Grief and grace

Wednesday, June 22

Several years ago a former ace student, Jane Bishop Halteman, responded to a blog. I have no idea what was in the blog — maybe something about grief and loss. Our cordial exchange of e-mails did indeed lead to the topic of grief and loss. At that time I became aware that Jane was serious about dealing with a loss that she had never been given opportunity to fully grieve.

Now I receive from Jane a copy of a speech she delivered in northern Indiana. Because of its insightfulness and thoroughness, I asked Jane’s permission to post it here.  She kindly consented.


The summer I turned 16, Dave, the boy I had fallen in love with 10 months earlier near the start of my sophomore year, lay dead before me in a netted casket shrouding his beautiful, but now lifeless, disfigured face. The trauma sustained in a pig truck accident two states away from our homes in eastern PA ended our high school romance abruptly.

Except for the whirling, obsessive recycling in my mind of the events of our last summer together and the ever-mounting lists of if-onlys and what-ifs, no processing took place, no one offered help, and I churned and yearned on the inside for a way out of the agony. The unimaginable pain, too deep to speak of, stayed inside where it lay dormant for 12 years until my 18-year-old brother died in a single-car crash about a mile from home.

Still numb with the shock of the first loss of a young man dear to me, I survived the second loss by not letting myself get immersed in more pain. I dreamed frequently about the boyfriend…even as I married five years after the accident, finished a college degree in journalism, became a newspaper reporter, had two children, started my own writing/editing/meeting planning business, did marketing for a not-for-profit, became a spiritual director. The dreams continued, but he never knew me in the dreams, never noticed me across the classroom, never bothered to come my way. I was always desperate in my dreams to get his attention, but not once did he glance my direction.

Both of these huge losses had haunted me for years, in unhealthy ways, and became the foundation for layers of new pain every time other griefs came into my life. Church conflicts, the loss of beloved pastors, even close friends moving away…all were added to the refuse heap of untended inner pain.

Though I had been receiving spiritual direction for 15 years, I had never really begun to deal with the pain of grief and loss until the fall of 2009, when a most incredible thing happened. More than 47 years after the first grievous loss, I met my boyfriend’s younger brother when our paths crossed quite miraculously at a high school event honoring both his son and my sister-in-law. I discovered very quickly that he also continued to battle the ghosts of his brother’s death, which took place when he was 10. Over time the two of us began to piece together our individual stories of loss, which created a much more detailed patchwork picture than either of our separate experiences had offered.

Meeting him was like Margaret Silf’s words about spring water in her book Sacred Spaces: “Spring water is given to us gratuitously. It bubbles up from the depths of the earth without our doing and supplies energy and life without our asking. It trickles, uninvited from cracks in the hard rock of our experience. It takes us by surprise, appearing out of nowhere to refresh and encourage us.”

Another favorite spirituality writer of mine, Macrina Wiederkehr, says that “the soul thrives on remembering. Feed it memories and it comes alive.” And so the remembering began as my boyfriend’s younger brother Steve and I carefully navigated our way onto the turf of excavating painful memories from so long ago…though I had no recollection of the visit, I learned from him that I had brought a potted plant to his mother after his brother’s funeral.

Eventually we made a pilgrimage to the gravesite, which I had never visited and it seemed he had rarely visited though he lived quite close to the cemetery. One summer he surprised me with a letter I had written to his brother several weeks before his death. With the help of his son, Steve and I approached our Mennonite high school, which ultimately gave us permission to plan and execute a worship service honoring the 108 alums who died since graduation and particularly the 10 who died while still in school or very soon after, which was the case with both our brothers. As a result of that process, I learned to know friends of my deceased brother and more about him as a teenager whose growing up years took place while I was in college. I have discovered first-hand, in the loss of these two young men, that sometimes the green shoots of redemption take a very long time to show themselves.

One of my college mentors, whose blog I stumbled across close to the time I was ready to get serious about the unearthing process, suggested the creation of some sort of memorial by which to remember when he discovered I was at the front end of excavating these old griefs. “When grief can be channeled to a positive end, then grief becomes a creative, and not a debilitating, thing,” he said from his own personal experience. His gentle urging led to the establishment of the memorial garden at our high school, which we dedicated following the worship service designed to help us grieve our losses. A spot of quiet beauty carved out of a wooded area, the garden was envisioned as a place where folks might remember loved ones while communing with the Divine, a place to observe the process of life, from the greening of the shoot to the dying off of the flower.

I recruited my brother’s best friend, who became an English teacher at our high school, to help with the business of locating parents and siblings of other students who died while they were still in school, in addition to my boyfriend Dave and my brother Greg. Not only did Greg’s best friend collaborate with Steve and me and high school administrators to plan the event, but he generously shared with me things he had saved over the years in connection with Greg’s death: his journal entries surrounding the dark days after learning that Greg had died, notes written for a tribute at Greg’s funeral, recordings of the band in which they had played together.

In the process of managing my own grief over the years, I have learned, as a long-bereaved survivor, that our lives take on new trajectories when pain and heartache intervene. In the words of Ashley Davis Bush, we “are forever changed after a major loss. (We) cannot expect to be the same persons any longer. If people ask when we’ll be our ‘old selves’ again, we need to let them know that a new self is emerging. We may not begin to know, for a very long time, who that new self is, but we will gradually live into the answer. Even as we are changed by loss, we also have been changed by a profound love that lives within us still.”

During the worship service preceding the garden dedication, we placed an empty chair on the platform so that each participant might visualize himself/herself in that seat as the 10-year-old who lost a beloved brother or the 16-year-old who lost a boyfriend or the 50-something parents who said goodbye to their youngest child or the empty-nester who lost a spouse prematurely. Mourners were invited to take a moment of quiet reflection to recall the person they were at the departure of their loved ones.

As I unpacked my own losses, I learned that it is better to grieve with a village than all by one’s self, which is what I had done until that fortuitous meeting became the catalyst for beginning the inner work I had left undone those many years.  With my recollections and Steve’s, we began to search the closets of our collective memories by taking a new look at what was just too painful to examine closely for a very long time. I learned only recently about the wisdom of folks like Elizabeth Lesser who writes about Good Grief in her book Broken Open.

She says: “There is an art to grieving. To grieve well the loss of anyone or anything—a parent, a love, a child, an era, a home, a job, (one’s health)—is a creative act. It takes attention and patience and courage. But many of us do not know how to grieve. We were never taught, and we don’t see examples of full-bodied grieving around us. Our culture favors the fast-food model of mourning—get over it quickly and get back to work; affix the bandage of ‘closure’ and move on.

“Grief is a tonic,” Lesser goes on to say, “a healing elixir, made of tears that lubricate the heart…When a friend or family member dies—or when the world loses one of its beloved citizens—we should not hold back our tears. Our tears, and the calm hands of grief that follow are not signs of some tragic and evil reality…Grief is the proof of our love, a demonstration of how deeply we have allowed another to touch us.

“Grief is often confused with depression or self-pity,” Lesser continues. “While one can certainly go into a woeful tailspin during the grieving process, in the long term, grief is not the same as depression. If we gloss over our grief, we might become depressed. Unfelt feelings and unexpressed grief have a way of dulling life. It is as if with every grief we do not feel, we stuff another handful of our vitality underground, until we are numb or sick or embittered.”

“We know that the power of life is wrapped in small gestures of compassion, and in the gifts that spill from the heart,” a friend said once in his sermon. His thought crystalized a hope for the worship service and memorial garden dedication…that people would find connections to each other via the event and launch new interactions to process difficult life experiences.

I trust the garden will remind people that the Divine loves them and calls them perhaps to a new way of noticing God at work in their lives.  I see creation of the garden as a positive way to share our grief stories and tend to our own grief work, so that we might maintain right relationship with ourselves, with the person we were when our loss took place, and with the person we become in the process of suffering grief and loss.

We offered this prayer at the garden dedication: “As we celebrate the lives of those we have loved and lost in the creation of this garden space, may we offer ourselves anew to worship and serve the one who redeems grief and loss, who brings green shoots of hope into our lives. We seek to remember these loved ones well by sharing their stories and ours, by leaving this garden legacy in their memory, by seeking to live out the inspiration they have been to us. Teach us, as pilgrims on the journey with each other, to find their presence beside us in memory, whether their loss is recent or ancient, we pray.”

On the anniversary of the 50th year since my boyfriend’s death, a friend and I made a pilgrimage to the site of the accident, which I had mis-remembered as having occurred in Bluffton, OH. Soon after moving to South Bend almost five years ago, I discovered that the accident actually took place in Bluffton, IN, just a few hours from our new home. I realized almost immediately that I wanted to see the spot. I did a bit of on-line research and discovered that the local library housed an excellent microfilm center with access to many years of newspapers.

On the way to the library and accident site, we stopped at a nearby labyrinth where I hoped to center myself for what I imagined might be difficult reading at the library. I had a tremendous sense of Dave’s terror and pain on the walk into the center. The intuition of his pain was good preparation for what we discovered in the two newspaper accounts we found on microfilm…he was pinned under the truck for one half hour. I read in amazement the list of injuries and that he had been subjected to a three and one half hour surgery immediately following the accident.  And then I began tapping into his parents’ pain, as the newspaper included mention of their flying (on separate planes at different times) from Pennsylvania to Indiana to be with their son. Neither had flown before, Steve told me.

The first newspaper account described the location of the accident. With that information in hand, my friend and I drove to the site, a country road near a railroad track, cornfields, and a few scattered homes. I had mistakenly believed that Dave’s uncle, who owned the pig truck they were riding in on a delivery from Chicago back to eastern PA, had been at the wheel, but learned that a young man in training was the driver. He fell asleep.

In addition to revealing the name of the driver, the article mentioned investigating police officers, whose names I googled eagerly in the hopes of interviewing them about their memories of the incident. Unfortunately, I found obituaries for both of them. I discovered evidence that the driver still lived in the town, which the old newspapers listed as his home. Steve approached him with a letter of invitation to meet, but we never heard back from him.

A year after the site visit, I decided once again to ritualize remembrance of that dreadful day by walking a labyrinth. Here’s what I wrote about that experience: Today dawned a beautiful one to walk the Saint Mary’s labyrinth remembering Dave 51 years after his death. I have been slow, very slow, to ritualize ways to deal with the pain of this loss, which came into my life so unexpectedly and took up permanent residence. As I learn more about introverts and high-reactive personality types like myself, I am not surprised that losing Dave at a formative time of life has left a forever-mark.

Stepping onto the first circular stone of this seven-circuit labyrinth, I attempt to release all that’s on my mind on the walk toward the center. I’m particularly aware this visit of blemished stones, the long shadows at this early hour in the morning, the cracks and crevices of the smooth rocks between stones, the chaff and debris of approaching fall cluttering this beautiful, quiet space, the grime and dirt left behind by vigorous summer rains.
At the center, I wait to receive…the light is spectacular at this time of day and not yet clearing the trees on the eastern horizon. How can I not be grateful for all the ways the light has been evident even under the darkest of circumstances? I have a wonderful family and caring friends, a congregation which continues to nourish my ever-growing contemplative faith journey, jobs I’ve been fortunate to enjoy, directees I have had the gift of companioning, travels and other experiences I remember fondly.

In spite of all this, much of my adult life, or so it seems, has been wrapped in the shroud of Dave’s death. The long shadows of grief and pain that accompanied his departure from my life leaked 12 years later into a new pain created by brother Greg’s death.
Leaving the center of the labyrinth, then, to walk out the same way I came in brings with it a sense of empowerment, in this case realizations of the many ways the bright light continues to unpack the darkness of despair still lurking under the carpet.

First there was Steve and the joy of coming to know Dave’s younger brother so many years after the fact…the perfect companion to begin the process of unpacking ancient wounds that had hounded both of us for so many years and a Divine gift for which I shall always be grateful!

The ever-growing list of unearthings the light has allowed, by now, is long, but walking out from the center enables me to skim through some of the numerous surprises this journey has brought: finding an amazing spiritual director who gave me courage to carry on and listened to each new chapter of this story with reverent attention, encouragement from the powers that be at our high school to do a memorial event for Dave and Greg and all students who died before or after graduation, the opportunity to hear the stories of some of those students’ families, the engagement of planning and executing a memorial worship service (including the privilege to work with my former pastor John, who became my high school’s chaplain at a most fortuitous time), the delight of singing with former students and alums at the service, lighting candles for those lost to us, the thrill of seeing a memorial garden spring to life, the unlocking of dreams and memories, the discovery of old letters, unearthing newspaper articles which reveal new details, a visit to the accident site, learning how to keep these departed loved ones alive to ourselves and others, prepping a grief retreat for other long bereaved survivors, interacting with a homeless woman about her losses, leading a spiritual directors’ workshop on grief, sharing with you here today on the theme “Restore Our Joy”.

Eighteen months ago, my high school class celebrated 50 years since graduation. I introduced them to the memorial garden, and after sharing its history, spoke openly for the first time of the pain of having lost Dave with no processing by the school or class members. They were generous in their listening and then disclosed their own pain, both related to losing our classmate, as well as in a variety of other difficult circumstances…deaths close to them, deaths too soon, miscarriages and still births they had failed to grieve, loss of eyesight.

Another classmate shared his single memory of Dave’s funeral:  he recalled the congregation singing to the tune Finlandia the song Be Still My Soul.  He said he remembered seeing me through the crowd, noting the terrible anguish evident on my face. He wondered to himself how on earth I would carry on after that and then he heard the words, “Be still my soul, the Lord is on your side” and knew the second phrase was the key to the fact that I would be ok.  And so it was that this classmate offered me a tiny gift-wrapped package that had been stored away on a shelf all these years and pulled out to present to me 52 years later.  Even at that late date, his gift of words offered validation of the pain and sorrow I felt way back then, which, at the time, it seemed to me, no one recognized!

I felt the same balm a few years earlier as I reconnected with a high school classmate who confessed that, though he had not spoken to me about the tragedy all those years ago, he recollected thinking back then: “You were a Tragic Figure.  In another era, you would have worn black, but you soldiered on.”

And along the way there have been so many affirmations, confirmations, signs of renewal and restoration…the blue heron seen in flight near the spot where we dedicated the garden, an out-of-season dragonfly showing up at the garden some time after its dedication, a butterfly spreading its wings for me and lingering on the brick side of our house as I waited for a video of Dave to upload on YouTube, cardinals too numerous too mention circling our yard time and again, feeling a new connection to these young men so many years after their deaths, helping others find their way to keeping memories of their loved ones alive, the fiery memorial stone still awaiting its inscription. And encouraging words in sermons I just happened to hear while in the midst of this still-unfolding story… like the admonition “to fully enter the water of Life—to be in God’s streams of mercy, to be formed and reformed by those streams, to wade in the water.”

And just the other day, there were these words from Kayla McClurg: “To come alongside our loss is to open the gates of the walled city, to leave the familiar and, together with others, walk out into the unknown. It is to resist the temptation to hide out, to protect and defend against further harm. It is not to retell the story in more glorious tones or to deny it entirely. It is to receive whatever is being given, and to give whatever is being received. It is to listen to the echo of the void, the quiet hum of fallow ground becoming hallowed ground. It is to wait and watch for the next and the new…”

I remain vigilant for what will continue to reveal itself. And, yes, if you are curious about whether Dave has come to me in dreams more recently, I can tell you that he has…he has recognized me, we have spoken briefly in those dreams, where he has aged as I have. He and my brother have occasionally shown up together when I needed them, once on a lonely, stressful car ride during which I thought our daughter-in-law was miscarrying. Dave’s mother appeared once during a reiki session, and Dave and Greg came together another time while a friend was doing energy work with me.

Having my 91-year-old mother still beside me to witness the unfolding of this journey has been a joy. It was she who recalled that Dave had a younger brother, Steve, and she who pointed out I might meet him that night our relatives received high school honors back in 2009. I would not have known the family connection. It has been a good thing to begin to remember my brother on his birthday and death day; I was in PA this past May 22, when Greg would have turned 60. I close this story with a photo of my mom and a beautiful white rose commemorating his birthday, the arrival date of her fourth and last child. You see a piece of his high school artwork in the background.


This is Dan again. If you wish to make contact with Jane, give me your contact information and I will forward it to her.  Thanks.

This Sunday

Sunday, June 19, 2016

  • Morning coolness isn’t strong enough to create dew. The temp rises quickly. Will we have a 90 degree day?
  • The word of the day is nonpareil — a person or thing having no equal.
  • I choose the picture of yesterday’s salad bar for Today’s photo in Facebook.
  • The Indy Star comes in a big wrap, but probably 85% of it is ads that go immediately to the recycling bin. The only other-than-news that I “consume” is the Sunday puzzle.
  • Sunday is not a church day for me; however it is a day of rest and renewal both of which occur partially because I help to make them happen, partially in spite of my own planning. Anticipation, however, is a big part of it.
  • I ask a man in Starbucks permission to move to a chair behind him. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. Shortly after I sit down I hear unintelligible words from him, as though he were severely challenged mentally. I had thought he was reading the newspaper. In about ten minutes he leaves the store and only then can I see that he is frightfully drunk, out on the hot sidewalk staggering toward nowhere.
  • A thoughtful letter from a friend is like an intellectual and emotional echo.
  • A call from a daughter awakens me to the date — it’s Father’s Day.
  • And an email from a distant friend today provides this photo, taken I would suppose, in the mid to late 1940s.

Hess, Kolb, Bechtel054.jpg

My mother and father are in the back row on the far left, next to my tall brother Merv. In front of him is Harold (now Hal), five years my junior but nearly as tall as I. My sister Erma, taller than I, is in the very middle of the picture, second row, her face partially hidden. I’m in the second row, far right. I remember that shirt! I wonder whether my mother was, at this time pregnant with my youngest brother Ken. The host family for this occasion were the Bechtolds of Spring City, Pennsylvania.

  • Sunday afternoons and naps go together.
  • Because of the heat I affix a shade cloth over the most recent planting of salad veggies.
  • Mid-afternoon fruit salad: peaches, apples, serviceberries and grapes.
  • The five water barrels freely empty themselves to the garden on this very hot evening.
  • Sparrows are messy eaters when compared with finches. Doves have such a hard time keeping their balance on the feeders. It’s always a treat when a chickadee or woodpecker show up. While watching them I hear an owl just to the north.
  • I think I shall close the day with music — possibly the Kansas City Chorale.



. . ,

The Juniper Spoon

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Friends of mine got married today (Jeanne Smucker and Brad Yoder) with the meal catered by The Juniper Spoon, operated by my daughter Lali. She accepted my request to help with the catering.

My perspective for the day was framed, understandably, by food — its preparation and presentation. I’ll share several photos but know that I arranged none of these spreads.













Thursday, June 16, 2016

I’m sitting on a chair by the lamp in the living room. The only other occupant is Jordan, one of my six grandchildren. He arrived yesterday from a trip with his mother and brother, Adrian, to Norway. In the morning I will take him to the airport.

To write a blog entry about each of my grandchildren would be easy. Adrian is getting ready to go to Costa Rica for six months of volunteer work in turtle nest habitats. Ben is spending the summer with Duke classmates, working in a business incubator with a hot idea. Sam works at a tennis club. Lucy is currently in summer camp at Purdue, studying westward migrations. Annie is in soccer camp.

Jordan will return to his apartment in Salt Lake City and to a full agenda of work. He makes violins, has a long back order for instruments that will keep him more than occupied for 18 months. Take a look at “Jordan Hess Violins” on Facebook.

He says he sleeps from 4 AM until 2 PM, then devotes most of the rest of his time in his workshop, which, incidentally, doubles as his apartment. He is beginning to talk of a cabin in the mountains with an attached workshop, made to order.

One other person works for/with Jorden — one of his former teachers of violin making. Among his clients is Shar, the supplier of stringed instruments and supplies.

An hour ago I asked Jordan what I might listen to on YouTube. “Daniel Hope” he responded. Most impressive is Hope’s tribute to Yehudi Menuhin.

Our evening heads toward bedtime. We get up at 5:30.


Words of hope

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

The following article is reprinted from today’s  Washington Post.

The Dalai Lama: Why I’m hopeful about the world’s future

By The Dalai Lama June 13 at 3:47 PM

The 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, is the spiritual leader of Tibet. Since 1959, he has lived in exile in Dharamsala in northern India.

Almost six decades have passed since I left my homeland, Tibet, and became a refugee. Thanks to the kindness of the government and people of India, we Tibetans found a second home where we could live in dignity and freedom, able to keep our language, culture and Buddhist traditions alive.

My generation has witnessed so much violence — some historians estimate that more than 200 million people were killed in conflicts in the 20th century.

Today, there is no end in sight to the horrific violence in the Middle East, which in the case of Syria has led to the greatest refugee crisis in a generation. Appalling terrorist attacks — as we were sadly reminded this weekend — have created deep-seated fear. While it would be easy to feel a sense of hopelessness and despair, it is all the more necessary in the early years of the 21st century to be realistic and optimistic.

There are many reasons for us to be hopeful. Recognition of universal human rights, including the right to self-determination, has expanded beyond anything imagined a century ago. There is growing international consensus in support of gender equality and respect for women. Particularly among the younger generation, there is a widespread rejection of war as a means of solving problems. Across the world, many are doing valuable work to prevent terrorism, recognizing the depths of misunderstanding and the divisive idea of “us” and “them” that is so dangerous. Significant reductions in the world’s arsenal of nuclear weapons mean that setting a timetable for further reductions and ultimately the elimination of nuclear weapons — a sentiment President Obama recently reiterated in Hiroshima, Japan — no longer seem a mere dream.

The notion of absolute victory for one side and defeat of another is thoroughly outdated; in some situations, following conflict, suffering arises from a state that cannot be described as either war or peace. Violence inevitably incurs further violence. Indeed, history has shown that nonviolent resistance ushers in more durable and peaceful democracies and is more successful in removing authoritarian regimes than violent struggle.

It is not enough simply to pray. There are solutions to many of the problems we face; new mechanisms for dialogue need to be created, along with systems of education to inculcate moral values. These must be grounded in the perspective that we all belong to one human family and that together we can take action to address global challenges.

It is encouraging that we have seen many ordinary people across the world displaying great compassion toward the plight of refugees, from those who have rescued them from the sea, to those who have taken them in and provided friendship and support. As a refugee myself, I feel a strong empathy for their situation, and when we see their anguish, we should do all we can to help them. I can also understand the fears of people in host countries, who may feel overwhelmed. The combination of circumstances draws attention to the vital importance of collective action toward restoring genuine peace to the lands these refugees are fleeing.

Tibetan refugees have firsthand experience of living through such circumstances and, although we have not yet been able to return to our homeland, we are grateful for the humanitarian support we have received through the decades from friends, including the people of the United States.

A further source of hope is the genuine cooperation among the world’s nations toward a common goal evident in the Paris accord on climate change. When global warming threatens the health of this planet that is our only home, it is only by considering the larger global interest that local and national interests will be met.

I have a personal connection to this issue because Tibet is the world’s highest plateau and is an epicenter of global climate change, warming nearly three times as fast as the rest of the world. It is the largest repository of water outside the two poles and the source of the Earth’s most extensive river system, critical to the world’s 10 most densely populated nations.

To find solutions to the environmental crisis and violent conflicts that confront us in the 21st century, we need to seek new answers. Even though I am a Buddhist monk, I believe that these solutions lie beyond religion in the promotion of a concept I call secular ethics. This is an approach to educating ourselves based on scientific findings, common experience and common sense — a more universal approach to the promotion of our shared human values.

Over more than three decades, my discussions with scientists, educators and social workers from across the globe have revealed common concerns. As a result, we have developed a system that incorporates an education of the heart, but one that is based on study of the workings of the mind and emotions through scholarship and scientific research rather than religious practice. Since we need moral principles — compassion, respect for others, kindness, taking responsibility — in every field of human activity, we are working to help schools and colleges create opportunities for young people to develop greater self-awareness, to learn how to manage destructive emotions and cultivate social skills. Such training is being incorporated into the curriculum of many schools in North America and Europe — I am involved with work at Emory University on a new curriculum on secular ethics that is being introduced in several schools in India and the United States.

It is our collective responsibility to ensure that the 21st century does not repeat the pain and bloodshed of the past. Because human nature is basically compassionate, I believe it is possible that decades from now we will see an era of peace — but we must work together as global citizens of a shared planet.

Orlando: after thoughts

Monday, June 13, 2016

  • On this anniversary of the death of my beloved sister Erma and of the death of her daughter Valerie, my heart goes out to those who lost sisters and nieces, brothers and lovers in Orlando.
  • Fifty years ago our nation (and the Soviet Union) defined military power in terms of large-scale armaments. That mentality endured for decades … into the Iraq War. Somewhere along the line insurgents, largely members of nations lacking in hydrogen bombs, air fighters and sea-going military materiel, came to recognize that small-scale warfare — explosives, fire, public executions — caught the big-armament strategists off guard. To this day, it is possible for a lone gunman to kill 50 and injure 53 others in a nightclub. Military bombers nor the National Guard nor the local police force stopped him.
  • We already see that a governmental response to small-scale insurgency will lead to a loss of citizens’ privacy. The size of that loss will surely grow.
  • The wide-spread anger and anguish over the American gun culture continues, as of this date, to be readily overwhelmed by a deeper cultural conviction that citizens have a right to carry guns. Guns are as American as Chevies and apple pie.
  • ISIS has scared the Western world out of its wits. The result: a paralysis in knowing how to relate to ISIS.
  • I return to the first item. Today, at this very moment, thousands of people are heartbroken by the Orlando gunfire. They have lost their nearest and dearest. Their tears can not be wiped away.

Grief and grace

Sunday, June 12

As I grieve the motives for and the results of the shooting in Orlando, I turn again for grace.

Grace is …
the blanket that catches our fall.
balm for the festering wound.
a cooling breeze upon urgent ire.
a caress when love seems far away.
an honest word amid euphemisms.
a lifter at the other end of a burden.
tears that share our sorrow.
a gentle rain upon an arid spirit.
a song in the key of yes.
the arrow that indicates which path to take.
an angel attendant at death.
a promise, a surprise, a hope.