housing a number of therapists and took a seat in the quiet waiting room. She looked around and a mosaic of faces mirrored her own uncertainties. But instead of isolation, she felt a strange sense of solace. She wasn’t alone in this dance with doubt.
Her therapist called her name, and she went into the office. She sat down in a plush chair, and the therapist asked her how she was doing.
The therapist, with a gentle smile, listened as the woman poured out her story. The loss, the anger, the fear, oh, the fear, and the gnawing void where faith once resided.
“It’s okay,” the therapist finally said, her voice a soothing balm. “Finding faith isn’t always the answer. Maybe we don’t have to overthink it because maybe faith, like air, simply exists. We breathe it in without being fully aware that that is what sustains us.”
The surprised woman blinked with wet lashes. “But God?” she whispered.
The therapist shook her head. “I don’t know. But my faith in beauty remains. Even in the storm’s eye, even in the cracks of life, something shines. If I can’t see it then I must trust in the eyes of another who can. I must feel it in the warmth of a mug; hear it in the comfort of music; smell it in the emerald symphony outside. And that, for me, is enough.”
Silence stretched for a moment, then the doubting woman’s lips curved into a hesitant smile. “What if I’m still oblivious to faith?”
The therapist’s eyes twinkled. “Dare to hope in a new tomorrow. Let the sunrise ignite your hope. Make a point to do the right actions, and share that radiance with others. A smile to a stranger, a surrendered parking space in a crowded lot. Remember always: the free-spirited audacity of red shoes dancing on marred gray sidewalks – these too are paths to beauty. Look at Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. The cracks, once wounds, become gilded threads, woven into the story of the piece. Like your shoes, every scar can be a flourish, a testament to resilience. Regardless of differing fortunes, we all walk paths riddled with cracks, yet they are still our steady ground.”
A wave of relief washed over the woman. She didn’t have all the answers but she had derived what she had needed: a seed of hope. She’d let up on the searching, but would continue to walk despite the brokenness, scarlet threads woven through her path, unseen but keenly felt.
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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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My friend Denis M., now long retired, was not just a lawyer, but a champion for justice and certainly a pillar of support in my personal life. To this day, I consider him an important mentor who imparted invaluable lessons that have guided me through life’s turbulent waters.
I will always remember his sharing about the morning when his brisk walk to the courthouse was abruptly halted by a foul odor. His eyes darted to the source, and there, amid the manicured lawn, lay an unsightly pile of human feces. His shock was quickly replaced by a surge of anger that coursed through his veins. Fists clenched tightly, he paced the grounds, his heavy footsteps echoing his fury. With each turn, his face grew flushed, his burning desire was to identify the culprit who had dared to defile his path.
After about ten minutes of scouring the courthouse grounds, he was so emotionally shaken that he sat down on a bench to try and catch his breath. As his heart rate slowed and his breathing steadied, his thoughts turned to the perpetrator of this vile act. He wondered what kind of person could commit such a senseless, disrespectful deed. The more he pondered the individual, the more empathy he felt. He envisioned a life devoid of self-respect, a soul trapped in a state of emptiness, incapable of comprehending the degrading nature of his or her actions.
Rather than condemning the individual, Denis felt a surge of compassion. He saw a lost soul, a human being in desperate need of guidance and understanding. His anger gradually gave way to a sense of melancholy, a realization that the true tragedy lay not in the act itself, but in the desolate state of mind that drove it.
As Denis finished recounting his tale, a wave of understanding washed over me. It was like a door in my mind creaked open, allowing in a flood of light that dispelled the shadows of long-held, rigid perceptions. Forgiveness, once a distant concept shrouded in judgment, suddenly felt attainable, even desirable.
This newfound clarity manifested itself in subtle yet profound ways over the years that changed my life. Take last Sunday, for instance. I found myself drawn back to the familiar pews of my childhood church, a place I usually avoid since our family tragedy in 2019, especially when I feel emotionally exposed.
As it went, I found out that one of the parishioners, a woman in her 70s, had lost her husband, about the same age as herself. After the liturgy, my sole desire was to offer my condolences. My heart ached for her, and for her son, a man I hadn’t seen in 20 years, who stood beside her in the church hall, his grief a stoic shadow. I approached them, eager to offer comfort, and not only to share the simple truth of her son being a fine young man, but knowing how it was to lose a father when I was around his same age.
But before I could utter a greeting, the woman descended upon me. Her words tumbled out like a torrent, each one a sharp stone flung at me. “Forty-four years, that’s a long time. I had my husband for a long time,” she rasped, her voice cracking like dry leaves. “That’s a long time. But a child? Losing a child…nothing compares. It’s the worst thing, the absolute worst…”
Her son, his face etched with sorrow, simply watched.
My tiny voice, unfamiliar to my ears, piped up, “All grief is justified.”
The woman ignored me as she continued, her black eyes flickering. “I don’t know how you survive. How you get out of bed each day.” Her tirade was like a broken record. “I don’t know how you go on. How you face the day.” Her gaze, raw and accusatory, pinned me like a butterfly under glass.
“Should I just self-destruct then?” I almost retorted with a bitter humor. The thought of crumbling in front of her, offering myself as a sacrifice to her anguish, felt perversely tempting.
Her son, shoulders slumped under the weight of the woman’s emotional meltdown, his own grief shoved to a backseat, simply shook his head compassionately at me. His apology, whether for his mother’s behavior or for my being plowed over by her words, hung heavy in the air.
The air crackled with her sudden curiosity. “How’s your daughter?” she asked, her voice like a spark.
“Great!” I barked.
Leaving a house of worship should be an act of renewal, a shared understanding that even in the face of darkness, there’s a flicker of light, a whisper of hope. But this woman, she seemed to believe the very walls of the church were a shield, a fortress against the inevitable.
As I settled into the familiar embrace of my son’s car, my anger simmered. In a flash, I remembered: a leopard-print shirt, skin-tight pants, spike heels, the stage lights blindingly bright. My stand-up days, a time when humor was a shield, a weapon even.
So I channeled that young, brash 20s version of myself, the one who in the 80s faced hecklers and self-doubt with a joke and a wink.
“I don’t know how I survive, lady?” I imagined myself saying in a comedy routine, a mischievous glint in my eye. “Well, let me tell you, two days ago, I brought down the Christmas tree and old decorations. Post-tragedy stuff that had been dorment in the attic for four years, mind you. And revisiting the holiday time capsules attached to so many poignant memories, I couldn’t bare the thought of surviving one more day. And with people like you around, even the luckiest among us will feel driven to ask Santa for a stash of spiked eggnog to keep the holiday spirit bright. Cheers to surviving another season of crazy crazies, uh, I mean, Christmas cheers!”
Hardy har har.
Some say the funniest people are the ones who’ve hopped through fire. Now I understand why. But it’s not funny, really. It’s a wound, a gaping hole in the soul, masked by a thin veneer of laughter.
But this time, something felt different. A newfound strength, perhaps, or maybe a flicker of Denis’s own empathy, guided me through, while the barnacles of disdain began to loosen their grip. Forgiveness, once an abstract notion, morphed into a tangible practice. It wasn’t about condoning the actions of others; it was about releasing myself from the shackles of resentment.
I wouldn’t call it an overnight transformation, but a seed had been planted, nurtured by Denis’s example, and so many others like them over these years, along with my own mental capacity and willingness to open the door to compassion and follow the examples of my past mentors.
As I arrived home, the sunlight felt a little warmer, not just on my skin, but on my soul. The woman’s words still stung, but they also sparked a different kind of fire within me – a fire of defiance, of refusal. I wouldn’t let her define me, wouldn’t let her armor-plated judgment cast a shadow over my journey toward forgiveness. I would just see her as another soul trapped in a state of emptiness; her despair spilling over and soiling the lives of those around her.
The echo of “All grief is justified” resonated within. Her son, too, carried the weight of losing his father, yet I could discern in his compassionate gaze how he held space for empathy. And maybe, just maybe, that was the key.
Maybe, just maybe, I could carve out my own space, reclaiming the ability to laugh, not at the absurdity of life, but with it, despite it, even in the face of the woman and so many like her that I’ve encountered.
So, yes, the woman may have left a mark, but it won’t be a scar, it will be a tattoo. A reminder of the day that led me to decide to rise, to laugh, to forgive, to be in Denis’ league, and a leopard in the pews, not afraid to show my spots, not afraid to offer a hand to the woman drowning in her own inconsolable darkness.
Because in the end, isn’t that what true faith is? Not the absence of hardship and tragedy, but the unwavering belief that even in the cracks, even in the shadows, even in the face of the woman with the black eyes, we have the power to choose love. And that, my friends, is a story worth writing, a story worth laughing at, a story worth living — at least for one more day, just one more day.
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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!
All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 