For Mothers, especially me

 There is a pattern to life; we are born, we give life, we die. A woman wrestles the wind and waves, lands her boat ashore, helps her child to build her own boat, then watches and cheers silently (and sometimes not so silently) as her child tackles wind and waves, headed to find her own shore on which to land. The tragedy of watching a child’s boat succumb to the waves and disappear is against all nature. The pattern is irrevocably broken, the horizon damaged beyond repair.

My dearest friend lost her daughter in a car accident. It was a good car, a car with the latest safety features and airbags. Her daughter had never had an accident or a ticket. She was not doing drugs. She was not drinking. It was in the middle of the day on a good, dry road. None of those things that we parents check off our list mattered, because it still happened. These things happen.

We can track our daughters, limit them, bind them in bubble wrap, and duct tape them to the kitchen chair or explain, teach, demand, and pray, but still, these things happen and eventually, despite our fear, we have to help our daughters launch that boat.

 It is what we do on our shore with them that matters. It is the time we spend building that boat, teaching them to read the waves and wind. It is how and what we do together that matters.

If we spend our time arguing over the narrowness of the keel, the depth of the hull, how widely the seats are spaced, or the color of the sail; that is what we have when they are gone.

If we build the boat to our standards, making them watch, not do, because it must be perfect; not allowing them to know their own vessel, fearful and unaware of what it can and cannot do; that is what we have when they are gone.

If we nap on the beach or make new sails for our own boats, ignoring their calls for guidance; that is what we have when they are gone.

But if, like my dearest friend, we sit with them, smoothing the rough edges, weaving the sail, and laughing together at the seagulls who perch on the rim and watch as our daughters work; then that is what we have when they are gone.

Grief for Kendall Claudette Spinks

What can I do? 

My dearest friend, my person, lost her youngest daughter today. As the word spread, the calls began--what can I do? I’ve been asked it in texts, emails, phone calls. We are a compassionate lot—the wafts of grief that overcome us demand action…mostly because action deflects us from truly having to see into this gaping black hole.

Other than telling Kimber and Brent and Cameron and Elizabeth we are sorry and that we loved Kendall and we love them, there is nothing anyone can do to make this better. This devastating loss is just going to be painfully, dreadfully there. My kids are in a state of panic; wanting some type of information or task or plan to get the situation into some type of controlled fall, but there is no feeling better or lightening the mood or fixing it for them. Don't say "God has a plan" or "It's God's will" or "she's in a better place" because that only makes it worse for those left to live their lives without her.

In my faith, death for Kendall is not death, but a long hug in the lap of God, as she feels every wave of love we pray. It is our loss for which we grieve, the loss of every plan and dream and hope we had for her life that has vanished; the intended lunches at Grins with Gracie next fall; her bridal shower; the pearls Denise and I planned to give her for her wedding day; her first baby’s pictures next to her own on the wall of her own house; the Christmas cards; the facebook posts. They can't be gone, we argue in our hearts, because our heads haven’t fully received the message. 

This throat-constricting, chest-tightening fog is grief and the thousand-time magnified version Kimber is experiencing is more than she should bear. Give her the space, the time, the love she needs—whatever that looks like. This is so wrong, whatever she does to keep breathing is right.