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.