Journey Of Grief Quotes

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Here’s what I know: death abducts the dying, but grief steals from those left behind.
Katherine Owen (Seeing Julia)
No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days.
Jojo Moyes (After You (Me Before You, #2))
When her pain is fresh and new, let her have it. Don't try to take it away. Forgive yourself for not having that power. Grief and pain are like joy and peace; they are not things we should try to snatch from each other. They're sacred. they are part of each person's journey. All we can do is offer relief from this fear: I am all alone. That's the one fear you can alleviate.
Glennon Doyle Melton (Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed)
Even now, there are still days so beautiful, I almost believe in God.
Ann Hood (Comfort: A Journey Through Grief)
You will never accept gratitude as a solution to your problems, until you have reached the last stage of grief--acceptance.
Shannon L. Alder
Rainbows introduce us to reflections of different beautiful possibilities so we never forget that pain and grief are not the final options in life.
Aberjhani (Journey through the Power of the Rainbow: Quotations from a Life Made Out of Poetry)
Good grief! They're going to call us inside soon, and Sticky hasn't even met Madge yet!" "Who's Madge?" Sticky asked. "Her Majesty the Queen!
Trenton Lee Stewart (The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey (The Mysterious Benedict Society, #2))
We are nothing in the grand scheme of things, and yet in that nothingness lies everything.
Darice Cairns (The Art of Finding Truth: One Man's Journey Through Love, Life, Grief and Joy)
I had always turned to books, to knowledge, to help me get through everything in my life—and, sometimes, to escape it. But grief was a journey through a forest of razor blades. I walked through every painful inch of it—no shortcuts and no anesthesia.
Michele Bardsley (Don't Talk Back To Your Vampire (Broken Heart #2))
She disappeared; her voice, her laughter, and the warmth of her breath never seen by no one again.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
It will be better to spent our energy on reality; the tangible facts, not thoughts of the past.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
Someone carries my belief that raises hope in me, but flame didn’t last for long
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days. Today was just a bad day, a kink in the road, to be traversed and survived.
Jojo Moyes (After You (Me Before You, #2))
Death wins nothing here, gnawing wings that amputate–– then spread, lift up, fly.
Aberjhani (Journey through the Power of the Rainbow: Quotations from a Life Made Out of Poetry)
Being in home is like magic moments, in a magic world, among maicians
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
If I get up just one less time than the number of times I’ve been knocked down, I have done one of the most devastating things possible; I have halted my life at that very spot.
Craig D. Lounsbrough (An Autumn's Journey: Deep Growth in the Grief and Loss of Life's Seasons)
Grief is not linear. People kept telling me that once this happened or that passed, everything would be better. Some people gave me one year to grieve. They saw grief as a straight line, with a beginning, middle, and end. But it is not linear. It is disjointed. One day you are acting almost like a normal person. You maybe even manage to take a shower. Your clothes match. You think the autumn leaves look pretty, or enjoy the sound of snow crunching under your feet. Then a song, a glimpse of something, or maybe even nothing sends you back into the hole of grief. It is not one step forward, two steps back. It is a jumble. It is hours that are all right, and weeks that aren't. Or it is good days and bad days. Or it is the weight of sadness making you look different to others and nothing helps.
Ann Hood (Comfort: A Journey Through Grief)
I can’t help you, I can only guide you, and you are the one who can help yourself.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
Journey becomes difficult when we know the destination but not aware of the right path, may be the supreme power testing your moral and physical stamina.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
Tell me what good touch is and what is bad for I am young and I have no dad. -Jenifer
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
was it scripted by God or I am playing with my life.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
Nothing is permanent in my mysterious world, even my moments of belief - Jenifer
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
I know I could have saved your ashes to put into the ocean, but I wanted you to have the journey, all the way with the currents, to the open sea. And I know that when I finally get to see the waves washing on the shore, to hear them, I will feel you there.
Ava Dellaira (Love Letters to the Dead)
When stupidity reaches its highest level, we act rubbish knowingly
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
Sometimes our highest goal becomes our big enemy when we move towards our goal blindly without focusing on the path we follow.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
It's not life situations but our thoughts are the pilots of grief.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
I now know pain is part of any journey- that this is the opposite of grief, but grief the only way I know to describe waiting and waiting without knowing, hoping one day joy will arrive.
Kevin Young (Book of Hours: Poems)
But time soon passes. Even the deepest pain eventually loses its edge in the more vivid reality of the present; then, what once was unbearable becomes strangely familiar. And after much familiarity, it assumes the insignificance of just another milestone, ever marking the journey to higher ground.
N. Maria Kwami (Secrets of the Bending Grove)
How odd that we spend so much time treating the darkness, and so little time seeking the light. The ego loves to glorify itself by self-analysis, yet we do not get rid of darkness by hitting it with a baseball bat. We only get rid of darkness by turning on the light.
Marianne Williamson (Tears to Triumph: The Spiritual Journey from Suffering to Enlightenment)
Most forms of rage, after all, are only sloppy cloaks for grief.
Steve Almond (Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America)
Healing from psychopathic abuse is a long journey. It is neither linear nor logical. You can expect to swing back and forth between stages, perhaps even inventing a few of your own along the way. It is unlike the traditional stages of grief, because you have not truly lost anything—instead, you have gained everything. You just don’t know it yet.
Peace (Psychopath Free: Recovering from Emotionally Abusive Relationships With Narcissists, Sociopaths, & Other Toxic People)
The portrait of his past was partially erased by God and he is searching for those erased portions.
Durgesh Satpathy (Equating the Equations of Insanity: A Journey from Grief to Victory)
Virtually all women will always carry the scars and a deep sense of loss and grief from the betrayal. Whether a woman has stayed, left, or been left, it must be remembered that time is the salve on this journey towards forgiveness and healing, because it is also a process of grieving.
Meryn G. Callander (After His Affair: Women Rising from the Ashes of Infidelity)
Time passes and I am still not through it. Grief isn't something you get over. You live with it. You go on on with it lodged in you. Sometimes I feel like I have swallowed a pile of stones. Grief makes me heavy. It makes me slow. Even on days when I laugh a lot, or dance, or finish a project, or meet a deadline, or celebrate, or make love, it is there. Lodged deep inside of me.
Ann Hood (Comfort: A Journey Through Grief)
In every childhood there is a door that closes. Only real love waits while we journey through our grief. That is the real trustworthiness between people. In all the epics, in all the stories that have lasted through many lifetimes, it is always the same truth: love must wait for wounds to heal. It is this waiting we must do for each other, not with a sense of mercy, or in judgment, but as if forgiveness were a rendezvous. How many are willing to wait for another in this way?
Anne Michaels (The Winter Vault)
I didn't want him to think I was giving up - I wasn't. I simply couldn't put myself together just yet.
Markelle Grabo (The Spell Master (Journey into the Realm, #2))
It’s not that I can’t remember. It’s that I prefer not to remember, which means that I prefer not to remember what not remembering did to me the last time I did it.
Craig D. Lounsbrough (An Autumn's Journey: Deep Growth in the Grief and Loss of Life's Seasons)
Time doesn't heal, I had learned, it just keeps moving. And it takes us with it.
Ann Hood (Comfort: A Journey Through Grief)
Once you have walked down the grief path, what you have gained on your journey may turn into invaluable advice for someone else.
Elizabeth Berrien (Creative Grieving: A Hip Chick's Path from Loss to Hope)
Heartache purged layers of baggage I didn’t know I carried. Gifts hide under the layers of grief.
Shauna L. Hoey
Our grief was leading us all towards Mexican food.
Jonathan Van Ness (Over the Top: A Raw Journey to Self-Love)
You go to bed different... tossing and turning is the norm... you wake to a sunny day but clouds follow you wherever you go. You wonder if you are strong enough to climb out of the depression you are living in and your prayers to God seem empty because you are sooo very tired of telling him the same thing over and over again..... if we are really being real... there may even be moments after impact you forget how to pray... maybe you don't even want to.
Erica Stone
anything worth having is worth working for
Elise R. Crawford (A Promise Kept: The Story of One Widowed Bride's Journey Through Grief)
Grief is like a journey one must take on a winding mountainside, often seeing the same scenery many times, a road which eventually leads to somewhere we've never been before.
Gladys M. Hunt
How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.
Kathryn Hurn (HELL HEAVEN & IN-BETWEEN: One Woman's Journey to Finding Love)
The beauty of the journey is found not in the destination, but in the scenery along the way.
Nina Bennett (Forgotten Tears: A Grandmother's Journey Through Grief)
Things that begin and end in grief: marriage, harvest, childbirth. Journeys away from home. Journeys toward home. Surgeries. Love. Weeping.
Catherynne M. Valente (Palimpsest)
Now, what’s stirring in this murky sea of complexity and foolishness is an almost suffocating need to breathe fresh history.
Laurie Perez (The Look of Amie Martine)
Healing trauma involves tears. The tears release our pain. The tears are part of our recovery. My friend, please let your tears flow.
Dana Arcuri (Soul Cry: Releasing & Healing the Wounds of Trauma)
Journey through the Power of the Rainbow represents a condensed compendium of literary efforts from a life dedicated to transforming the themes of injustice, grief, and despair that we all encounter during some unavoidable point of our existence into a sustainable life-affirming poetics of passionate creativity, empowered spiritual vision, and inspired commitment.
Aberjhani (Journey through the Power of the Rainbow: Quotations from a Life Made Out of Poetry)
What may appear to be the wrong way by other people's standards may indeed be the perfectly inspired path by which you will arrive at clarity of mind and a more authentic expression of yourself.
Linda Cull (Where The Light Lives: A True Story about Death, Grief and Transformation)
I wondered what those mountains behind them might tell me, what advice they would give, if they could talk. What they would tell me about love, and about loss, and about how this wild place could heal as naturally as it could kill.
Shannon Huffman Polson (North of Hope: A Daughter's Arctic Journey)
It is true that the grief journey is very lonely, but it is also up to you to decide just how lonely you will make it.
Elizabeth Berrien (Creative Grieving: A Hip Chick's Path from Loss to Hope)
Maybe that’s what we look for all our lives, the worst possible grief, to make us truly ourselves before we die.
Louis-Ferdinand Céline (Journey to the End of the Night)
Every tomorrow is an outcome of what I do today, and the beauty of it all is that today is happening all the time.
Craig D. Lounsbrough (An Autumn's Journey: Deep Growth in the Grief and Loss of Life's Seasons)
Acceptance is not a relief; it's the realisation that you will always carry grief with you.
Mari Andrew (Am I There Yet? The Loop-de-Loop, Zigzagging Journey to Adulthood)
We all handle loss in our individual ways, grieve in all kinds of ways. We all go through feeling okay sometimes, but other times, we feel so bad we hurt ourselves or those around us.
E. Journey (Welcome, Reluctant Stranger (Between Two Worlds, #3))
Om is the presence which steals away. It steals away the ordinary mundane existence of strife, struggle and duality; it steals away anxiety, aggression, fear, grief and sorrow; it steals away the debris of anger, hatred, confusion and ignorance, to fill us with the nectar of joy, immortality and life eternal.
Banani Ray (Glory of OM: A Journey to Self-Realization)
All I can tell you is this. Some hearts break from grief and some from joy. Some even break from love. But hearts break because they are too small to contain the gifts life gives us. Your task will be to let your heart grow large enough not to break.” Namet
Catherine M. Wilson (A Journey of the Heart (When Women Were Warriors, #2))
For many people, the love or the loss of an animal often becomes a gateway into a deeper spiritual journey. The most pragmatic of men will begin to question the fundamental nature of being when he is visited by an apparition of his deceased cat or dog companion.
Elizabeth S. Eiler (Other Nations: A Lightworker's Case Book for Healing, Spiritually Empowering, and Communing with the Animal Kingdom)
Because of sorrow, my awareness of life's pulse is strongly detectable. It is syncopation while I journey, a lap of ocean in the eyes of every person I meet. This awareness informs the flesh of my stories. Grief has been an odd companion, at first a terror, but now I am all the better having accepted it for its intrinsic worth.
Patricia Hickman (The Pirate Queen)
Offering care means being a companion, not a superior. It doesn’t matter whether the person we are caring for is experiencing cancer, the flu, dementia, or grief. If you are a doctor or surgeon, your expertise and knowledge comes from a superior position. But when our role is to be providers of care, we should be there as equals.
Judy Cornish (The Dementia Handbook: How to Provide Dementia Care at Home)
If one can be find use for oneself, be helpful even, one can probably pull through the day. And the next, and the next, until one day the grief is only a dull pain one has grown used to and barely notices anymore. It
Malia Zaidi (A Poisonous Journey: A Lady Evelyn Mystery)
...waking at very early dawn amid all that sweat and stink, he had found himself comparing this ghastly journey with his own life, which had first moved over smiling level ground, then clambered up rocky mountains, slid over threatening passes, to emerge eventually into a landscape of interminable undulations, all of the same color, all bare as despair. These early morning fantasies were the very worst that could happen to a man of middle age; and although the Prince knew that they would vanish with the day's activities, he suffered acutely all the same, as he was used enough to them by now to realize that deep inside him they left a sediment of grief which, accumulating day by day, would in the end be the real cause of his death.
Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (The Leopard)
Until modern times, we focused a great deal of the best of our thought upon rituals of return to the human condition. Seeking enlightenment or the Promised Land or the way home, a man would go or be forced to go into the wilderness, measure himself against the Creation, recognize finally his true place within it, and thus be saved both from pride and from despair. Seeing himself as a tiny member of a world he cannot comprehend or master or in any final sense possess, he cannot possibly think of himself as a god. And by the same token, since he shares in, depends upon, and is graced by all of which he is a part, neither can he become a fiend; he cannot descend into the final despair of destructiveness. Returning from the wilderness, he becomes a restorer of order, a preserver. He sees the truth, recognizes his true heir, honors his forebears and his heritage, and gives his blessing to his successors. He embodies the passing of human time, living and dying within the human limits of grief and joy. (pg.95, "The Body and the Earth")
Wendell Berry (The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays)
Many people tried comforting us with words. But there are no consoling words! I really just wanted people to be quiet. I appreciated those who cried with me, hugged me, and offered a brief prayer, but words were unnecessary.
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
Parental care, satisfaction, friendship, compassion, and grief didn’t just suddenly appear with the emergence of modern humans. All began their journey in pre-human beings. Our brain’s provenance is inseparable from other species’ brains in the long cauldron of living time. And thus, so is our mind.
Carl Safina (Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel)
Decisions are the privilege we’ve been granted to have a hand in penning the script of our lives. And in the writing, the question is not the availability of the paper or the pen. The question is the wisdom to use them rightly.
Craig D. Lounsbrough (An Autumn's Journey: Deep Growth in the Grief and Loss of Life's Seasons)
My experience is that God will meet us anywhere. Grieving badly and under the covers? He's there. Sitting at the cemetery, wishing it were you? You're not alone. Sitting on your child's bedroom floor still in your nightgown in the middle of the afternoon? He's holding you up. God will meet you anywhere
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
There came a moment in this journey when I freely realized that the lives most of lead are small. Important, but small. Our radius reaches family, clients, friends for whom we do selfless and amazing feats. But our sphere of influence is local.... So our illnesses/deaths are small, too. Not unimportant. Just local in nature... - 209
Robin Romm (The Mercy Papers)
There is one thing I can say for certain about grief: it will change you. Whether you choose to defeat grief or be defeated, you will be changed.
Glenn Cameron ("When Will It Stop Hurting?": One Man's Journey Through Grief)
Live BOLDLY! ......because no one ever told you healing is a life long process.
Kierra C.T. Banks
I am beginning to see that much of praying is grieving. This grief is so deep not just because the human sin is so great, but also—and more so—because the divine love is so boundless. To become like the Father whose only authority is compassion, I have to shed countless tears and so prepare my heart to receive anyone, whatever their journey has been, and forgive them from that heart.
Henri J.M. Nouwen (Return of the Prodigal Son)
Most people show compassion in the early weeks after a traumatic event, but their support fades. Grief is a process that takes longer than I would like—weeks, month, years. Don’t assume I am okay.
Shauna L. Hoey
Oh, when we are journeying through the murky night and the dark woods of affliction and sorrow, it is something to find here and there a spray broken, or a leafy stem bent down with the tread of His foot and the brush of His hand as He passed; and to remember that the path He trod He has hallowed, and thus to find lingering fragrance and hidden strength in the remembrance of Him as " in all points tempted like as we are," bearing grief for us, bearing grief with us, bearing grief like us.
Alexander MacLaren
What is hope? Like love, it is hard to define, but easy to recognize, a state of being that compels us to go on. It is a feeling that we have what we need to continue our journey to the next moment.
Susan Barbara Apollon (Touched by the Extraordinary, Book Two (Healing Stories of Love, Loss & Hope))
It will get better but grief will always accompany us, in one way or another...but it is important that we embrace the grief as you would a close friend, because another aspect of our grief is love.
Louise Suzanne Boyd (Journey to the Rainbow)
There is no greater intimacy than sitting with someone traversing that tenuous boundary between worlds, sitting vigil with a spirit trembling on the border, reaching toward the new and releasing the old.
Shannon Huffman Polson (North of Hope: A Daughter's Arctic Journey)
A time comes when you’re all alone, when you’ve come to the end of everything that can happen to you. It’s the end of the world. Even grief, your own grief, doesn’t answer you anymore, and you have to retrace your steps, to go back among people, it makes no difference who. You’re not choosy at times like that, because even to weep you have to go back where everything starts all over, back among people. “What
Louis-Ferdinand Céline (Journey to the End of the Night)
Burdens were born from the loss of innocence. Naïveté. While the innocent yearned to lose their innocence, those who had already done so in turn envied the innocent, and knew grief in what they had lost. Between the two, no exchange of truths was possible. He sensed the completion of an internal journey, and Paran found he did not appreciate recognizing that fact, nor the place where he now found himself. It did not suit him that ignorance remained inextricably bound to innocence, and the loss of one meant the loss of the other.
Steven Erikson (The Bonehunters (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #6))
Just days after Joseph died, we sat down to eat dinner at the dining room table. We each sat there, choking down our food, tears streaming down our faces, and no one speaking. There was no one in his chair; his side of the table had a gaping hole. A large part of the nightly conversation was missing. Everything felt wrong.
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
In the midst of the darkness of loss, I found light. Admittedly, in those first weeks, it might have been but a single small spark I sensed deep inside of me, but that spark guided me in the twisted, dark journey of grief. As I stumbled over the roots of hopelessness and despair, that light grew to illuminate my path, a path I sometimes felt very alone on. At some point in the journey I’d turned around, and there was God. That is grace.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
At one stopover on the train journey home, Hans told his sister Inge later, he saw a young girl with the Star of David on her breast; she was repairing tracks on the line, along with other people with yellow badges on their clothes. Her face was pallid, sunken in; her eyes, beyond grief and terror. Impulsively, Hans thrust his rations in her hand. She looked up at him, then at his uniform. She threw the packet of food to the ground. He scooped it up, wiped off the dust, and picked a daisy growing by the side of the tracks. He placed the package, with the daisy on top, at her feet. He said, "I would have liked to give you a little pleasure." He boarded the train. When he looked back, the girl was standing there, watching the train disappear, the flower in her hair.
Jud Newborn (Shattering the German Night: The Story of the White Rose)
In the grief that comes with recognizing what happened to us, we often feel there is nowhere to turn for solace…We do things to keep it away, such as becoming overly busy or using drugs or alcohol to numb our feelings. When we are caught up in resistance, we do not feel hope, but when we surrender to our sadness fully, hope trickles in.
Maureen Brady (Beyond Survival: A Writing Journey for Healing Childhood Sexual Abuse)
Great Light, Mover of all that is moving and at rest, be my Journey and my far Destination, be my Want and my Fulfilling, be my Sowing and my Reaping, be my glad Song and my stark Silence. Be my Sword and my strong Shield, be my Lantern and my dark Night, be my everlasting Strength and my piteous Weakness. Be my Greeting and my parting Prayer, be my bright Vision and my Blindness, be my Joy and my sharp Grief, be my sad Death and my sure Resurrection!
Stephen R. Lawhead (Merlin (The Pendragon Cycle, #2))
To be honest though, I could no longer consider my time on Earth to have been a punishment. Terrible, tragic, nearly impossible . . . yes. But calling it a punishment gave Zeus too much credit. It had been a journey — an important one I made myself, with the help of my friends. I hoped . . . I believed that the grief and pain had shaped me into a better person. I had forged a more perfect Lester from the dregs of Apollo. I would not trade those experiences for anything.
Rick Riordan (The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo, #5))
I stood there, staring at my clothes. What does a mama wear to her son’s funeral? I looked over my wardrobe.There were outfits purchased for work, church, and casual weekends but nothing to wear to the burial of my seventeen-year-old son.
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
bandaged. The wound is mortal and yet you do not die. That is its own impossible agony. But grief is not simple sadness. Sadness is a feeling that wants nothing more than to be sat with, held, and heard. Grief is a journey. It must be moved through. With a rucksack full of rocks, you hike through a black, pathless forest, brambles about your legs and wolf packs at your heels. The grief that never moves is called complicated grief. It doesn’t subside, you do not accept it, and it never—it never—goes to sleep. This is possessive grief. This is delusional grief. This is hysterical grief. Run if you will, this grief is faster. This is the grief that will chase you and beat you. This is the grief that will eat you.
Jill Alexander Essbaum (Hausfrau)
Elaine turned to her father in her distress. ‘Father will you give me permission to ride after Sir Lancelot? I must reach him. Otherwise I will go out of my mind with grief.’ ‘Go, good daughter. Rescue him, if you can.’ So she made herself ready for the journey, weeping all the time. Gawain himself rode back to the court of the king in London” –The Fair Maid of Astolat
Peter Ackroyd (The Death of King Arthur)
I pulled a dirty black sweatshirt from the laundry basket on my son’s floor and tried to drink in his scent, to savor the essence of my sweet boy. I inhaled it long and hard, wanting to permanently implant all of him in my brain, to make him last forever.
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
Loss pushes us to difficult places where we have not been before. We often question whether or not we have the courage and stamina to survive the pain. However, we often are given gifts that tell us that we are not alone and that we can withstand the journey.
Susan Barbara Apollon (Touched by the Extraordinary, Book Two (Healing Stories of Love, Loss & Hope))
Once I stopped being so judgmental of the words people were using in their sincere attempts to comfort me, I began to drop my judgment of others in all areas. I had never realized before how much energy it consumes for us to get upset at the actions of others.
Glenn Cameron ("When Will It Stop Hurting?": One Man's Journey Through Grief)
They each walked with a limp, because the lifelong journey of grief was setting in. My mom looked at my dad and said, “Remind me what we believe. What do we believe?” After a few moments, my dad responded with these words: “The tomb is empty. The tomb is empty.
Josh Ross (Scarred Faith: When Doubts Become Allies of Deep Faith)
Why do I make room in my mind for such filth and nonsense? Do I hope that if feeling disguises itself as thought I shall feel less? Aren’t all these notes the senseless writhings of a man who won’t accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it? Who still thinks there is some device (if only he could find it) which will make pain not to be pain. It doesn’t really matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist’s chair or let your hands lie in your lap. The drill drills on. And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness. One flesh. Or, if you prefer, one ship. The starboard engine has gone. I, the port engine, must chug along somehow till we make harbour. Or rather, till the journey ends. How can I assume a harbour? A lee shore, more likely, a black night, a deafening gale, breakers ahead—and any lights shown from the land probably being waved by wreckers. Such was H.’s landfall. Such was my mother’s. I say their landfalls; not their arrivals.
C.S. Lewis (A Grief Observed)
Why is this painful journey so indispensable to the acquisition of true wisdom?…It is as if the mind were a squeamish organ that refused to entertain difficult truths unless encouraged to do so by difficult events. “Happiness is good for the body,” Proust tells us, “but it is grief which develops the strengths of the mind.” These griefs put us through a form of mental gymnastics which we would have avoided in happier times. Indeed, if a genuine priority is the development of our mental capacities, the implication is that we would be better off being unhappy than content, better off pursuing tormented love affairs than reading Plato or Spinoza. (Proust writes) A woman whom we need and who makes us suffer elicits from us a whole gamut of feelings far more profound and more vital than does a man of genius who interests us.
Alain de Botton (How Proust Can Change Your Life)
So far in my life, I’ve been a lawyer. I’ve been a vice president at a hospital and the director of a nonprofit that helps young people build meaningful careers. I’ve been a working-class black student at a fancy mostly white college. I’ve been the only woman, the only African American, in all sorts of rooms. I’ve been a bride, a stressed-out new mother, a daughter torn up by grief. And until recently, I was the First Lady of the United States of America—a job that’s not officially a job, but that nonetheless has given me a platform like nothing I could have imagined. It challenged me and humbled me, lifted me up and shrank me down, sometimes all at once. I’m just beginning to process what took place over these last years—from the moment in 2006 when my husband first started talking about running for president to the cold morning this winter when I climbed into a limo with Melania Trump, accompanying her to her husband’s inauguration. It’s been quite a ride.
Michelle Obama (Becoming)
I was 'led' to read The Shack by Wm Paul Young after the sudden & unexpected death of my fiance', Marina DeAngelo in July of 2012. It helped me as it has millions of people with the trauma and grief associated with the great personal loss of a loved one." ~R. Alan Woods [2013]
R. Alan Woods (The Journey Is the Destination: A Book of Quotes With Commentaries)
Can you remember another time when your chest felt like this?” My fingers splayed across my aching chest as I carefully pondered her question. Then I nodded vigorously as I remembered. Tears streamed down my cheeks unchecked as I whispered hoarsely, “Yes, I do remember.After my husband died, it hurt like this. My chest felt full and heavy, and I thought then, Oh, this is what it feels like to have your heart break.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
First, I have culled evidence that physical death is not the end of the road for any of us. I know this message is critical because I've seen people consumed by fear of death or suffering unbearable grief after losing a loved one. Some can draw into a shell, ceasing all efforts to reach their potential, or even give up on life.
Mark Ireland (Messages from the Afterlife: A Bereaved Father's Journey in the World of Spirit Visitations, Psychic-Mediums, and Synchronicity)
We all need hope. As souls, we journey in physical bodies, traversing a life that is dually lived. We experience safety through attachment to the physical world, but we also are comforted and cared for by a trust in the non-physical, spiritual part of our reality. Two different roads, available for us and from which we choose, moment by moment.
Susan Barbara Apollon (Touched by the Extraordinary, Book Two (Healing Stories of Love, Loss & Hope))
According to His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, when you’re happy everything in life is bearable and grief and stress are just passing emotions. Happiness is not something that you feel after something good happens. It is a state of living that is present whether good things are happening or not, whether you’re suffering or not.
J. Thomas (Dalai Lama : The Best Teachings of The Dalai Lama, Journey to a Happy, Fulfilling and Meaningful Life.)
It is better to conquer our grief than to deceive it. For if it has withdrawn, being merely beguiled by pleasures and preoccupations, it starts up again and from its very respite gains force to savage us. But the grief that has been conquered by reason is calmed for ever. I am not therefore going to prescribe for you those remedies which I know many people have used, that you divert or cheer yourself by a long or pleasant journey abroad, or spend a lot of time carefully going through your accounts and administering your estate, or constantly be involved in some new activity. All those things help only for a short time; they do not cure grief but hinder it. But I would rather end it than distract it.
Seneca (Dialogues and Essays)
Grief is like a long journey You wake each morning in a different place
David J. Delaney
Your pets can feel your grief after they pass away but it will not harm them or keep them from continuing on their journey in the afterlife.
Karen A. Anderson
Grief, I began to see, is gratitude turned inside out.
Lily Burana (Grace for Amateurs: Field Notes on a Journey Back to Faith)
My grief journey is my own. Others may walk it with me, but no one can walk it for me.
Danny L. Deaubé (I Will Praise You in the Storm: The Story of Stephen and Holly Deaubé, a Journey of Faith)
I’ve never known two people who journey through grief the same way.
Deborah Bladon (Bloom (The Wolfs of New York, #3))
Listen with your heart, not your brain. the heart only knows TRUTH!
Sherri Bridges Fox (I Will See You Again: A Mother's Story and Sacred Journey After Finding Her Son's Lifeless Body)
Despite countless prayers for Joseph to be safe, God said no. His plan remains a mystery. I have had to accept that mystery and trust Him in the dark.
Shelley Ramsey Grief A Mama's Unwanted Journey
We grow stronger together.
Ellen Krohne (We Lost Her: Seven young siblings’ emotional and spiritual real-life grief journey after their mother’s tragic death)
In this waiting, there is witness.
Shannon Huffman Polson (North of Hope: A Daughter's Arctic Journey)
The line between the living and the dead may not be much of a line at all, but the terrain is not for the weak of heart.
Shannon Huffman Polson (North of Hope: A Daughter's Arctic Journey)
Grief is like a roller coaster. Somedays we feel up and other days we feel down.
Louise Suzanne Boyd (Journey to the Rainbow)
For a long time I spent my weary days in a fog of what might be and what has been and I guess you could say im still learning how to accept what is.
Nikki Rowe
Our current time-based experience is a perceptual hell guarded by the bars of our unintegrated fear, anger, and grief. It doesn’t take us anywhere. It never did, and it never will.
Michael Brown (The Presence Process - A Journey Into Present Moment Awareness)
To let something go is to participate in a much greater dance that we call life.
Craig D. Lounsbrough
I want the sky to dim and the birds to fall silent. I want leaves to wither and fall to the ground. I want the world to acknowledge that everything has changed. Forever.
Gill Mann
Grief isn’t a journey to getting over it or getting past it. It’s about adjusting your life to accommodate it.
Kristen Ashley (Dream Chaser (Dream Team, #2))
It’s not that I’ve ‘faked my own death’ as the saying goes. Maybe it’s that I’ve ‘faked my own life,’ and in doing so I’ve yet to realize how dead I really am.
Craig D. Lounsbrough (An Autumn's Journey: Deep Growth in the Grief and Loss of Life's Seasons)
Grief is just love asking for more time.
Elle McNicoll (Show Us Who You Are)
For several decades, I said I believed in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit and had put my confidence in Him. The hot crucible of grief was my place to back up what I said I believed and admit to myself who my God really was: The God I claimed to know, or a false god who can be manipulated into resolving the external circumstances of my life.
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
We cannot escape most of the crises in our lives, nor should we. In fact, these events frequently provide the energy for movement on our spiritual journey, even when we are stuck along the way... we ask questions about our own life. We wonder about meaning. Our present view may become inadequate. We ask deeper questions. Even joyful experiences can propel us forward.
Janet O. Hagberg (The Critical Journey: Stages in the Life of Faith)
Fast forgiveness is a part of Christian culture I want to help change and transform. I ache for a journey of Jesus-like forgiveness. The kind demanding time and suffering in the process.
Natalie Brenner (This Undeserved Life: Uncovering The Gifts of Grief and The Fullness of Life)
Grief is messy. It's traumatic. Devastating. Confusing. Exhausting. Grief is a natural process of our human experience. May you find comfort in these unexpected places along your journey.
Dana Arcuri (Sacred Wandering: Growing Your Faith In The Dark)
Journeying through grief is one of the most "normal human" experiences you can have. Nevertheless, all too frequently the heartbroken seem to feel alienated by society. Unfortunately in our culture, we are taught to hold our feelings in. If someone asks us, "How are you doing today?" the expected answer is, "I'm okay." But what if you aren't okay? You obviously don't want to go into a monologue of why you're not okay, but sometimes you feel as if you're going to explode if you can't "tell off" that well-meaning person for even daring to ask you such a thing in the first place!
Elizabeth Berrien (Creative Grieving: A Hip Chick's Path from Loss to Hope)
You who have never “been there” in the throes of grief, have no idea what is going on inside the head of the grieving spouse: the scattered thoughts, the constant worry that we will forget something or someone in our fog-induced state, that strange feeling of not quite “being all there” when out in social situations, the pall that covers everything, like a cloak of sadness that never lifts.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
At Abraham's burial, his two most prominent sons, rivals since before they were born, estranged since childhood, scions of rival nations, come together for the first time since they were rent apart nearly three-quarters of a century earlier. The text reports their union nearly without comment. "His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron son of Zohar the Hittite, facing Mamre, in the field that Abraham had bought from the Hittites." But the meaning of this moment cannot be diminished. Abraham achieves in death what he could never achieve in life: a moment of reconciliation between his two sons, a peaceful, communal, side-by-side flicker of possibility in which they are not rivals, scions, warriors, adversaries, children, Jews, Christians, or Muslims. They are brothers. They are mourners. In a sense they are us, forever weeping for the loss of our common father, shuffling through our bitter memories, reclaiming our childlike expectations, laughing, sobbing, furious and full of dreams, wondering about our orphaned future, and demanding the answers we all crave to hear: What did you want from me, Father? What did you leave me with, Father? And what do I do now?
Bruce Feiler (Abraham: A Journey to the Heart of Three Faiths)
If I hear the term ‘healing journey’ one more f–king time… It is not a ‘healing journey.’ It’s a ‘numb slog.’ It’s just a, ‘Well, it’s the end of another day — Guess I’ll do that tomorrow.’ It’s just a numb slog, until you start feeling s–t again. If they would call it a ‘numb slog’ instead of a ‘healing journey,’ it would make it a lot f–king easier. Because if they call it a ‘healing journey,’ it’s just a day of you eating Wheat Thins for breakfast in your underwear, you’re like ‘I guess I’m f–king up my healing journey.’ But if they would say you’re going to have a ‘numb slog,’ you could say ‘oh, I’m nailing it.
Patton Oswalt
To blithely discard the spent kernels of something that has ended is to discard the very resources that have painstakingly been harvested from that ending from which a spirited new beginning will be cultivated.
Craig D. Lounsbrough (An Autumn's Journey: Deep Growth in the Grief and Loss of Life's Seasons)
Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year, I felt a door opening in me and I entered the clarity of early morning. One after another my former lives were departing, like ships, together with their sorrow. And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas assigned to my brush came closer, ready now to be described better than they were before. I was not separated from people, grief and pity joined us. We forget—I kept saying—that we are all children of the King. For where we come from there is no division into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be. We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part of the gift we received for our long journey. Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago— a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel staving its hull against a reef—they dwell in us, waiting for a fulfillment. I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard, as are all men and women living at the same time, whether they are aware of it or not.
Czesław Miłosz
Grief is like the ocean. The waves ebb and flow. Sometimes the water is calm. Other times it's turbulent. In order to survive, I had to learn to swim. In moments when I struggled with massive waves of grief, I rode it out.
Dana Arcuri (Sacred Wandering: Growing Your Faith In The Dark)
There are two kinds of bubbles inside the body - one of happiness and one of negativity. You have to let those bubbles of grief burst and those of happiness multiply. This can be done only after going through an inner journey
Neelam Saxena Chandra
...And besides, is death really so terrible a thing? It seems terrible to you, because you are young, but who is to say he is not better off now than you are? Or - if death is a journey to another place - that you will not see him again?
Donna Tartt (The Secret History)
Sooner or later, all talk among foreigners in Pyongyang turns to one imponderable subject. Do the locals really believe what they are told, and do they truly revere Fat Man and Little Boy? I have been a visiting writer in several authoritarian and totalitarian states, and usually the question answers itself. Someone in a café makes an offhand remark. A piece of ironic graffiti is scrawled in the men's room. Some group at the university issues some improvised leaflet. The glacier begins to melt; a joke makes the rounds and the apparently immovable regime suddenly looks vulnerable and absurd. But it's almost impossible to convey the extent to which North Korea just isn't like that. South Koreans who met with long-lost family members after the June rapprochement were thunderstruck at the way their shabby and thin northern relatives extolled Fat Man and Little Boy. Of course, they had been handpicked, but they stuck to their line. There's a possible reason for the existence of this level of denial, which is backed up by an indescribable degree of surveillance and indoctrination. A North Korean citizen who decided that it was all a lie and a waste would have to face the fact that his life had been a lie and a waste also. The scenes of hysterical grief when Fat Man died were not all feigned; there might be a collective nervous breakdown if it was suddenly announced that the Great Leader had been a verbose and arrogant fraud. Picture, if you will, the abrupt deprogramming of more than 20 million Moonies or Jonestowners, who are suddenly informed that it was all a cruel joke and there's no longer anybody to tell them what to do. There wouldn't be enough Kool-Aid to go round. I often wondered how my guides kept straight faces. The streetlights are turned out all over Pyongyang—which is the most favored city in the country—every night. And the most prominent building on the skyline, in a town committed to hysterical architectural excess, is the Ryugyong Hotel. It's 105 floors high, and from a distance looks like a grotesquely enlarged version of the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco (or like a vast and cumbersome missile on a launchpad). The crane at its summit hasn't moved in years; it's a grandiose and incomplete ruin in the making. 'Under construction,' say the guides without a trace of irony. I suppose they just keep two sets of mental books and live with the contradiction for now.
Christopher Hitchens (Love, Poverty, and War: Journeys and Essays)
As I lay in my bed unable to sleep I challenged Him: Pull out another miracle. Send him back. You can do that. You’re God. At that point in my grief, I envisioned how utterly fantastic it would be for others to see what a mighty and awesome God we serve. They could witness a modern-day miracle! I was convinced the only way for this to happen was for God to send Joseph back. It would be a win/win situation! Dozens would come to know Jesus—and —I’d have Joseph home in time for supper.
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
I began praying for the health and safety of my boys before each one was born. Once a week for two years prior to Joseph’s death, I also gathered with other moms to pray for my sons and their schools, and I specifically asked God to protect the health and safety of Joseph, Curt, and Wyatt. My prayers were not answered the way I had hoped. Despite countless prayers for Joseph to be safe, God said no. His plan remains a mystery. I have had to accept that mystery and trust Him in the dark.
Shelley Ramsey (Grief: A Mama's Unwanted Journey)
In the throes of heartache and grief, I had felt stuck in the awkwardness of not knowing quite how to move forward, I felt bound to the ditch for so long, unable to see what it looked like from above. At times it felt like I'd never get out, and I got used to the constant tripping and stumbling around. It didn't feel like life should be, but it was how my life was. I accepted it. But over time, I strengthened into a different version of myself. I had new muscles, a new way of moving in the world.
Mari Andrew (Am I There Yet? The Loop-de-Loop, Zigzagging Journey to Adulthood)
The last thing this world needs is another self-help or feel-good faith book, seven simple steps to whatever. Just the thought makes my stomach turn. The truth is that life is far too complex to be put in a box, labeled, and have the appropriate manual attached. I wonder, have these people who seem to have all the answers ever really experienced hardship or grief, true joy, or adventure? Have they ever really lived? For those of us who venture outside the cookie cutter lives that many settle for, a superficial, plastic faith with the corresponding instruction booklet will do nothing. When we take the brave step from the comfortable mainstream into the unknown, we quickly discover that we are all just travelers on a journey trying to find our way.
Erik Mirandette (The Only Road North: 9,000 Miles of Dirt and Dreams)
I felt like I was in the middle of a slow-motion shipwreck. The ship was sinking, and no one could change that. I could barely tread water in the swirling, debris-ridden sea of emotions--fighting to keep my nose above the waves, struggling for each breath.
Pat McLeod (Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--And Learning to Live Well with What Is)
The travelers emerged into a spacious square. In the middle of this square were several dozen people on a wooden bandstand like in a public park. They were the members of a band, each of them as different from one another as their instruments. Some of them looked round at the approaching column. Then a grey-haired man in a colorful cloak called out and they reached for their instruments. There was a burst of something like cheeky, timid bird-song and the air – air that had been torn apart by the barbed wire and the howl of sirens, that stank of oily fumes and garbage – was filled with music. It was like a warm summer cloud-burst ignited by the sun, flashing as it crashed down to earth. People in camps, people in prisons, people who have escaped from prison, people going to their death, know the extraordinary power of music. No one else can experience music in quite the same way. What music resurrects in the soul of a man about to die is neither hope nor thought, but simply the blind, heart-breaking miracle of life itself. A sob passed down the column. Everything seemed transformed, everything had come together; everything scattered and fragmented -home, peace, the journey, the rumble of wheels, thirst, terror, the city rising out of the mist, the wan red dawn – fused together, not into a memory or a picture but into the blind, fierce ache of life itself. Here, in the glow of the gas ovens, people knew that life was more than happiness – it was also grief. And freedom was both painful and difficult; it was life itself. Music had the power to express the last turmoil of a soul in whose blind depths every experience, every moment of joy and grief, had fused with this misty morning, this glow hanging over their heads. Or perhaps it wasn't like that at all. Perhaps music was just the key to a man's feelings, not what filled him at this terrible moment, but the key that unlocked his innermost core. In the same way, a child's song can appear to make an old man cry. But it isn't the song itself he cries over; the song is simply a key to something in his soul.
Vasily Grossman (Life and Fate)
She looked into my eyes, as if she could see me. In that moment I could see her too, the woman inside, the woman I'd lost. She was there with me, her soul open and present and clear as light. For those few seconds I was no longer afraid of the journey, of the road ahead.
Christy Lefteri (The Beekeeper of Aleppo)
Each palace, with its chimes, drums, pipes, and vertical flutes,     Releases its boudoir sorrows and springtime griefs.     There are in the forbidden courtyard     Young, fresh faces like flowers bedewed;     There are on the palace moat     Slender waists like willows dancing in the wind.
Anthony C. Yu (The Journey to the West, Revised Edition, Volume 2)
The Romans learned what European armies were to discover hundreds of years later: that the best-trained and best-equipped fighting force in the world might come to grief against partisans fighting on their own territory and for a cause for which they would willingly sacrifice themselves and their families.
Elizabeth Speller (Following Hadrian: A Second-Century Journey through the Roman Empire)
People referred to the symbolism of the empty Cross more than once on its journey. It would seem obviously to point to our faith in Jesus’ resurrection. It’s not quite so simple though. The Cross is bare, but in and of itself the empty Cross does not point directly to the Resurrection. It says only that the body of Jesus was removed from the Cross. If a crucifix is a symbol of Good Friday, then it is the image of the empty tomb that speaks more directly of Easter and resurrection. The empty Cross is a symbol of Holy Saturday. It’s an indicator of the reality of Jesus’ death, of His sharing in our mortal coil. At the same time, the empty Cross is an implicit sign of impending resurrection, and it tells us that the Cross is not only a symbol of hatred, violence and inhumanity: it says that the Cross is about something more. The empty Cross also tells us not to jump too quickly to resurrection, as if the Resurrection were a trump card that somehow absolves us from suffering. The Resurrection is not a divine ‘get-out-of-jail free’ card that immunises people from pain, suffering or death. To jump too quickly to the Resurrection runs the risk of trivialising people’s pain and seemingly mapping out a way through suffering that reduces the reality of having to live in pain and endure it at times. For people grieving, introducing the message of the Resurrection too quickly cheapens or nullifies their sense of loss. The empty Cross reminds us that we cannot avoid suffering and death. At the same time, the empty Cross tells us that, because of Jesus’ death, the meaning of pain, suffering and our own death has changed, that these are not all-crushing or definitive. The empty Cross says that the way through to resurrection must always break in from without as something new, that it cannot be taken hold of in advance of suffering or seized as a panacea to pain. In other words, the empty Cross is a sign of hope. It tells us that the new life of God surprises us, comes at a moment we cannot expect, and reminds us that experiences of pain, grief and dying are suffused with the presence of Christ, the One Who was crucified and is now risen.
Chris Ryan MGL (In The Light Of The Cross: Reflections On The Australian Journey Of The World Youth Day Cross And Icon)
Grief is a strange journey. Each time we embark upon it, it is as though we have never taken its roads before. No, I have that wrong: each grief brings us through a familiar landscape carved into unrecognizable contours. For we do not only lose another person; we lose the person we were with the one we lost.
Patricia Monaghan (The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog: The Landscape of Celtic Myth and Spirit)
If there's one thing I've learned, it's that grief is a journey, except there's no point A to point B. It's a fucking twisty-turny, up-and-down, forward-and-back piece of shit. It's one good day....hell, maybe it's only a few good the midst of a shit-ton of bad ones. But you don't give up, and you keep going.
Melanie Hansen (Point of Contact)
Time passes, day by day. The greatness of this country lies in the inexorable journey it has taken through time. Time is like an enormous pot, into which all ugliness and beauty are thrown, all happiness and grief, all life and all death. Cycle follows cycle, living life and dying death. Only the great River rolls on, unending.
Yo Yo (Ghost Tide)
Grief is love’s souvenir. It’s our proof that we once loved. Grief is the receipt we wave in the air that says to the world: Look! Love was once mine. I loved well. Here is my proof that I paid the price. So I’ll just show up and sit quietly and practice not being God with her. I’m so sorry, I’ll say. Thank you for trusting me enough to invite me close. I see your pain and it’s real. I’m so sorry. The Journey of the Warrior. This is it. The journey is learning that pain, like love, is simply something to surrender to. It’s a holy space we can enter with people only if we promise not to tidy up. So I will sit with my pain by letting my own heart break. I will love others in pain by volunteering to let my heart break with theirs. I’ll be helpless and broken and still—surrendered to my powerlessness. Mutual surrender, maybe that’s an act of love. Surrendering to this thing that’s bigger than we are: this love, this pain. The courage to surrender comes from knowing that the love and pain will almost kill us, but not quite.
Glennon Doyle Melton (Love Warrior)
These wrinkles are the hands of time, The journeys I’ve been on They’ve seen me through a thousand days, And ev’ry victory won These fragile hands, With exposed bones, Are not a fearful sight But rather, they, my faithful partners, Rocked babies through the night These eyes are weak, They see much less, Than yours they’ve seen much more They’ve guided me through birth, through death, Through grief, through hurt, through war These ears can hear so very little, Yet they’ve learned to listen much They perk up not for gossip now, But for a heart to touch Those younger often look my way, With pity looks to give Yet this old body doesn’t mean I am dying, But rather, that I have lived
Emily Nelson
Then the door is before him. There is darkness all around him, there is silence in him. Then the door opens and he stands alone, the whole world falling away from him. And the brief corner of the sky seems to be shrieking, though he does not hear a sound. Then the earth tilts, he is thrown forward on his face in darkness, and his journey begins.
James Baldwin
The sudden and total disappearance of Mawlana aroused resentment among his disciples and students, some of them becoming highly critical of Hazrat Shams, even threatening him. They believed Hazrat Shams had ruined their spiritual circle and prevented them from listening to Mawlana's sermons. In March of 1246 he left Konya and went to Syria without warning. After he left, Mawlana was grief stricken, secluding himself even more rather than engaging with his disciples and students. He was without a doubt furious with them. Realising the error of their ways, they repeatedly repented before Mawlana. Some months later, news arrived that Hazrat Shams had been seen in Damascus and a letter was sent to him with apologising for the behaviour of these disciples. Hazrat Sultan Walad and a search party were sent to Damascus to invite him back and in April 1247, he made his return. During the return journey, he invited Hazrat Sultan Walad to ride on horseback although he declined, choosing instead to walk alongside him, explaining that as a servant, he could not ride in the presence of such a king. Hazrat Shams was received back with joyous celebration with sama ceremonies being held for several days, and all those that had shown him resentment tearfully asked for his forgiveness. He reserved special praise for Hazrat Sultan Walad for his selflessness, which greatly pleased Mawlana. As he originally had no intention to return to Konya, he most likely would not have returned if Hazrat Sultan Walad had not himself gone to Damascus in search of him. After his return, he and Mawlana Rumi returned to their intense discussions. Referring to the disciples, Hazrat Shams narrates that their new found love for him was motivated only by desperation: “ They felt jealous because they supposed, "If he were not here, Mowlana would be happy with us." Now [that I am back] he belongs to all. They gave it a try and things got worse, and they got no consolation from Mowlana. They lost even what they had, so that even the enmity (hava, against Shams) that had swirled in their heads disappeared. And now they are happy and they show me honor and pray for me. (Maqalat 72) ” Referring to his absence, he explains that he left for the sake of Mawlana Rumi's development: “ I'd go away fifty times for your betterment. My going away is all for the sake of your development. Otherwise it makes no difference to me whether I'm in Anatolia or Syria, at the Kaaba or in Istanbul, except, of course, that separation matures and refines you. (Maqalat 164) ” After a while, by the end of 1247, he was married to Kimia, a young woman who’d grown up in Mawlana Rumi's household. Sadly, Kimia did not live long after the marriage and passed away upon falling ill after a stroll in the garden
Shams Tabrizi
Rites–of–passage stories…were cherished in pre–literate societies not only for their entertainment value, but also as mythic tools to prepare young men and women for life’s ordeals. A wealth of such stories can be found marking each major transition in the human life cycle: puberty, marriage, childbirth, menopause, death. Other rites–of–passage, less predictable but equally transformative, include times of sudden change and calamity such as illness and injury, the loss of one’s home, the death of a loved one, etc. These are the times when we wake, like Dante, to find ourselves in a deep, dark wood — an image that in Jungian psychology represents an inward journey. Rites–of–passage tales point to the hidden roads that lead out of the dark again — and remind us that at the end of the journey we’re not the same person as when we started. Ascending from the Netherworld (that grey landscape of illness, grief, depression, or despair), we are ‘twice–born’ in our return to life, carrying seeds — new wisdom, ideas, creativity and fecundity of spirit.
Terri Windling
She has come to stay, to be with Claire for a day or two. To sleep in the spare room. To accompany her dying, the same way she accompanied Gloria's dying six years ago. The slow car journey back to Missouri. The smile on Gloria's face. Her sister, Janice, in the front seat, driving. Playing games with the rearview mirror. Both of them pushing Gloria in a wheelchair along the banks of the river, Up a lazy river where the robin's song wakes a brand-new morning as we roll along. It was a celebration, that day. They had dug their feet down into happiness and weren't prepared to let go. They threw sticks into an eddy and watched them circle. Put a blanket down, ate Wonder Bread sandwiches. Later in the afternoon, her sister began crying, like a change in the weather, for no reason except the popping of a wine cork. Jaslyn handed her a wadded tissue. Gloria laughed at them and said that she'd overtaken grief a long time ago, that she was tired of everyone wanting to go to heaven, nobody wanting to die. The only thing worth grieving over, she said, was that sometimes there was more beauty in this life than the world could bear.
Colum McCann (Let the Great World Spin)
From the time we’re children, we’re taught that the path is more important than the obstacles that appear on it. We’re told to focus on the destination rather than the journey. We repeatedly hear the story of the phoenix rising from the ashes, but we fail to remember (or conveniently forget to remember) that the ashes are made of the charred, scorched remains of the phoenix’s “life before.
Shelby Forsythia (Permission to Grieve: Creating Grace, Space, & Room to Breathe in the Aftermath of Loss)
To be moved by a tragic story that had happened to someone, anyone, was natural. It was another thing to take that tragedy upon yourself as a kind of catchall for whatever pain and grief your own life had held, to brandish it like a badge of honor--or worse, like a weapon, to take from it a lesson of hatred that only perpetuated the kind of thinking that created such tragedies in the first place
Meline Toumani (There Was and There Was Not: A Journey through Hate and Possibility in Turkey, Armenia, and Beyond)
You wanted a demonstration,” Celaena said quietly. Sweat trickled down her back, but she gripped the magic with everything she had. “One thought from me, and your city will burn.” “It is stone,” Maeve snapped. Celaena smiled. “Your people aren’t.” Maeve’s nostrils flared delicately. “Would you murder innocents, Aelin? Perhaps. You did it for years, didn’t you?” Celaena’s smile didn’t falter. “Try me. Just try to push me, Aunt, and see what comes of it. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? Not for me to master my magic, but for you to learn just how powerful I am. Not how much of your sister’s blood flows in my veins—no, you’ve known from the start that I have very little of Mab’s power. You wanted to know how much I got from Brannon.” The flames rose higher, and the shouts—of fright, not pain—rose with them. The flames would not hurt anyone unless she willed it. She could sense other magics fighting against her own, tearing holes into her power, but the conflagration surrounding the veranda burned strong. “You never gave the keys to Brannon. And you didn’t journey with Brannon and Athril to retrieve the keys from the Valg,” Celaena went on, a crown of fire wreathing her head. “You went to steal them for yourself. You wanted to keep them. Once Brannon and Athril realized that, they fought you. And Athril…” Celaena drew Goldryn, its hilt glowing bloodred. “Your beloved Athril, dearest friend of Brannon … when Athril fought you, you killed him. You, not the Valg. And in your grief and shame, you were weakened enough that Brannon took the keys from you. It wasn’t some enemy force who sacked the Sun Goddess’s temple. It was Brannon. He burned any last trace of himself, any clue of where he was going so you would not find him. He left only Athril’s sword to honor his friend—in the cave where Athril had first carved out the eye of that poor lake creature—and never told you. After Brannon left these shores, you did not dare follow him, not when he had the keys, not when his magic—my magic—was so strong.
Sarah J. Maas (Heir of Fire (Throne of Glass #3))
We want our children to obey God because they do not want to cause grief to the one who loves them. As they become aware of their moral failures, we also want them to discover that their loving God forgives and wants to help children to do the right thing. The importance of the initial love relationship with God cannot be overemphasized; everything else in spiritual formation builds on it in the proper time.
Catherine Stonehouse (Joining Children on the Spiritual Journey: Nurturing a Life of Faith (Bridgepoint Books))
I'm not tormenting myself. I learned long ago that in order to heal my wounds, I must have the courage to face up to them. I also learned to forgive myself and correct my mistakes. However, ever since I started out on this journey, I've had a sense of being confronted by a vast jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of which are only just beginning to revealed, pieces of love, hate, sacrifice, forgiveness, joy, and grief.
Paulo Coelho (Aleph)
The journey across the landscape of loss to the inner self takes courage and persistence. It is a risky venture, with lots of false trails and humanising errors. It requires gentleness to know your limits, yet willingness to apply pressure in the direction of growth. It is a journey that is not cost-free, nor is it ever finished. But, especially in the pitch darkness, it is a journey on which there is always hope.
Dr Brian Babington, Bouncing Back
And yet, I also understood the need for this journey. To simply say to myself or anyone else, “I am forgiven” or “I forgive” could not shift my past karmic energy as well as walking the Camino. I was walking myself out of trauma and grief and anger and shame and righteous indignation and feelings of worthlessness and over-thinking and every other faulty human perception that blocked the truth of my being from shining through.
Sonia Choquette (Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed)
Nobody warned me about this part. When I envisioned my trip, I imagined exciting adventures, exotic locales, a jet-set lifestyle. I never thought grief and doubt would climb into my backpack and come with me. I pictured standing at the top of the Sun Gate, looking down at Machu Picchu, without ever thinking about the steps it would take to get there. This is the curse of wanderlust, when the postcard image becomes a brutal reality.
Maggie Downs (Braver Than You Think: Around the World on the Trip of My (Mother’s) Lifetime)
The word for teardrinkers is lachryphagous, and for the eaters of human flesh it is anthropophagous, and the rest of us feed on sorrow all the time. It is the essence of many of the most beautiful ballads and pop songs, and why sorrow and heartbreak are so delicious might have to do with the emotions it stirs in us, the empathy for others' suffering, and the small comfort of not being alone with our own. With a sad song we feel a delicate grief, as though we mourn for three minutes a loss we can't remember but taste again, sorrow like salt tears, and then close it up like a letter in the final notes. Sadness the blue like dusk, the reminder that all things are emphemeral, and that because there is time there is change and that is another name for change, if you look back toward what is vanishing in the distance, is loss. But sadness is also beautiful, maybe because it rings so true and goes so deep, because it is about the distances in our lives, the things we lose, the abyss between what the lover and the beloved want and imagine and understand that may widen to become unbridgeable any moment, the distance between the hope at the onset and the eventual outcome, the journeys we have to travel, including the last one out of being and on past becoming into the unimaginable: the moth flown into the pure dark.
Rebecca Solnit (The Faraway Nearby)
The energy involved in shattering is the life force, the inborn need for attachment. When that energy is thwarted, it intensifies what Buddhists call clinging; suffering and grief are the result. Its pain is our psychobiological reaction to being suddenly cut off, held back from the relationship we so desire. This powerful impetus to attach is ever present. It can be the source of pain, but when redirected, it becomes the first step toward healing.
Susan Anderson (The Journey from Abandonment to Healing: Revised and Updated: Surviving Through and Recovering from the Five Stages That Accompany the Loss of Love)
If A Tree Could Wander Oh, if a tree could wander and move with foot and wings! It would not suffer the axe blows and not the pain of saws! For would the sun not wander away in every night ? How could at ev'ry morning the world be lighted up? And if the ocean's water would not rise to the sky, How would the plants be quickened by streams and gentle rain? The drop that left its homeland, the sea, and then returned ? It found an oyster waiting and grew into a pearl. Did Yusaf not leave his father, in grief and tears and despair? Did he not, by such a journey, gain kingdom and fortune wide? Did not the Prophet travel to far Medina, friend? And there he found a new kingdom and ruled a hundred lands. You lack a foot to travel? Then journey into yourself! And like a mine of rubies receive the sunbeams? print! Out of yourself ? such a journey will lead you to your self, It leads to transformation of dust into pure gold!
Your identity is altered, even though you don’t want it to be. You are not the same person, and some of your friends will relate to you differently. Redefining ourselves, that is, building a new identity after the death of a loved one, is another significant task commonly forgotten in grief work. It’s okay to be a different person than when you started your journey through loss. So ask yourself how much your great loss has affected your identity as a person and how you will rebuild it.
Louis E. LaGrand (Healing Grief, Finding Peace: 101 Ways to Cope with the Death of Your Loved One)
Other feelings too can be philosophical—pain, grief, tedium, delight, exultation—if they are experienced on behalf of humankind. “I looked around me, and my soul became wounded by the suffering of mankind” is the opening of Alexander Radishchev’s “Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow” (1790), which laid the foundation of all subsequent Russian philosophy. It is a philosophy shaped by feelings of suffering and compassion, by the Karamazovian question of how to justify a child’s tears. The range of philosophical feelings is wide.
Mikhail Epstein
During this part of the journey, the woman begins her descent. It may involve a seemingly endless period of wandering, grief, and rage; of dethroning kings; of looking for the lost pieces of herself and meeting the dark feminine. It may take weeks, months, or years, and for many it may involve a time of voluntary isolation—a period of darkness and silence and of learning the art of deeply listening once again to self: of being instead of doing. The outer world may see this as a depression and a period of stasis. Family, friends, and work associates implore our heroine to “get on with it.
Maureen Murdock (The Heroine's Journey)
Some people awaken spiritually without ever coming into contact with any meditation technique or any spiritual teaching,” says Eckhart Tolle. “They may awaken because they can’t stand the suffering anymore.” Yet I’m no mystic. I’m not even particularly spiritual. I’ve never thought of myself in those terms, and I still don’t. I’m more comfortable with the crystal radio analogy. Somehow, I’ve tuned in. The channels are open and the message is coming through. My terrible grief plus the solitude imposed by this long, monotonous journey have combined to create ... what? A mystical experience? Or a psychotic break?
Gail Graham (Will YOUR Dog Reincarnate?)
What were you going to make for Christmas dinner?” one of my older children asked in a very reasonable tone. I cleared my throat, but couldn’t speak. There was no real explanation for my behavior. I’d been so intent on getting through this first Christmas without David. I’d found new rituals to replace the old, wrapped gifts, and even made cutout sugar cookies. I’d modified Christmas in order to endure it. What I hadn’t done was plan on or prepare a Christmas meal. Everyone was looking at me expectantly by this point, including my sweet, hungry grandchildren. “I forgot all about Christmas dinner,” I finally admitted. No one batted an eye.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
Some days are sweetened with pure, but fleeting joy. Just keep keeping on. Some days consist of a kind of sorrow that tries to break you. Just keep keeping on. Some days are filled with bright, warm light that clearly shows the path to follow. Just keep keeping on. Some days are filled with calm and peace. Just keep keeping on. Some days are filled with a violent commotion that does its best to disrupt our innermost harmony. Just keep keeping on. Some days we must just take a rest, until we can once again, keep keeping on. Some days are filled with hope and faith and the recognition of a journey we wouldn't trade for anything. And so we keep keeping on.
Connie Kerbs
When the dead return they will come to you in dream and in waking, will be the bird knocking, knocking against glass, seeking a way in, will masquerade as the wind, its voice made audible by the tongues of leaves, greedily lapping, as the waves’ self-made fugue is a turning and returning, the dead will not then nor ever again desert you, their unrest will be the coat cloaking you, the farther you journey from them the more that distance will maw in you, time and place gulching when the dead return to demand accounting, wanting and wanting and wanting everything you have to give and nothing will quench or unhunger them as they take all you make as offering. Then tell you to begin again.
Shara McCallum
I figured we really shouldn’t grieve for those who leave us for God. They’ve arrived at their destinations with lucky souls no longer burdened by our piddling human considerations. It may seem cruel when they die so young or so beautiful or so loved. Cry not for them, for the life not lived. Cry only for your own hurt in missing them. That’s the only true loss. And in those sad moments when you remember a touch, or catch them watching from the corner of your eye, understand they left you with a lesson. Everyone who touches your life teaches you something important you’re meant to learn. Somehow their visit here pushed your own soul along its path. Learning that lesson is the best way you can honor them.
Lynnda Pollio (Trusting the Currents)
Spiritually, we also move in seasons. We seem to bounce between times of great intimacy and closeness with God, to times of dryness. Like a ping pong ball that would rather stay still, I long for intimacy all of the time. But I know in my heart that it is not to be. The phone call that heralds fear, the diagnosis that brings grief, the material season that gives abundance... These seasons not only affect the world in front of me but they also in a strange and parallel way, affect my relationship with God. So I peer into the fog of my current season, often wondering what I will gain from my toil. I wonder whether I will see His hand transform my seasons into beauty. I wonder whether I will ever fathom what He is doing from beginning to end...
Naomi Reed (My Seventh Monsoon: A Himalayan Journey Of Faith And Mission)
THE JOURNEY There is every reason to despair due to all the present events that seem out of our control, but there is every reason to hope that with attention and discipline, we can bring ourselves and our societies, through a kind of necessary seasonal disappearance, back into the realm of choice. Firstly, the easy part: despair. The world at present seems to be a mirror to many of our worst qualities. We could not have our individual fears and prejudices, our wish to feel superior to others, and our deep desire not to be touched by the heartbreak and vulnerabilities that accompany every life, more finely drawn and better represented in the outer world than are presented to us now, by the iconic and often ugly political figures, encouraging the worst in their fellows that dominate our screens and our times. Life is fierce and difficult. There is no life we can live without being subject to grief, loss and heartbreak. Half of every conversation is mediated through disappearance. Thus, there is every reason to want to retreat from life, to carry torches that illuminate only our own view, to make enemies of life and of others, to hate what we cannot understand and to keep the world and the people who inhabit it at a distance through prejudicial naming; but therefore, it also follows, that our ability to do the opposite, to meet the other in the world on their own terms, without diminishing them, is one of the necessary signatures of human courage; and one we are being asked to write, above all our flaws and difficulties, across the heavens of this, our present time. The essence in other words of The Journey.
David Whyte (David Whyte: Essentials)
committing suicide, both for your own sake and that of your companions. Both sexually and socially the polar explorer must make up his mind to be starved. To what extent can hard work, or what may be called dramatic imagination, provide a substitute? Compare our thoughts on the march; our food dreams at night; the primitive way in which the loss of a crumb of biscuit may give a lasting sense of grievance. Night after night I bought big buns and chocolate at a stall on the island platform at Hatfield station, but always woke before I got a mouthful to my lips; some companions who were not so highly strung were more fortunate, and ate their phantom meals. And the darkness, accompanied it may be almost continually by howling blizzards which prevent you seeing your hand before your face. Life in such surroundings is both mentally and physically cramped; open-air exercise is restricted and in blizzards quite impossible, and you realize how much you lose by your inability to see the world about you when you are out-of-doors. I am told that when confronted by a lunatic or one who under the influence of some great grief or shock contemplates suicide, you should take that man out-of-doors and walk him about: Nature will do the rest. To normal people like ourselves living under abnormal circumstances Nature could do much to lift our thoughts out of the rut of everyday affairs, but she loses much of her healing power when she cannot be seen, but only felt, and when that feeling is intensely uncomfortable. Somehow in judging polar life you must discount compulsory endurance; and find out what a man can shirk, remembering always that it is a sledging life which
Apsley Cherry-Garrard (The Worst Journey in the World: Antarctic 1910-1913)
On Love and Happiness:When someone embarks on his research, if he ever makes it, (there is, in addition, a contingency that he/she will never embark on it), then he sails on a journey, a course that incubates various events. It's like opening a precious gift that hides myriads of secrets. Nobody acknowledges its content unless he attempts to inspect it. Happiness is not always dominated by heavenly chances, blue and green seashores of euphoria and pink clouds of serenity. Happiness does not dwell in luxurious mansions and expensive cars neither in glamorous appearances. Many times Unhappiness and loneliness lurk behind the ledges of luxury and surface brightness. There are so many examples around us, in newspapers, magazines, television and radio of people who are plunged in uncertainty, grief and insecurity. I wonder why this is.
Katerina Kostaki (Cosmic Light)
I am beginning to see the fallacy in the Western world’s take on dying. Too often we are taught that this one life is all there is and when it ends, that’s it. Or, instead of once again returning to a loving God who welcomes us back Home with open arms, we are told that when we die we must stand in front of a stern and unforgiving deity who sits on a throne and looks at every mistake we have ever made, deciding if we are good enough to enter heaven. And, if we do make it past that stringent test, we certainly aren’t able to visit our friends and family still living. No wonder so many of us are afraid of death. I also find it fascinating that most religions believe in angels or wise ascended souls who brought messages to certain people on earth (Moses and Noah, for example) thousands of years ago, but deny that such an occurrence can happen now. What, did God just decide not to talk to us anymore?
Donna Visocky (I'll Meet You at the Base of the Mountain: One woman's journey from grief to life.)
I read through mounds of files brought up daily from the archives. They contained mostly reports from men and women who had operated on the periphery of war, about journeys that criss-crossed Europe and later the Middle East, as well as various post-war skirmishes—especially between 1945 and early 1947. I began to realize that an unauthorized and still violent war had continued after the armistice, a time when the rules and negotiations were still half lit and acts of war continued beyond public hearing. On the continent, guerrilla groups and Partisan fighters had emerged from hiding, refusing defeat. Fascist and German supporters were being hunted down by people who had suffered for five or more years. The retaliations and acts of revenge back and forth devastated small villages, leaving further grief in their wake. They were committed by as many sides as there were ethnic groups across the newly liberated map of Europe.
Michael Ondaatje (Warlight)
Above all else, I want you to know that you are loved and lovable. You will learn this from my words and actions--the lessons on love are in how I treat you and how I treat myself. I want you to engage with the world from a place of worthiness. You will learn that you are worthy of love, belonging, and joy every time you see me practice self-compassion and embrace my own imperfections. We will practice courage in our family by showing up, letting ourselves be seen, and honoring vulnerability. We will share our stories of struggle and strength. There will always be room in our home for both. We will teach you compassion by practicing compassion with ourselves first; then with each other. We will set and respect boundaries; we will honor hard work, hope, and perseverance. Rest and play will be family values, as well as family practices. You will learn accountability and respect by watching me make mistakes and make amends, and by watching how I ask for what I need and talk about how I feel. I want you to know joy, so together we will practice gratitude. I want you to feel joy, so together we will learn how to be vulnerable. When uncertainty and scarcity visit, you will be able to draw from the spirit that is a part of our everyday life. Together we will cry and face fear and grief. I will want to take away your pain, but instead I will sit with you and teach you how to feel it. We will laugh and sing and dance and create. We will always have permission to be ourselves with each other. No matter what, you will always belong here. As you begin your Wholehearted journey, the greatest gift that I can give to you is to live and love with my whole heart and to dare greatly. I will not teach or love or show you anything perfectly, but I will let you see me, and I will always hold sacred the gift of seeing you. Truly, deeply, seeing you.
Brené Brown (Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead)
Bindi the Jungle Girl aired on July 18, 2007, on ABC (Channel 2) in Australia, and we were so proud. Bindi’s determination to carry on her father’s legacy was a testament to everything Steve believed in. He had perfectly combined his love for his family with his love for conservation and leaving the world a better place. Now this love was perfectly passed down to his kids. The official beginning of Bindi’s career was a fantastic day. All the time and effort, and joy and sorrow of the past year culminated in this wonderful series. Now everyone was invited to see Bindi’s journey, first filming with her dad, and then stepping up and filming with Robert and me. It was also a chance to experience one more time why Steve was so special and unique, to embrace him, to appreciate him, and to celebrate his life. Bindi, Robert, and I would do our best to make sure that Steve’s light wasn’t hidden under a bushel. It would continue to sine as we worked together to protect all wildlife and all wild places. After Bindi’s show launched, it seemed so appropriate that another project we had been working on for many months came to fruition. We found an area of 320,000 acres in Cape York Peninsula, bordered on one side by the Dulcie River and on the other side by the Wenlock River--some of the best crocodile country in the world. It was one of the top spots in Australia, and the most critically important habitat in the state of Queensland. Prime Minister John Howard, along with the Queensland government, dedicated $6.3 million to obtaining this land, in memory of Steve. On July 22, 2007, the Steve Irwin Wildlife Reserve became official. This piece of land means so much to the Irwin family, and I know what it would have meant to Steve. Ultimately, it meant the protection of his crocodiles, the animals he loved so much. What does the future hold for the Irwin family? Each and every day is filled with incredible triumphs and moments of terrible grief. And in between, life goes on. We are determined to continue to honor and appreciate Steve’s wonderful spirit. It lives on with all of us. Steve lived every day of his life doing what he loved, and he always said he would die defending wildlife. I reckon Bindi, Robert, and I will all do the same. God bless you, Stevo. I love you, mate.
Terri Irwin (Steve & Me)
that everything that had ever happened to me had been a loving step in that process of my progression. every person, every circumstance, and every incident was custom created for me. It was as if the entire universe existed for my higher good and development. I felt so loved, so cherished, and so honored. I realized that not only was I being embraced by deity, but also that I myself was divine, and that we all are. I knew that there are no accidents in this life. That everything happens for a reason. yet we always get to choose how we will experience what happens to us here. I could exercise my will in everything, even in how I felt about the wreck and the death of my family members. God didn't want me to hurt and feel put upon as if my son and wife had been taken from me. He was simply there assisting me to decide how I was going to experience it. He was providing me with the opportunity, in perfect love, to exercise my personal agency in this entire situation. I knew my wife and son were gone. They had died months earlier, but time didn't exist where I was at that moment. rather than having them ripped away from me, I was being given the opportunity to actually hand them over to God. To let them go in peace, love, and gratitude. Everything suddenly made sense. Everything had divine order. I could give my son to God and not have him taken away from me. I felt my power as a creator and cocreator with God to literally let go of all that had happened to me. I held my baby son as God himself held me. I experienced the oneness of all of it. Time did not matter. Only love and order existed. Tamara and Griffin had come into my life as perfect teachers. And in leaving me in such a way, they continued as perfect teachers to bring me to that point of remembering who I was. remembering that I was created in God's image and actually came from Him. I was aware now that I could actually walk with God, empowered by what I was learning in my life. I felt the divine energy of the being behind me inviting me to let it all go and give Griffin to Him. In all that peace and knowledge, I hugged my little boy tightly one last time, kissed him on the cheek, and gently laid him back down in the crib. I willingly gave him up. No one would ever take him away from me again. He was mine. We were one, and I was one with God. As soon as I breathed in all that peace, I awoke, back into the pain and darkness of my hospital bed, but with greater perspective. I marveled at what I had just experienced. It was not just a dream. It felt too real. It was real to me, far more real than the pain, the grief, and my hospital bed. Griffin was alive in a place more real than anything here. And Tamara was there with him. I knew it. As the years have passed, I've often wondered how I could have put my son back in the crib the way I did. Maybe I should have held on and never let go. But in that place, it all made sense. I realized that no one ever really dies. We always live on. I had experienced a God as real and tangible as we are. He knows our every heartache, yet allows us to experience and endure them for our growth. His is the highest form of love; He allows us to become what we will. He watches as we create who we are. He allows us to experience life in a way that makes us more like Him, divine creators of our own destiny. My experience showed me purpose and order. I knew there was a master plan far greater than my limited earthly vision. I also learned that my choices were mine alone to make. I got to decide how I felt, and that made all the difference in the universe. even in this tragedy, I got to determine the outcome. I could choose to be a victim of what had happened or create something far greater.
Jeff Olsen (I Knew Their Hearts: The Amazing True Story of Jeff Olsen's Journey Beyond the Veil to Learn the Silent Language of the Heart)
Variations on a tired, old theme Here’s another example of addict manipulation that plagues parents. The phone rings. It’s the addict. He says he has a job. You’re thrilled. But you’re also apprehensive. Because you know he hasn’t simply called to tell you good news. That kind of thing just doesn’t happen. Then comes the zinger you knew would be coming. The request. He says everybody at this company wears business suits and ties, none of which he has. He says if you can’t wire him $1800 right away, he won’t be able to take the job. The implications are clear. Suddenly, you’ve become the deciding factor as to whether or not the addict will be able to take the job. Have a future. Have a life. You’ve got that old, familiar sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. This is not the child you gladly would have financed in any way possible to get him started in life. This is the child who has been strung out on drugs for years and has shown absolutely no interest in such things as having a conventional job. He has also, if you remember correctly, come to you quite a few times with variations on this same tired, old story. One variation called for a car so he could get to work. (Why is it that addicts are always being offered jobs in the middle of nowhere that can’t be reached by public transportation?) Another variation called for the money to purchase a round-trip airline ticket to interview for a job three thousand miles away. Being presented with what amounts to a no-choice request, the question is: Are you going to contribute in what you know is probably another scam, or are you going to say sorry and hang up? To step out of the role of banker/victim/rescuer, you have to quit the job of banker/victim/rescuer. You have to change the coda. You have to forget all the stipulations there are to being a parent. You have to harden your heart and tell yourself parenthood no longer applies to you—not while your child is addicted. Not an easy thing to do. P.S. You know in your heart there is no job starting on Monday. But even if there is, it’s hardly your responsibility if the addict goes well dressed, badly dressed, or undressed. Facing the unfaceable: The situation may never change In summary, you had a child and that child became an addict. Your love for the child didn’t vanish. But you’ve had to wean yourself away from the person your child has become through his or her drugs and/ or alcohol abuse. Your journey with the addicted child has led you through various stages of pain, grief, and despair and into new phases of strength, acceptance, and healing. There’s a good chance that you might not be as healthy-minded as you are today had it not been for the tribulations with the addict. But you’ll never know. The one thing you do know is that you wouldn’t volunteer to go through it again, even with all the awareness you’ve gained. You would never have sacrificed your child just so that you could become a better, stronger person. But this is the way it has turned out. You’re doing okay with it, almost twenty-four hours a day. It’s just the odd few minutes that are hard to get through, like the ones in the middle of the night when you awaken to find that the grief hasn’t really gone away—it’s just under smart, new management. Or when you’re walking along a street or in a mall and you see someone who reminds you of your addicted child, but isn’t a substance abuser, and you feel that void in your heart. You ache for what might have been with your child, the happy life, the fulfilled career. And you ache for the events that never took place—the high school graduation, the engagement party, the wedding, the grandkids. These are the celebrations of life that you’ll probably never get to enjoy. Although you never know. DON’T LET    YOUR KIDS  KILL  YOU  A Guide for Parents of Drug and Alcohol Addicted Children PART 2
Charles Rubin (Don't let Your Kids Kill You: A Guide for Parents of Drug and Alcohol Addicted Children)
Robert Askins Brings ‘Hand to God’ to Broadway Chad Batka for The New York Times Robert Askins at the Booth Theater, where his play “Hand to God” opens on Tuesday. By MICHAEL PAULSON The conceit is zany: In a church basement, a group of adolescents gathers (mostly at the insistence of their parents) to make puppets that will spread the Christian message, but one of the puppets turns out to be more demonic than divine. The result — a dark comedy with the can-puppets-really-do-that raunchiness of “Avenue Q” and can-people-really-say-that outrageousness of “The Book of Mormon” — is “Hand to God,” a new play that is among the more improbable entrants in the packed competition for Broadway audiences over the next few weeks. Given the irreverence of some of the material — at one point stuffed animals are mutilated in ways that replicate the torments of Catholic martyrs — it is perhaps not a surprise to discover that the play’s author, Robert Askins, was nicknamed “Dirty Rob” as an undergraduate at Baylor, a Baptist-affiliated university where the sexual explicitness and violence of his early scripts raised eyebrows. But Mr. Askins had also been a lone male soloist in the children’s choir at St. John Lutheran of Cypress, Tex. — a child who discovered early that singing was a way to make the stern church ladies smile. His earliest performances were in a deeply religious world, and his writings since then have been a complex reaction to that upbringing. “It’s kind of frustrating in life to be like, ‘I’m a playwright,’ and watch people’s face fall, because they associate plays with phenomenally dull, didactic, poetic grad-schoolery, where everything takes too long and tediously explores the beauty in ourselves,” he said in a recent interview. “It’s not church, even though it feels like church a lot when we go these days.” The journey to Broadway, where “Hand to God” opens on Tuesday at the Booth Theater, still seems unlikely to Mr. Askins, 34, who works as a bartender in Brooklyn and says he can’t afford to see Broadway shows, despite his newfound prominence. He seems simultaneously enthralled by and contemptuous of contemporary theater, the world in which he has chosen to make his life; during a walk from the Cobble Hill coffee shop where he sometimes writes to the Park Slope restaurant where he tends bar, he quoted Nietzsche and Derrida, described himself as “deeply weird,” and swore like, well, a satanic sock-puppet. “If there were no laughs in the show, I’d think there was something wrong with him,” said the actor Steven Boyer, who won raves in earlier “Hand to God” productions as Jason, a grief-stricken adolescent with a meek demeanor and an angry-puppet pal. “But anybody who is able to write about such serious stuff and be as hilarious as it is, I’m not worried about their mental health.” Mr. Askins’s interest in the performing arts began when he was a boy attending rural Texas churches affiliated with the conservative Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod denomination; he recalls the worshipers as “deeply conservative, old farm folks, stone-faced, pride and suffering, and the only time anybody ever really livened up was when the children’s choir would perform.” “My grandmother had a cross-stitch that said, ‘God respects me when I work, but he loves me when I sing,’ and so I got into that,” he said. “For somebody who enjoys performance, that was the way in.” The church also had a puppet ministry — an effort to teach children about the Bible by use of puppets — and when Mr. Askins’s mother, a nurse, began running the program, he enlisted to help. He would perform shows for other children at preschools and vacation Bible camps. “The shows are wacky, but it was fun,” he said. “They’re badly written attempts to bring children to Jesus.” Not all of his formative encounters with puppets were positive. Particularly scarring: D
You have no idea how well you are doing,” John complimented me just a few minutes after he mentioned the Christmas card. What did that mean: That I was doing well? That I’d come to a family gathering? That I’d remembered to bring food? That I was dressed, and my hair combed? That I was wearing shoes? I wasn’t sure, but maybe just making an appearance at a family event meant I was handling things well.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
What were you going to make for Christmas dinner?” one of my older children asked in a very reasonable tone. I cleared my throat, but couldn’t speak. There was no real explanation for my behavior. I’d been so intent on getting through this first Christmas without David. I’d found new rituals to replace the old, wrapped gifts, and even made cutout sugar cookies. I’d modified Christmas in order to endure it. What I hadn’t done was plan on or prepare a Christmas meal. Everyone was looking at me expectantly by this point, including my sweet, hungry grandchildren. “I forgot all about Christmas dinner,” I finally admitted. No one batted an eye.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
We continued talking as my purchases were rung up—about the first Christmas, the sadness of ending up in a cemetery on a holiday, and the pain of getting through that first year. “They tell me it gets better,” she said with a sigh. “Can I give you a hug?” I asked shyly before I turned to go. She nodded eagerly, and one small sob escaped her as I squeezed her shoulders tightly. I might look back on that first Christmas and remember it as the year I did so many things so badly, the year I forgot to feed my family. Or I might just remember it as the Christmas I learned what it meant to reach out to a hurting stranger.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
Don’t you believe that Jacob can be healed?” some persisted, pressuring Elizabeth to believe—just believe—and Jacob would be healed. The underlying message was that Elizabeth’s faith was not strong enough to save her son. I remembered then the same kind of statements David and I had heard when he was undergoing cancer treatment, when several well-intentioned people informed David that all he had to do to rid his body of cancer was to believe he was healed. I’d resented the implications then, and I resented them for my daughter now. People die. Good people like David die too young, and innocent little children die, and the strongest faith in the world cannot keep anyone on this earth forever. If only the same Christians professing their faith in healing could clearly see the flip side of that faith, that earth was not where we ultimately belonged. If Jacob died, he would be going Home.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
Tonight I attend my thirty-fifth high school reunion with some trepidation. I have not seen most of these former classmates for thirty-some years. I am not the same young girl they knew in high school. What they cannot know, what I am just realizing myself, is that I am not even the same person I was two years ago.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
I often wondered after David’s death: Had they known something then? Did their very souls recognize each other? Did Jacob, closer to God than anyone else I knew, somehow sense this was the last time he would see his grandpa? Had there been a message to the little boy in David’s long-held gaze? Did these two people—the six-year-old boy and the sixty-year-old man— realize something the rest of us didn’t?
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
The whole encounter was surreal. No one had mentioned cancer. I hadn’t requested special treatment for Jacob. Yet he’d just nabbed a private meeting with an actor from his favorite movie. I would later ask Mike, the comic book store owner, what had prompted him to invite Jacob to the supper and a private meeting with Mr. Bulloch. “It was Jeremy at the door. He recognized something in Jacob. Jeremy is a cancer survivor.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
That evening I sat across from Jeremy Bulloch and Jacob at the dinner table. I watched as Jeremy, who seemed to speak Jacob’s silent language fluently, drummed his fingers up and down on the edge of the table, as if playing a piano. A delighted Jacob mimicked the actor’s actions. My throat filled with tears. I met Ben’s eyes across the table, where he sat straight with pride next to his son. He was enjoying the show just as much as I was. Jacob was in his element, interacting with an actor from his favorite movie. The other men at the table were part of the set: Mike, the owner of the comic book store, who had made the entire thing possible, and the Mandalorin Mercs, new friends of the little boy who had become one of their own, a comrade in distress.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
I held back from seeing Jacob much during those weeks. He wanted only his mother, and I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing him like that. I stopped by to pick up his siblings and take them away, but I rarely went inside the house. After several days of this, I knew I must face the sight that my daughter faced daily. Inside, I approached the couch tentatively. Would I upset him? A few times when I had visited, he’d hidden his face in a blanket. I reached out hesitantly, touching his thin arm, the skin hot and dry as paper. He didn’t move, but I could see the rise and fall of his swollen chest. Suddenly, my legs gave way, and I dropped to my knees in front of the grandson that I loved so dearly. My hand shook as I lifted it to his soft, fuzzy head. I felt as though I was in the presence of someone very holy. “I love you,” I whispered, and when he didn’t respond, an even softer whisper, “Tell Grandpa that I love him and miss him.” And then, with a groan, “Dear God, don’t let him suffer.
Mary Potter Kenyon (Refined by Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace)
The universe swirled and my ancestors danced and journeyed and created fro generations as war and peace and birth and death and joy and grief collided into loss and found as the power of 'and' continues with each sunrise and sunset.
K.M. Perry (Secrets of My Mountain)
Looking for solace from the wrong people can cause you more damage.
Mitta Xinindlu
Birthdays of a child who has died are strange events.
Ann Hood (Comfort: A Journey Through Grief)
Until that moment, I had assumed my job--my role in the crisis--was to absorb the grief, anger, and pain building up and spilling out around Tammy and our kids. Absorb their grief so they wouldn't feel the full brunt. My job. But that night, I expressed my sorrow rather than trying to deflect or divert the hard hit Tammy had also taken. Judging from her response, it appeared more meaningful to her than the strength I'd been trying to portray.
Pat McLeod (Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--And Learning to Live Well with What Is)
It became all the more obvious that people--no matter their age or what brought them to that place--grieve in different ways and on different timetables.
Pat McLeod (Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--And Learning to Live Well with What Is)
We allowed each other the gift of separate approaches to the same crisis.
Pat McLeod (Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--And Learning to Live Well with What Is)
Ambiguous disappointment often accompanies ambiguous loss. For so long we disappointed each other--drawing close when the other needed space, keeping our distance when the other needed closeness, misreading each other's cues about whether an incident was comedic or catastrophic in the other's opinion, misjudging which of our children needed us most at any given moment.
Pat McLeod (Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--And Learning to Live Well with What Is)
In a time of grief, it's the symbols that cut the deepest--the single red shoe in a pile of dusty gray war rubble, the grease-stained recipe card in Grandma's handwriting, the flag-draped casket saluted at the airport, the first wildflower that pushes its way through the ashes of last year's forest fire, the guitar whose voice would never be heard.
Pat McLeod (Hit Hard: One Family's Journey of Letting Go of What Was--And Learning to Live Well with What Is)