Our son, Ron, died on December 25, 2015, Christmas morning. Tuesday, December 26, 2017, was Day 1 of Year 3. That Christmas Eve and Christmas morning of 2015 run through my mind like an old newsreel. I am at once remembering everything I did, every conversation I had that Christmas Eve, while simultaneously imagining every step Ron was taking in planning to end his life. I contrast my Christmas Eve joy to his Christmas Eve sorrow, my Christmas morning happiness to his Christmas morning resignation of his fate and ultimately his death.
When your child dies, they take an almost unnatural place in the heart and the psyche of the parents. Perhaps the shock and pain of a sudden, tragic death exacerbates the intensity of the sorrow, which may seem to border on obsession at times. What is the way forward? Is true healing even possible? We love our other children and grandchildren very dearly. We love the place they hold in our lives. But the one whose death was so sudden and crushing has, at once, opened a hole in our hearts and our lives while, at the same time, taking up more spiritual, emotional and psychic space than the others.
As to our other children and grandchildren, not one day goes by that we don’t talk about them, laugh about them, wonder or worry about them. While they make us laugh, confuse or baffle us, their lives are their own and we are happy to bless them in that. We treasure each one and we are grateful for any real conversation with them, especially in those precious times when they open their hearts and their lives to us.
Our child who left us, however, has in some ways become a mystery to us. The one we thought we knew best, we knew least when it mattered the most. The one who lived with awareness of our day-to-day life, loved us deeply, the one so often at our side, the one we thought would accompany us on our journey to the end of our lives, is the one who left us behind, confused and grieving.
My grief therapist asked what I hope to be the outcome of my therapy. I told her that I hope to carry my grief a bit more lightly on my heart. Even as I said that, I was not sure exactly what I meant. Will healing mean that tears will no longer spring to my eyes at the small cruelties that people so carelessly inflict on one another? There are so many cruelties, large and small, I never really observed until I lost Ron.
My grief has made me far more vulnerable than I ever expected or wanted to be. At the same time, I don’t think I want to return to being less vulnerable. I have a deepened awareness now of the pain inside others that I never had before and feel empathy for people others hate and think are monsters. Such vulnerability sometimes makes me dizzy.
On Christmas morning this year, Tom and I, along with Ron’s brother, Joe and our priest friend, Tim, provided a joyous celebration for people who suffer from traumatic brain injury. We arrived there at exactly 9:30 AM. In my Ron timeline, that was the moment I believe he crossed into his next life. In that very moment I was being greeted with welcoming hugs and the brightest smiles imaginable. There was no time for me to run my newsreel of the events of two years ago. During the service we told our little congregation that Joe’s brother, Ron, died two years ago this very morning. With these folks, their emotional and psychological makeup only allows for love and empathy and they overflow with both. In return, that is what they call forth from us. Their generous outpouring of love deeply touched our hearts on Christmas morning of 2017 and Jesus was born among us, right in that otherwise institutional setting.
My niece, Shannon, wrote in a Christmas card that Ron is even closer to us in these days because he knows we need him the most. How deeply profound and comforting I found that. As we shared our Christmas morning service with our sweet friends, telling the story of the shepherds and the angels, singing the Glorias and weeping during Silent Night, Ron stood there in our midst in some way we cannot possibly understand. But he was there with us.
The prayer that is in my heart and on my lips every day since Ron left is this: “God, help me. I am brokenhearted. I don’t know how to do this.” In the days before Christmas, my sister, Patricia, who knows me inside and out, posted this for my benefit: Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world. All things break and all things can be mended. Not with time, as they say, but with intention. So go, love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally. The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you. L.R. Knost, Author:
When I say, “I don’t know how to do this” I suppose the answer is that there is no way to do this but to do it – step by step, day by day, never denying my grief or the pain of others but, with love and intention, finding some way to transform it. Then, with God’s grace and the love that Ron had for us in this life and has for us now, healing will come when it will and as it will, to us, Ron’s parents for always.
Blessed be.
Grief Warrior 
Marge, you may not feel like you “know how” to do it, but by simply doing it day after day, you are touching so many hearts and extending that healing to everyone around you. Your words feel, to me, like a laying on of hands – as if your experience of healing through grief is infusing me with healing and love. The generous way you share your journey is helping others to grow in sensitivity and awareness. That is truly a blessing to all of us who know you.
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Oh, Loretta, thank you so much. In the fog that is grief I never really know the way forward. Sharing it helps and knowing that such tender people are hearing it and feeling it with me and in your own lives helps me immeasurably.
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Dear Marge, Your sister Patricia’s post resounded in me how your intention to live the grief you feel for Ron so extravagantly inspires me and others to live that light that is in us. And your day to day healing reminds us of how showing our own vulnerability will contribute to healing our broken world. A world we will feel better about leaving to our children and grandchildren. With love and good wishes to you and Tom, Cassie
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Thank you for your close attention to the message I was seeking to convey, Cassie.
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Dearest Marge, Thank you for sharing the hard wrought wisdom and compassion that has been birthed in you because of Ron’s death. You and Tom have had to walk this dark and difficult path to understanding and healing… you are each remarkable for your courage. Thank you for being the light to those of us who have not yet sorted it out for ourselves …
Peace and blessings to both of you for Year 3.
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Thanks so much for your affirmation, Donna.
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Christmas is hard for me. Ron was not only my nephew but my godson which was very special for me. His light shines bright in my heart. 💔
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Thank you, Donna. He loved you dearly.
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Thank you for this, Marge. As I read the prayers you mentioned I told myself to remember to go back someday and read them again. This Christmas I felt could possibly be the last with my mother still with us. I know I can’t second guess what losing her will feel like, whenever that may happen. But your daily prayer, I think, may help someday, as well as the quote from your dear sister Pat. I am so touched that you have placed something of Ron’s in a place where the sunrise will shine on it every day. Only a mother’s love. Your strength is beyond my comprehension.
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Sue, Thank you so much for this thoughtful response. It would bring me deep satisfaction to know that others would find strenth and healing in my words.
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Thank you Marge for sharing your beautiful words and thoughts. It sounds like you’re following Ron’s lead to find a better place.
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Thanks, Ed. while it does not resonate that Ron as “in a better place”, I do appreciate your caring response.
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Marge, I meant to suggest that in some respects you are finding a better place for yourself with your broader view of things and that maybe Ron is helping you get there.
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Hi Ed, I did get your response clarifying what you said and I loved it! I just can’t find it here.
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I just read this today: “Grief hurts. So it is totally counterintuitive to move toward it and into it. But what if we all just fell to our knees in mourning? …What if we laid our grief—about what we’ve already lost and what we will eventually lose—out upon the tabletop of our lives? What if love is any space in which this kind of lament is allowed?” Thank you, dearest Marge, for your transparency always, for doing the impossible with such vulnerability and generosity and allowing us into your inner sanctum of grief…That quote your sister Patricia shared is what you do beautifully, what you’ve always done.
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Oh Naila, thank you. You always seem to get what I am trying to say. I so appreciate it.
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Marge, your beautiful and honest account of your grief journey touches me on such a deep level. Your words, so full of grace and compassion, help to light my way on this unwanted path. Thank you for being a beacon and for loving with such intention.
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Marge, my thoughts continue to be with you. I hope that this year, each year, brings less pain, more peace for you, and your family. Warmest and most sincere wishes, Merle
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Hi Merle, thank you for your tender response. Less pain, more peace. That’s a good mantra! Writing helps to keep me balanced. I find the most comfort in bringing comfort to others. Have a happy and a healthy 2018.
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Marguerite, I am a former student of Mr. Sexton’s from CHS class of 1992. Your husband left enough of an impression on me to last for life — he is a kind, gentle, and loving man and I am thankful for his presence in my life. He was, and is, a role model that I’ve needed.
I can feel your pain and suffering, and I want you both to know that I think about you and have you in my thoughts and prayers in light of this tragedy. What we all want, when things like this happen, are answers, peace, love, and the knowledge of how to make what went wrong , right.
You will see Ron again some day in the hereafter. And you will have the chance to ask him all of your questions. But in this life, I pray for your peace, and I pray for God to make you and Mr. Sexton as whole as one can be after something like this. You are not alone. You have all the love in God’s universe surrounding you, and I am going to make it up there to Philadelphia some day soon to let you know that I am here for you both, too.
Until then, I leave you with one of the Beatitudes that has always meant so much to me:
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.
Lots of Love,
George Crego
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Dear George, I am so deeply moved by your heartfelt response. I love the line “you will have a change to ask him all of your questions”. I know how much Ron loved us and sometimes I can almost hear him saying, “Sorry you’re so roughed up, mom.” (“Roughed up” was one of his phrases for when people were sick or suffering.) To have a child on the other side is to never fear death. I do believe that when I close my eyes that final time, I will open them on the other side and be looking into his. Please do make it up her sometime. We would love to see you. Tom says you are such a fine man. Thank you verymuch.
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This is so comforting to me. After losing my Daughter my heart is shattered. I am trying to travel through this grief. Sharing with others on this journey helps
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Marguerite, I am a former student of Mr. Sexton’s from CHS class of 1992. Your husband left enough of an impression on me to last for life — he is a kind, gentle, and loving man and I am thankful for his presence in my life. He was, and is, a role model that I’ve needed.
I can feel your pain and suffering, and I want you both to know that I think about you and have you in my thoughts and prayers in light of this tragedy. What we all want, when things like this happen, are answers, peace, love, and the knowledge of how to make what went wrong , right.
You will see Ron again some day in the hereafter. And you will have the chance to ask him all of your questions. But in this life, I pray for your peace, and I pray for God to make you and Mr. Sexton as whole as one can be after something like this. You are not alone. You have all the love in God’s universe surrounding you, and I am going to make it up there to Philadelphia some day soon to let you know that I am here for you both, too.
Until then, I leave you with one of the Beatitudes that has always meant so much to me:
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.
Lots of Love,
George Crego
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Oh, Marge, I’m privileged to be on this journey with you. One we never wanted or expected. You teach us all how to move forward with deep sadness and grace. I love you.
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Pat, thank you for this response. I don’t know where I’d be without you, which is no exaggeration at all. You are so dear to me, my beloved sister.
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