Tag Archives: Grief

For Those Who Are “Still” Grieving

How to create space for your feelings when you are still grieving because "Time heals all wounds" is too simplistic. Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

People are generous with their kind words immediately after you have lost a loved one. Despite death being a inevitable part of everyone’s life, people often feel awkward about what to say; but at least the time and space provided by social norms are there to encourage them.

Unfortunately that window for condolences closes up fairly quickly, and the awkwardness morphs into the fear that they will upset you if they mention your loved one. You are now left with your own awkwardness surrounding how to talk about your grief, how to bring it up. Maybe a prescribed period for wearing black back in the day wasn’t such a bad idea. Black arm bands or those silicone bracelets could work nowadays. It just seems like we could use something to indicate “handle with care.”

“Time heals all wounds” is not so much a falsehood, as it is too simplistic. Yes, the hurt scabs over, and the pain dulls, but the loss is healed with a scar. A scar that tugs and throbs predictably, yet can grab you unexpectedly .

The holidays and anniversaries with their brightness and intensity serve to highlight the voids . . . voids you can often avoid staring into on a day-to-day basis once your grief scar has formed.

“My mom should be here baking cookies with my kids. She always had the patience to make cut-outs.”

“This is where my son’s stocking should be hanging.”

“My father always lit the candles.”

And while you can predict the holidays are going to be tinged with blue, it’s often the little things that surprisingly leave you with the most intensely hollow longing. To prepare for my college freshman daughter’s homecoming for winter break, I was changing her sheets, even though she had only slept in her bed a couple of nights over Thanksgiving and changing sheets is one of the household chores I inexplicably hate the most. I mean, there are so many tasks that are so much worse. Scrubbing toilets anyone?

But as I was grumbling at myself for performing this largely unnecessary task at 11:30 PM, I was overcome. I sank right down on the floor among the pillows and stuffed animals as tears slid down my cheeks. Changing sheets was my mother’s love language of comfort. Sick with a fever? Clean sheets. Home from college, just had a baby, recovering from surgery? Clean sheets. Facing my fourth Christmas without her, I was unconsciously following her script for loving, and grieving anew that she would never give this “love letter” to me again.

Rest assured, you are not the only one “still” grieving. You are not the only one who knows how grief and joy can snuggle side by side, neither diminishing the impact of the other. You certainly aren’t the only one who understands the bitter truth about how time actually heal wounds.

Since I know I’m not alone, this holiday season I am going to reach out to others to give them a space to share. The internet isn’t only about political rants and cat videos. It’s for connecting. I encourage you to try a post as simple as “I miss the way my mother descended on my house a couple of days before Christmas with a cooler bursting with pure deliciousness and a trunk brimming with presents. I miss the way Aunt Ruth delighted us with the latest musical holiday toy from Hallmark each year. What do you miss about your loved ones?” My friend Meredith of The Mom of the Year did this sort of thing in a Facebook group we share, and the resulting comments were uplifting. She is my inspiration.

Follow Meredith’s lead and don’t be afraid to create the space you need for your grief. You never know who you will help as you help yourself.

For Those Who Are "Still" Grieving at Christmas. How to create space for your feelings when you are still grieving because "Time heals all wounds" is too simplistic. Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

For those who are “still” grieving this holiday season, a way to create space for your feelings.

Click To Tweet

-Ellen

Hey! Want to buy our new book? I Just Want to Be Perfect brings together 37 hilarious and relatable essays that showcase the foibles of ordinary women trying to be perfect.

You can follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Check out our books, “I Just Want to Be Alone” and “You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.”

Share it real good . . .

5 Things To DO to Help a Grieving Friend

5 Replies

It is so overwhelming and painful and devastating and heart-wrenching to grieve over a loved one. When my mother was killed in a car accident a little over two years ago I learned this lesson all over again. But it is also hard to watch someone go through this heartache, and you just want to DO something to lessen the pain.

The key to comforting is acknowledging grief lasts beyond the funeral. Company abounds at the time of the funeral, but it doesn’t take long for a mourner to suddenly be alone. Fast forward several months, and while your friend may be going through the normal motions of school, work, and church, grief is still a sodden blanket tangled around her legs making each step just that much more difficult.

But at say, seven months out, it can be daunting to find the right moment to ask your friend how she is doing. Do you snag her in car line? Call her during her son’s basketball practice? Grind book club discussion to a halt with a “How are you doing with your grieving process?” One thing to remember, though, is you’re not in danger of “reminding” her of her grief. It is always there.

So what do you do?

The key to action is good intentions that are simple enough for you to carry out. Suggestions such as “go clean their bathroom” are all well and good, but let’s be honest. This is awkward except with your best of friends or your family. Even during the worst depths of my grief, I didn’t expect the woman whom I chat with regularly in Pilates to show up at my door with Comet and a toilet brush. The group of friends I would feel comfortable doing intimate chores for is small, but the circle of people I care about who I would want to do something for is wide.

And let’s not forget we are a far-flung society. What if you friend is across the state or even across the globe? You want to comfort in some way especially since you can’t put your arms around her.

With a loving heart, a little time, and these five suggestions, you can show you care in very doable ways.

1. Food

This one is nothing new, but I charge you to put some extra thought into it.

Timing. Food tends to be overflowing in the first couple of days after a funeral. There are always those casseroles from efficient “first responders,” sandwiches left over from the service, and things that were already in the fridge. Takeout pizza hasn’t lost its charm yet. But in a month, when the autopilot wears off, feeding everyone is just as hard, if not harder. Remember, when you take food, you not only spare the family from cooking, but from shopping, putting away groceries and cleaning up, too.

Even if you brought food around the time of her loss, schedule to bring a meal around the four to six week mark. It is about this time that all of the turmoil of activity has leveled out, people have stopped calling, and people even start to avoid her because they feel uncomfortable. This is the perfect time to come bearing food and offering a listening ear.

Menu. There is some shared characteristic among “first responders” that compels them to bring pasta dishes. And who can blame them? They’re easy, freeze well, and most people like them. And those first five lasagnas are delicious, but pasta/red sauce/meat every night becomes a little tiresome. Break convention and bring something different; you’ll be promoted from hero to superhero. We have a menu all worked out for you.

Scheduling. This little act can be such a gift to someone who is grieving because even simple tasks can be overwhelming, like finding space in the freezer when four meals show up at once. Using tools on the free Meal Train website, you can invite friends via email and Facebook to schedule a day to bring a meal. What’s great is favorites, dislikes, and special dietary needs can be listed, and everyone can see what food is scheduled. With minimal effort on your part, you can make a huge difference in the burden on your friend.

2. A Year of Cards

One of the kindest things a friend did for me after my mother’s death was send me random cards every month for about a year. Sometimes they were sweet, sometimes they were funny, sometimes they were St. Patrick’s Day cards in November. It’s that acknowledgement thing again. She let me know she knew I was grieving.

Buy the cards all at once and address them immediately. I send them on random dates so it is more of a surprise and not something to be expected like “Ellen always sends me a card on the first of the month.” The cards have to stop sometime, so if they are not scheduled on specific dates, they will leave less of a void when they are no longer coming.

3. A Box of Comfort

I have a hard time sending flowers to a grieving person. Having gone through the deaths of both of my parents, each time the flowers overwhelmed me. I had no place to put them and the cloying smell reminded me of standing in the receiving line at the viewing . . . that is until they started to die and the stink of decay and moldy water took over. I had dead petals and pollen everywhere. Throwing away a bouquet took up an entire trash bag and triggered a vacuuming session.

I opt instead to send a box of comfort: chocolates, tea, and cozy socks or a scarf. And as you would guess, I don’t send it immediately. I wait at least a month or more to acknowledge grief doesn’t have an expiration date.

4. Remember the Anniversary

Immediately, if not sooner, add the anniversary of the death to the calendar on your phone and set an alert for a week before. Check in with a call or text in the days leading up to and on the actual date to empathize that this is a hard time. If you need help understanding why this is so important, I wrote about what the tsunami of anniversary grief was like for me. My friend, Kathy at Kissing the Frog, uses the term “crapiversary” to describe the day because it doesn’t deserve a word that even hits at celebration. She also makes a good point that it is such a comfort when people remember beyond the first year.

5. Pray

The old standby. It may not seem like the grandest action because it is so easy to do, but it will have the biggest effect.

In all, if you approach your friend with thoughtfulness and an open heart, you can’t go wrong. Never leave them alone because you’re afraid to bother them. Assume your friend is smart enough to let your call go to voicemail if it isn’t a good time. I always include in a text or message “don’t worry if you don’t have time to get back to me, I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you.” If you do make contact, never pass judgement on a grief journey or timeline. It is different for everyone.

Finally, never let fear of reminding her about her grief stop you from reaching out. It is always with her. Doing something wins out every time over doing nothing.

Some books you may find helpful.

-Ellen

5 reasonable and simple things to do for a grieving friend. Just don’t mean well, do well.

Click To Tweet

You can follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Check out our books, “I Just Want to Be Alone” and “You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.”

Share it real good . . .

Terrorism and College Dreams

-Ellen

Terrorism and College Dreams: The Paris attacks continue to haunt.

Click To Tweet

You can follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Check out our books, “I Just Want to Be Alone” and “You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.”

Share it real good . . .

Statement of Faith

12 Replies

Statement of Faith--How a mother's faith can continue to guide even after she is gone. Spring is here at last with its bright skies and inspiration. |Grief and Healing| Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

My youngest daughter is going through Confirmation class, although class feels like an inadequate term for it. As Presbyterians, during this process spanning several months, young people explore their faith journey and articulate their faith in Christ through study, service, and reflective time.

This weekend was her overnight retreat and my task was to write a love letter expressing my adoration and appreciation for her, my hopes and dreams for her future, and what my faith has meant to me. This alone is enough to make any mother of a 14-year-old girl sink more than a little bit into snuffly nostalgia.

I had that and more. I felt like a bandage was being ripped off– millimeter by excruciatingly slow millimeter—painfully exposing to the air my grief over my mother’s death. Two years ago, my oldest daughter was confirmed and it was the last time my mother spent the weekend at my house to celebrate yet another milestone. She never missed one. Preparing for my mother’s visits was an integral part of every holiday and celebration—something I have missed with every fiber of my heart. I keep her purse on the bench by the back door where she would always leave it because I cannot bear to do anything else with it.

It took me three days to get far enough past the tears to compose the letter, but I did, and I, in turn, brought my daughter to tears . . . and annoyance. I knew they read the letters in private at the retreat and I knew it would pull at her heartstrings, so I wanted to temper that. In an attempt to make her laugh I filled her letter with confetti. However, she opened it in the sanctuary and my shining star had to spend a good chunk of her time scraping up pesky, tiny stars from under the pews. Laughter or annoyance—whatever—I took her through a gamut of emotions and she felt my presence through her tears.

And I gave her a good story because “thanks a lot for the glitter bomb,” were her first words when I saw her. Her next words were to remind me that she needed to find a Bible verse to center her Statement of Faith around.

I immediately turned to my mother’s Bible because she was a verse highlighting maestro. As I opened the zippered cover, an index card fluttered to the floor. On it was the date June 29, 2013 and this verse: “Christ gives me the strength to face anything,” (Philippians 4:13).

June 29, 2013 was the date she was killed in the car accident.

My entire week crashed down on me and I headed out the door to take a walk. My feet led me to a familiar four-mile country road circuit, the first mile of which I allowed myself an ugly, wailing weep like I had not allowed myself in almost a year.

But after a mile, I was done. I had sobbed my way through those four miles, and more, many times immediately after my mom’s death, but one mile was enough this time. I don’t think the hole in my heart is any shallower, but I am able to bounce up from the bottom of it faster.

Those tears worked to clear a space for appreciation. For one, I have not had a new reason to grieve in the past two years; I have been given room to heal. As this thought entered my head, I was actually able to look around and see the field filled with robins–the first I had seen of the season–the ground barely clear from the recent spring snowstorm, the swan song of a brutal winter.

And I was able to appreciate that even though it has been almost two years since I have felt my mom’s arms around me, I could still feel her touch. Her love and faith were still powerful enough to reach and soothe two generations of the people she loved the most. What greater example of a Statement of Faith could my daughter or I ask for?

–Ellen

Inspiration: How a mother’s faith can continue to guide even after she is gone.

Click To Tweet

You can follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Check out our books, “I Just Want to Be Alone” and “You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.”

Have every post delivered to your inbox! You can opt out at any time, but you won’t want to.

Share it real good . . .

Pain is a Hot Potato

Click the podcast below to hear our conversation!

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | RSS

Share it real good . . .

Postcards from the Edge: Books About Grief and Loss and Hope

2 Replies

Grief takes you places. These can be dark, hard, lonely places where a tsunami of emotions threatens to pull you under. When you are moving through that forbidding space, you may be looking for anything that can bring a little light into the dark corners. We like what T. H. White’s Merlyn says in The Once and Future King:

“The best thing for being sad is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder in your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewer of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then—to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it.”

We would only add to that: read a book. In particular, read these books. Whether your heart is broken or just bruised, these beautiful writers are exactly what you are looking for when you are grieving or loving someone who has experienced loss. These books about grief and loss are so much more than just a record of what was lost. Each of these books in their own way not only remembers lovingly the person who is gone but the journey the writers took after the losing.

These are postcards from the edge. Whether you need to take them on your own journey or send them to someone who is traveling this road, they are worthy of the trip.

Books about Grief and Loss and Hope---Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms

Truth & Beauty: A Friendship by Ann Patchett

With so few books dedicated to the experience of grief, there are even fewer that examine that place of grief that opens up after the loss of a friend. This one stands out not just for its beautiful writing, but for its brutal honesty in the face of such a loss. Patchett documents her long, loyal, and tender friendship with fellow writer Lucy Greeley, but also the painful wreckage left behind in the wake of Lucy’s death from a heroin overdose. While Patchett’s book is a wonderful piece about female friendships and their power and place in our lives, it is also forever a snapshot of a friend reeling from a profound loss. Patchett’s twin gifts for beautiful narrative and candor make this not just a fascinating read but a comforting one.

About Alice by Calvin Trillin

We should all be loved so well. Calvin Trillin adored his wife and this book is a lovely tribute to the woman he lost. In the midst of the story of his long, happy marriage to an exceptional woman, Trillin reveals the deep chasms in his life once she is no longer in it. Fortunately for us, there is light in the shadows. Loss of his beloved is painful, but Trillin’s story shines with the light of a love that has survived the ultimate separation. Beautiful writing and a great subject make this book a must read.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

Didion’s memoir of the year following the loss of her husband is quite a trip even if it goes to a place we never really wanted to go. Alternately funny, desperate, wise, and endearing, Didion braves the landscape of grief with raw honesty. Despite the terrible story she is forced to tell, Didion never succumbs to her subject. Her writing captures grief’s new terrain—the exhilarating, nauseating roller coaster of it—with an unflinching eye. She casts aside all attempts to make her travel through this dark space easier. Grief is hard and we do no favors to minimize the challenges on the path. Didion won’t let platitudes or any other attempts to minimize her pain dissuade her from the hard work of grieving. This is an eyes-wide-open view of death from the perspective of a loved one left behind.

The Long Goodbye: A Memoir by Meghan O’ Rourke

In the throes of grief, sometimes you just need someone to be there with you. Meghan O’Rourke wants to walk beside you. Deeply intimate and personal, poet Meghan O’ Rourke’s memoir of her mother’s cancer from her diagnosis to her death talks about all the painful emotions associated with losing a mother. So frank and open about what it really feels like, O’ Rourke focuses the full power of her poetic art onto the experience of her loss. The result is a piece of writing that connects the reader to the author in a uniquely powerful way. O’Rourke is a fellow traveler offering a hand along the path. It’s one worth taking.

Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love by Anna Whiston-Donaldson

This is the newest book to the oeuvre of books about grief but it is certain to become one of the most treasured. In the same vein as the authors we mentioned above, Donaldson does not flinch, fold, or fail in the face of tragedy and loss. Instead, she reacts with grace, humor, and beautiful writing.

We do not necessarily want to follow her on the journey that starts with the loss of her beloved 12 year old son Jack in a flash flood, but we cannot help ourselves. Donaldson beckons us not just to follow her, but to know her, to know Jack, to know them all, as they walk through the valley of death. Within the first few pages of the book, we are traveling with her, feeling her pain, descending a little into that dark, sad place and then emerging again as she relearns how to laugh, love, and feel again. This is a story about moving through grief and you feel that as you read.

Anna’s story is also a story of deep faith in the face of that which rocks one to the very core. Her poignant, painful, and sometimes funny anecdotes don’t just paint a picture of grief but gives it clear edges and hard corners. This new framework that grief imposes leaves her struggling to find in this new dark place the God that has always sustained her. But her straightforward open-hearted approach to this journey helps her see the new big God who is walking beside her in this place. Her frank writing shares Him with us.

Three years after the loss of her son, Anna Whiston-Donaldson has crafted something beautiful out of the crazy, sad space left behind after the loss of her son. “Rare Bird” is exceptional in its power and inimitable in its voice. It is a rare and beautiful find on a dark road.

Here is a quote from the book that we love.

Please take the time to visit a library, fire up your Kindle, or go to Amazon right now and read the full power of her story.

Postcards from the Edge: Books about Grief and Loss and Hope #RareBird

Click To Tweet

You can follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Check out our books, “I Just Want to Be Alone” and “You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.”

Have every post delivered to your inbox! You can opt out at any time, but you won’t want to.

Share it real good . . .

Describing the Tsunami of Anniversary Grief

27 Replies

I read about anniversary grief. I knew what it was. I even heeded the advice to “plan different settings and events.” This was how I muddled through Halloween and Thanksgiving without my mother. I was sure of what to expect because the feelings were described as “hard” and “challenging.” To me that meant the intense sadness and unbridled tears that drove me into the bathroom as others laughed and celebrated during Christmas and Easter. Turns out those holidays were just a grace period, a quiet before the storm. Or maybe I was just numb, exhausted from the shock of my mother’s sudden death that summer, and swept along by the riptide of my busy teens’ schedules.

I was naive.

I should have paid more attention to these words that were slipped in every now and again: aftershock; grief resurgence; unexpected. These words described the tsunami of grief that overtook me on the perfect storm of convergent dates: Mother’s Day, the anniversary of the last time I saw my mother alive, and her birthday.

As my head hit the pillow on Mother’s Day night, thinking I had made it through the day, my belly suddenly clenched and burned in a way I had not felt since I viewed my mother’s body in Shock Trauma. As my stomach forcibly and rigidly collapsed in on itself like crumpled foil, the wail started to build. I had lived through it before, but I was still shocked that a noise so raw could escape from my throat when I was sure there was no air in my lungs. That wail scoffed at my clenched jaw and clamped lips and propelled me outside during the wee hour of the night, just for the hope of catching my breath. The grief was physical and as awful as what I experienced last June. All I could do the next morning was stare at the ceiling for hours as my tears soaked my pillow.

Maybe anniversary grief would better be described as awakening grief: the moment when the numbness wears off and the pain floods in again. I in no way have the hubris to think I’m describing a universal mourning reaction; but as the saying goes, ‘There is nothing new under the sun.” If my words help just one person describe his or her experience better than just saying, “It’s hard,” then I am gratified.

Unlike June, this wasn’t a storm for the ages; it was a passing squall. It came in, hit hard, then dissipated. Grief is not something you complete—there is no finish line and there certainly are no medals. There is only putting one foot in front of the other and living life as joyfully as you can. And there is riding out the storms.

-Ellen

Need words? Describing the tsunami of anniversary #grief.

Click To Tweet

You can follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest.

Check out our books, “I Just Want to Be Alone” and “You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth.”

Share it real good . . .

Grief is an Independent Variable

19 Replies

This was my first year without a birthday cake. My mom wasn’t here to bake it for me and no one else thought to fill the void. My mother was killed in a car accident this past June. She was the passenger in a car where the driver made a fatal mistake that touched four lives, but only took hers.

And the birthday cake is only the latest in a long line of “firsts” that continues to deepen and widen the void in my life.

There were no “Happy First Day of School” cards for my children. She commemorated everything with a note or a call to let us know we were always in her heart and on her mind.

There was no one to hand out Halloween candy during our neighborhood festivities. She took great joy in this and celebrated in costume.

There was no sous chef by my side as I prepared Thanksgiving dinner. She would have known how to get the potatoes going without blow by blow instructions.

There was no one in the rocking chair watching my children open their gifts on Christmas morning. She was joy personified during this holiest of seasons.

There was no one here to enjoy December 26^th with us, one of my most favorite days of the year because I can finally slow down to smell the proverbial roses. She always liked to stay in her pajamas with us as we sat back to enjoy all of the blessings at hand.

And there was no cake.

My mom was eighty. She was spry and active. She was a guiding light in so many people’s lives. I know because the friends and family who streamed through non-stop for two hours during her viewing told me so. And I know because she was a beacon in my life.

It’s true; we had started to make plans for elder care. There were decisions to be made; health could fail at any time. But in one swift motion, I was no longer among the ranks of women sandwiched between caring for their aging parents and their children. Now I was, am, an open-faced sandwich – exposed, unprotected, unshielded, but also freed from the toil of caring for a loved one.

But it is hard to find comfort in that.

People frequently commented and still do:

“You’re lucky you’ll never have to watch your mother’s health fail or her mind go.”

“She’s lucky it was quick and she never had to lose her independence.”

“You’re lucky you had her for that long.”

“She’s lucky she was really living until the very end.”

I must admit, “lucky” does not describe how I feel as I suffer this season of “firsts” without my mother.

I know people mean well, but it would be so much easier on my heart if they “did” well. A simple, “I’ve been thinking about you and your mother, how are you doing?” would suffice.

See, grief is an independent variable. My grief is not lessened or heightened by a list highlighting all of the horrendous things I have avoided. Not suffering other tragedies and heartaches does not lessen this one. Unfortunately, there is enough room in this big, wide world for all grief to exist simultaneously, side by side.

What I can feel is blessed.

When I woke up trembling from the horror of what must have been my mother’s final moments, I remembered the book on my shelf, “To Heaven and Back,” lent to me months before by a good friend. In this book, the author recounted how she was lifted away and spared the pain of her accident and I felt soothed.

When my cousins and aunts stepped in immediately to help with my mother’s services, I did not feel the sting of being an only child so acutely. My family and friends continue to hold me close and lift me up.

When two separate people recounted to me they had seen her the day before she died and she had told them, “If the Lord calls me home tomorrow, I’m ready;” I knew my mother was with our Savior.

Maybe I am lucky in a sense; lucky that so much love and faith can nestle in the void with my grief.

-Ellen

Share it real good . . .

We Remember

8 Replies

Erin: Last week, we gathered at a river.

It was just as poetic and lovely in real life as it sounds. Family traveled from our far corners—Pittsburgh and Florida and California, my dear Frederick, and good ole’ Baltimore—and we gathered by that beautiful river and we remembered my sweet, funny, smart, and lovely grandmother Charlotte who died a year ago.

One of the benefits of a life well-lived and well-loved is that people will miss you when you are gone and want to remember you. And we really did. There were tears, of course, but also funny stories and lots of she-would-have-loved-thises and I-can’t-believe-she-is-gones. We also wanted to do something. Remembering is active after all.

So my aunt Holly brought a lantern (completely biodegradable in case you were worried) from one of her science units, we ignited the flame . . .

. . . and we launched that purple lantern into the darkening sky.

We watched in silence as the purple lantern faded from sight, each of us sharing one heart in that moment, remembering together.

Today, there are people gathering at other waters to remember another lost loved one. Our friend Courtney from Our Small Moments is saying goodbye to her way too young husband Scott. Her two small children and all the friends and family who loved him over the course of his too short life will honor his memory with a celebration. There will be funny stories and tears and he-was-too-damn-youngs and cancer-can-suck-its. There will be that visceral need to just remember him.

Our blogging friends have all been sucker-punched by the sad story of Scott’s diagnosis of angiosarcoma of the pleura in December to his death this week even while we have been astounded by our friend Courtney’s limitless supply of love, honesty, faith in God, and hope through his illness. We want to remember Scott and help our friend. We want to remember the family that they were by helping the family they are now. We want to remember together.

In that vein, we have joined forces to create a Give Forward campaign that will help Courtney with all of the medical bills they have accrued over the year. Consider giving with us in remembrance of someone you love. Remembering is an act, after all.