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The things I plan on posting here will be things of interest to me & maybe you too!
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September 30, 2011

AND GOD SAID

I said,
"God, I hurt."
And God said,
"I know."

I said,
"God, I cry a lot."
And God said,
"That is why I gave you tears."

I said
"God, I am so depressed."
And God said,
"That is why I gave you Sunshine."

I said,
"God, life is so hard."
And God said,
"That is why I gave you loved ones."

I said,
"God, my loved one died."
And God said,
"So did mine."

I said,
"God, it is such a loss."
And God said,
"I saw mine nailed to a cross."

I said,
"God, but your loved one lives."
And God said,
"So does yours."

I said,
"God, where are they now?"
And God said,
"Mine is on My right and yours will be in the Light."

I said,
"God, it hurts."
And God said,
"I know."

September 29, 2011

Don't Tell Me...

Don't tell me you understand
Don’t tell me that you know.
Don’t tell me that I will survive.
How I will surely grow.
Don’t tell me this is just a test.
That I am truly blessed,
That I am chosen for this task,
Apart from all the rest.
Don’t come at me with answers
That can only come from me,
Don’t tell me how my grief will pass,
That I will soon be free.
Don’t stand in pious judgment
Of the bonds I must untie,
Don’t tell me how to suffer,
And don’t tell me how to cry.
My life is filled with selfishness,
My pain is all I see,
But I need you. I need your love,
Unconditionally.
Accept me in my ups and downs,
I need someone to share,
Just hold my hand and let me cry,
And say, “My friend, I care.”

September 28, 2011

♥ღ♥ GOODNIGHT ANGEL. ♥ღ♥

♥ღ♥
You are my angel in Heaven,
♥ღ♥
Watching over me.
♥ღ♥
You shine a light on my path,
♥ღ♥
So that I can see.
♥ღ♥
You are my angel of happiness
♥ღ♥
That always makes me smile.
♥ღ♥
You are my angel of strength,
♥ღ♥
So that I can walk the miles.
♥ღ♥
You are my angel of hope
♥ღ♥
When things are going bad.
♥ღ♥
You are my angel of comfort
♥ღ♥
When my heart is feeling sad.
♥ღ♥
You are my angel in Heaven
♥ღ♥
Who someday I will see.
♥ღ♥
You are my angel in heaven.
♥ღ♥
Keep watching over me.
♥ღ♥
♥ღ♥~Unknown~♥ღ♥

September 27, 2011

In BREAD Dog

There used to be a photo of a
puppy in a hotdog roll here...
Someone complained that it was offensive,
So it's been removed...
O-M-G!!!
I Posted this photo on my FaceBook Page
on 9-23-2011 @ 4:06 PM
& O-M-G!
Exactly 4 Days into being posted!!!
To the Second...

10, 092 = Likes
8,913 = Shares
4,751 = Comments!

Was told this post infringed
on someone's copyright...
So it was removed...
I'd like to see them,
Remove all the photos,
from the Internet!

Listen with compassion

Almost everyone worries about what to say to people who are grieving. But knowing how to listen is much more important. Oftentimes, well-meaning people avoid talking about the death or mentioning the deceased person. However, the bereaved need to feel that their loss is acknowledged, it’s not too terrible to talk about, and their loved one won’t be forgotten.
While you should never try to force someone to open up, it’s important to let the bereaved know they have permission to talk about the loss. Talk candidly about the person who died and don’t steer away from the subject if the deceased’s name comes up. When it seems appropriate, ask sensitive questions – without being nosy – that invite the grieving person to openly express his or her feelings. Try simply asking, “Do you feel like talking?”
Accept and acknowledge all feelings. Let the grieving person know that it’s okay to cry in front of you, to get angry, or to break down. Don’t try to reason with them over how they should or shouldn’t feel. The bereaved should feel free to express their feelings, without fear of judgment, argument, or criticism.
Be willing to sit in silence. Don’t press if the grieving person doesn’t feel like talking. You can offer comfort and support with your silent presence. If you can’t think of something to say, just offer eye contact, a squeeze of the hand, or a reassuring hug.
Let the bereaved talk about how their loved one died. People who are grieving may need to tell the story over and over again, sometimes in minute detail. Be patient. Repeating the story is a way of processing and accepting the death. With each retelling, the pain lessens.
Offer comfort and reassurance without minimizing the loss. Tell the bereaved that what they’re feeling is okay. If you’ve gone through a similar loss, share your own experience if you think it would help. However, don’t give unsolicited advice, claim to “know” what the person is feeling, or compare your grief to theirs.

September 26, 2011

A Touching Story...

A nurse took a tired, anxious serviceman to the bedside.
“Your son is here,” she said to the old man. She had to repeat the words several times before the patient’s eyes opened.
Heavily sedated because of the pain of his heart attack, he dimly saw the young uniformed Marine standing outside the oxygen tent. He reached out his hand. The Marine wrapped his toughened fingers around the old man’s limp ones, squeezing a message of love and encouragement.
The nurse brought a chair so that the Marine could sit beside the bed. All through the night the young Marine sat there in the poorly lighted ward, holding the old man’s hand and offering him words of love and strength. Occasionally, the nurse suggested that the Marine move away and rest awhile.
He refused. Whenever the nurse came into the ward, the Marine was oblivious of her and of the night noises of the hospital – the clanking of the oxygen tank, the laughter of the night staff members exchanging greetings, the cries and moans of the other patients.
Now and then she heard him say a few gentle words. The dying man said nothing, only held tightly to his son all through the night.
Along towards dawn, the old man died. The Marine released the now lifeless hand he had been holding and went to tell the nurse. While she did what she had to do, he waited.
Finally, she returned. She started to offer words of sympathy, but the Marine interrupted her.
“Who was that man?” he asked.
The nurse was startled, “He was your father,” she answered.
“No, he wasn’t,” the Marine replied. “I never saw him before in my life.”
“Then why didn’t you say something when I took you to him?”
“I knew right away there had been a mistake, but I also knew he needed his son, and his son just wasn’t here. When I realized that he was too sick to tell whether or not I was his son, knowing how much he needed me, I stayed.”

September 25, 2011

After a child dies...

When my wife and I see news reports about the deaths of young people, as we did after the grisly slaughter at Virginia Tech last April, we inevitably think back to June 1999, when we lost our son, Daniel. He was a healthy, jovial and playful boy, and his sudden, unexpected death was devastating. Because of our own bereavement, our reactions to the deaths of children inevitably include a deep sympathy for the surviving parents.
We think about the horror that the parents will be facing in the weeks, months and years to come. It is possible to look at the parents who agree to be interviewed and to detect the numbness that accompanies survivors in the days after such a tragedy. We think to ourselves: "Those poor parents. They have no idea how hellish their lives are probably going to become in the next few years."
I suppose this sounds pretty dark. But having lived through the trauma, I can testify that I had no wisp of a clue what the subsequent years would feel like. Parental grief is grueling and can lead to all sorts of mental hell.
One has to work through multiple myths about this ordeal. People will say, for instance, that time heals all wounds. But about two years after Daniel’s death I was feeling not better but markedly worse. I was so discouraged and often so physically and emotionally anesthetized that I began to do research on the clinical findings about parental grief. I undertook this research mostly as an attempt to figure out if I was losing my mind and if I would ever start feeling better about life.
The findings of clinical psychologists helped me to understand several things. First, my reactions were normal and predictable. I was not losing my mind, but experiencing what the vast majority of bereaved parents experience. Feeling numb and short of breath, thinking incoherent thoughts--this is common. Looking around and expecting Daniel to run in at any moment is not a sign of mental illness. Seriously questioning the nature of God is not unusual for people of faith. My emotional and physiological responses were quite predictable.
Another piece of bad advice I heard was to "let go of the dead child and go on with your own life." This sort of advice has its roots in the modern theories of grief that considered extended and grueling patterns of grief to be pathological. In Mourning and Melancholia (1917), Sigmund Freud makes a famous distinction between mourning, which is the normal reaction to the loss of a loved one, and melancholia, which is a form of mental illness. According to Freud, grieving people need to break free from the deceased, let go of the past and reassert their individualism by charting a new course for life. A healthy grief experience, according to Freud, is one in which the deaths of loved ones will not leave "traces of any gross change" in the bereaved.
But Daniel’s death left very intense and never-ending changes in my wife and me. More than eight years later we still think about Daniel every day, miss him a lot and refuse to let go of him. Clinical workers are now discovering that this is not only predictable but probably much healthier for the bereaved. For decades, counselors for the bereaved urged them to let go of the dead and get on with their lives, an approach that has been called the "breaking bonds" method. Oddly, this approach is still common, in spite of an abundance of clinical evidence showing it to be misguided. In reality, research has consistently shown that lifelong grief is normal in cases of the loss of close family members, especially children.
Psychologists are recognizing the importance of maintaining bonds with the dead. In my own case, I still feel a deep connection with my son, and I have no intention of ever trying to break that bond.
Parental bereavement brings about a crisis of meaning. Losing a child challenges one’s view of the world, leading frequently into a kind of despair and hopelessness. A child evokes a connection with the past, an investment in the future and an extension of self. To say it another way, a child is a concrete expression of hope in the future, and when a child dies, much of a person’s hope dies as well. In my case, I wandered around in a sort of hopeless trance for at least a couple of years, if not more. I did my duties, taught classes and graded papers, even went to church, but somehow I felt as if none of it really mattered very much. Days and weeks went around and around.
And since Daniel was our only child, Hiroko and I felt forlorn in not having a legacy for the future--and still do, in many respects. Our loss challenged our previous assumptions about the purpose and meaning of life. Since Daniel was such an important part of the meaning of our lives, what was left for the future?
One of the most disturbing clinical studies I came upon showed that this psychological state of "overwhelming life meaninglessness" does not necessarily change with time. In other words, there is clinical evidence that the adage "Time heals all wounds" really does not fit parental bereavement. (I was also beginning to realize that healing itself is a Freudian metaphor based on the mistaken idea of grief as illness.) Actually, the opposite might be more accurate: there may be an intensification of pain, especially in the third and fourth years after the loss.
To put it in even grimmer terms: studies show that parental grief actually gets worse with time. I recall discovering that stunner in about the second year after Daniel’s death, and it was pretty depressing to realize that I might not have bottomed out yet. My wife had, however. She suffered a nearly complete meltdown approximately18 months after Daniel died. At first, Hiroko had seemed particularly numbed, and I wondered why she was so unemotional about our loss. Meanwhile, I was hyperventilating, having trouble sleeping, and frankly asking God why he hadn’t just taken me instead. I was also feeling tremendous guilt, though it was nowhere near the sheer horror yet to come.
One of the oddities of the research on parents who lose children is the differences in spiritual reaction that survivors can experience. Some parents turn completely and permanently away from church, God and belief of any sort. Others turn even more toward God and find their religious faith rejuvenated and strengthened. And then there are some who experience a little bit of both responses--they seemingly deal with both increasing doubts about God and increasing faith, however strange that might sound.
One of the greatest consolations in my own experience has been the realization that I actually do believe in God. I have been reminded over and over of the powerful ending to the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 7, where Jesus describes a storm hitting two different kinds of houses, one built on sand, the other on solid rock. Over these eight years, I have been thankful so many times to realize that there was a little bit of rock underneath my life.
At times I have even wondered why Hiroko and I have continued to believe. My short answer is in two parts: you cannot deny what you know to be true, and ultimately it is God who is in control. And the amazing reality is that, for whatever reasons, we did evidently know something, and we do still believe in the reality of God and his kingdom.
It is very hard to say all that without sounding arrogant, but there it is. I often ask why were we fortunate enough to have something real underneath our feet, while so many others discover, when challenged by similar disasters, that their beliefs were no more real to them than fairy tales. Here the arrogance dies away, because I really do not have the slightest clue. Nevertheless, I am thankful that something real remains for us. As with our view of gravity and similar phenomena, denial has simply not been an option for us.
A great deal of research indicates that both parents sustain powerful bonds with the dead child. Ironically, Freud was never able to get beyond the loss of his 27-year-old daughter Sophie, and later, of Sophie’s four-year-old son. Freud’s personal experiences with profound grief indicate the dilemmas created by his own theory. Though his ideas suggested that one must cut ties with the dead, he was unable to do so. Freud’s actual response trumped his own theory.
The Freudian fixation on cutting ties with the dead is rooted in an obsessive atheism that demands that one reject the possibility of reunion and realize that the loved one is no more. Much clinical evidence has rejected a good deal of the Freudian method. Grieving parents have generally tended to reject it in their own reactions, too.
Time after time, surviving parents describe how the dead child will continue to live on in their hearts, and thus act as a motivation for the survivors to give back to society. The focus on a continuing bond with the dead reveals a belief in the possibility of human redemption in the face of tragic circumstances. This redemptive aspect of tragedy is documented repeatedly in the stories that parents tell about the memory of their child. Much evidence, for example, shows how survivors often become more compassionate and merciful after losing a child. Often, memories of the dead have spurred surviving parents on to good works that benefit humankind, all done as a legacy to the lost child. One small example of this is the Daniel Foundation, a charitable trust that we set up in our son’s memory. Among other things, the foundation supports ministries and charities that work with urban at-risk youth. We hope that our bond with our son will live in perpetuity through the Daniel Foundation.
I recall listening to the father of Reema Samaha being interviewed about his beautiful daughter, a bright student at Virginia Tech and a skilled creative dancer. As he spoke, images of Reema dancing on stage were broadcast. Joseph Samaha emphasized how he and his family would keep Reema alive forever in their hearts, and that her life would continue to have meaning. "She did not die in vain," he said. Her life committed to art and beauty would continue to reap redemptive benefits.
In these moving comments, it is clear that parents do recognize that the bonds with the dead child continue even after death. They know that the legacy of their child does not need to dwindle away into oblivion. Though some people might like to dismiss these sorts of sentiments as wishful thinking, melodramatic affectation or worse, they actually emerge from deeply held beliefs about the power of suffering, the motivational memory of the beloved, and ultimately the hope of a potential reunion. "I keep her in my mind," Samaha said. "Her face is in my mental vision. It keeps me going."
Losing Daniel was a thunderclap of a blow. The trauma of parental grief is horrific and long-lasting. Now over eight years later, my wife and I are managing to breathe deeper, and we have managed to continue our journey. But like Joseph Samaha, I sense that the presence of my child is always there to keep me going, as corny as that might sound. I am also comforted that somehow, miraculously, we still remember God, the one who holds all things together by the word of his power (Heb. 1:3). And I am thankful that something real was underneath it all.
Finally, since we are also told in scripture that "the spirit will return to God who gave it" (Eccles. 12:7) and that he will most assuredly "wipe away every tear" (Rev. 21:4), we do hold out hope for a reunion with our son. Soon enough, I suppose, we will know the truth about these matters. Until then, and hopefully for long after, our bond with Daniel will continue.
No one really understands unless you walk in our shoes and my shoes I would not wish on my worse enemy, In memory of my Daughter that I miss so much I dedicate my life to saving others by giving back the foundation in her memory Empowering Women, Saving Lives, Helping Others. Educating about the dangers of carbon monoxide poisoning my daughter died because she sat in a car on March 3, 2005 in a Garage talking and her life was lost along with another young person. She was the passenger living behind her daughter whom whe loved without a mother at the age of 13months old. Yes Accidents happen, but some are preventable. If they only knew, Just two weeks after her 21st Birthday she was gone and our lives were forever changed and so was her daughters.www.cassandradanielledouglas.com read more about her story and how to protect your family.
I will always love my daughter and I shall never forget her, I am a fighter and a winner because as long as I have JESUS as my Strongest Supporter, and GOD as my LEADER I will never be a loser in the battles that I face. I may take a few stumbles along the way but I will always get back up, and those mountains will always be just stumbling blocks trying to block the real vision GOD has set for me but as Long as the HOLY SPIRIT is leading I can see my way through anything.
The Christian Century
www.christiancentury.org

September 24, 2011

MAGNOLIAS


I spent the week before my daughter's June wedding running last-minute trips to the caterer, florist, tuxedo shop, and the church about forty miles away. As happy as I was that Patsy was marrying a good Christian young man, I felt laden with responsibilities as I watched my budget dwindle.

So many details, so many bills, and so little time... My son Jack was away at college, but he said he would be there to walk his younger sister down the aisle, taking the place of his dad who had died a few years before. He teased Patsy, saying he'd wanted to give her away since she was about three years old!

To save money, I gathered blossoms from several friends who had large magnolia trees. Their luscious, creamy-white blooms and slick green leaves would make beautiful arrangements against the rich dark wood inside the church.

After the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, we banked the podium area and choir loft with magnolias. As we left just before midnight, I felt tired but satisfied this would be the best wedding any bride had ever had! The music, the ceremony, the reception - and especially the flowers - would be remembered for years.

The big day arrived - the busiest day of my life - and while her bridesmaids helped Patsy to dress, her fiancé Tim walked with me to the sanctuary to do a final check. When we opened the door and felt a rush of hot air, I almost fainted; and then I saw them - all the beautiful white flowers were black, Funeral Black! An electrical storm during the night had knocked out the air conditioning system, and on that hot summer day, the flowers had wilted and died.

I panicked, knowing I didn't have time to drive back to our hometown, gather more flowers, and return in time for the wedding. Tim turned to me. 'Edna, can you get more flowers? I'll throw away these dead ones and put fresh flowers in these arrangements.' --- I mumbled, 'Sure,' as he be-bopped down the hall to put on his cuff links.

Alone in the large sanctuary, I looked up at the dark wooden beams in the arched ceiling. 'Lord,' I prayed, 'please help me. I don't know anyone in this town. Help me find someone willing to give me flowers - in a hurry!' I scurried out praying for four things: the blessing of white magnolias, courage to find them in an unfamiliar yard, safety from any dog that may bite my leg, and a nice person who would not get out a shotgun when I asked to cut his tree to shreds.

As I left the church, I saw magnolia trees in the distance. I approached a house...No dog in sight... knocked on the door and an older man answered. So far so good. No shotgun. When I stated my plea the man beamed, 'I'd be happy to!'



He climbed a stepladder and cut large boughs and handed them down to me. Minutes later, as I lifted the last armload into my car trunk, I said, 'Sir, you've made the mother of a bride happy today.'

No, Ma'am,' he said. 'You don't understand what's happenin
g here.' 'What?' I asked.
'You see, my wife of sixty-seven years died on Monday. On Tuesday I received friends at the funeral home, and on Wednesday... He paused. I saw tears welling up in his eyes. 'On Wednesday I buried her.' He looked away. 'On Thursday most of my out-of-town relatives went back home, and on Friday - yesterday - my children left.'

I nodded.

'This morning,' he continued, 'I was sitting in my den crying out loud. I miss her so much. For the last sixteen years, as her health got worse, she needed me. But now nobody needs me. This morning I cried, 'Who needs an eighty-six-year-old wore-out man? Nobody!' I began to cry louder. 'Nobody needs me!' About that time, you knocked, and said, 'Sir, I need you.'



I stood with my mouth open.

He asked, 'Are you an angel?

The way the light shone around your head into my dark living room...'

I assured him I was no angel.

He smiled. 'Do you know what I was thinking when I handed you those magnolias?'

'No.'

'I decided I'm needed. My flowers are needed. Why, I might have a flower ministry! I could give them to everyone! Some caskets at the funeral home have no flowers. People need flowers at times like that and I have lots of them. They're all over the backyard! I can give them to hospitals, churches - all sorts of places. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to serve the Lord until the day He calls me home!'

I drove back to the church, filled with wonder. On Patsy's wedding day, if anyone had asked me to encourage someone who was hurting, I would have said, 'Forget it! It's my only daughter's wedding, for goodness' sake! There is no way I can minister to anyone today.'

But God found a way. Through dead flowers. 'Life is not the way it's supposed to be. It's the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference.'


September 23, 2011

A Message to my Sons...


I sat down today and thought about time
Thought about the day I run out of mine
Wondered if I’ve done enough to let you know
How much I love you; Did I help you to grow?
Have I taught you the most that I possibly could?
Did I make life and love something you understood?
Did I cover the bases and reach out for more?
Did I give you the tools for what life has in store?
It took me a while as I sat and pondered
Is there anything else that they might have wondered?
You know that I love you I hope that you do
My life wasn’t blessed until I had you
Do you know the importance of God in your life?
Do you know that with him you’ll handle any strife?
How important it is to continue to learn?
How bridges are useless if you let them burn?
Will you remember the lessons that I’ve tried to teach you?
The moments spent together when I tried to reach you?
I hope that I‘ve taught you all that I can
I know in my heart that you’ll all be good men
You’ll treat people with kindness but not be a fool
I hope someday you’ll finish school
You’ll see that the grass is not always greener
When you find the right woman, you’ll know how to treat her
You’ll stand up when it’s needed, defending your rights
Please be careful to only choose the right fights
Not everything matters as much as it may appear
Sometimes forever is gone the next year
Remember that rage is a destructible emotion
It’ll drown and consume you quicker than any blue ocean
Keep close to each other whatever it may take
Family is important, don’t let that bond break
Try to learn something from every mistake
Old adage or not- Give more than you take
Let your conscience guide you through troubling days
Hearts can confuse you, put you in a haze
If you won’t be able to look in a mirror
Know it’s a situation that you should stay clear
I hope that this helps, that it somehow provides you
With all that you’ll need and on some level guides you
To become the men I know you can be
Respectable, loving, happy and free
My dreams for you, I hope I‘ve shown
The rest you’ll have to learn on your own
I love you my sons, don’t ever forget it
Go live your lives now and never regret it...

September 22, 2011

Living After, As A Parent Who Has Lost A Child

by Penny Stanton Trujillo

My heart goes out to you, you never do get over it. All this stuff you see on television about "finding closure" is nonsense, because there can never be any closure to this nightmare. It's just a trite and rather stupid statement on the part of those witnessing, but not affected by the loss (such as television viewers and commentators) or people who know the survivors and want to say or do something to offer relief but don't know what to do, so they talk about "closure" because that's the only way they can come to terms with such a cataclysmic loss.

The fact is, most people can't stand to see other people experiencing intense, prolonged, wrenching grief. They don't know how to cope with it, and, in fact, they are afraid of it, because if it can happen to you, then it can happen to them. And that's irritating, if not enraging, if you're suffering like this because in the midst of such grief, you soon feel the unspoken pressure to make it comfortable for everyone in your orbit (school, work, friends, etc.), and "get over" your grief (i.e., "find closure.")

I know I've wanted scream, scream, scream over the years to everyone that I have to interact with that due to this shock and unbearable loss, I cannot function like you do -- that I live in a different world that you cannot possibly understand --so that if you want "appropriate laughter" and "appropriate tears" at "appropriate times" -- and if you want someone who always balances her checkbook correctly and makes all her trains on time -- then you've got the wrong girl. Sometimes I have to struggle through every day just to do the routine things, because little things will trigger memories, and elements of rage and regret, and I'm just not tuning in.

Most of the world doesn't understand this, however; and does not tolerate it. It's one of the many scars we survivors have to bear.


September 21, 2011

The Gap

by Michael Crelinsten

The gap between those who have lost children and those who have not is profoundly difficult to bridge. No one whose children are well and intact, can be expected to understand what parents who have lost children have absorbed, what they bear. Our children now come to us through every blade of grass, every crack in the sidewalk, every bowl of breakfast cereal, every kid on a scooter. We seek contact with their atoms-their hairbrushes, toothbrushes, their clothing. We reach out for what was integrally woven into the fabric of our lives, now torn and shredded. A black hole has been blown through our soles and, indeed, it often does not allow the light to escape. It is a difficult place. For us to enter there is to be cut deeply, and torn anew, each time we go there, by the jagged edges of our loss. Yet we return, again and again, for that is where our children now resides. This will be so for years to come and it will change us, profoundly. At some point, in the distant future, the edges of that hole will have tempered and softened but the empty space will remain--a life sentence.

Our friends will change through this. There is no avoiding it. We grieve for our children in part, through talking about them and our feelings for having lost them. Some go there with us, others cannot and, through their denial add a further measure, however unwitting, to an already heavy burden. Assuming that we may be feeling "better" 6 months later is simply "to not get it". The excruciating and isolating reality that bereaved parents feel is hermetically sealed from the nature of any other human experience. Thus it is a trap--those whose compassion and insight we most need are those for whom we abhor the experience that would allow them that sensitivity and capacity. And, yet, somehow, there are those, each in their own fashion, who have found a way to reach us and stay, to our immeasurable comfort. They have understood, again each in their own way, that our children remain our children through our memory of them. Their memory is sustained through speaking about them and our feelings about their death. Deny this and you deny their life. Deny their life and you have no place in ours.

We recognize that we have moved to an emotional place where it is often very difficult to reach us. Our attempts to be normal are painful and the day to day carries a silent, screaming anguish that accompanies us, sometimes from moment to moment. Were we to give it it's own voice we fear we would become truly unreachable and so we remain "strong" for a host of reasons even as the strength saps our energy and drains our will. Were we to act out our true feelings we would be impossible to be with. We resent having to act normal, yet we dare not do otherwise. People who understand this dynamic are our gold standard. Working our way through this over the years will change us as does every experience-- and extreme experience changes one extremely. We know we will have actually managed to survive when, as we have read, it is no longer so painful to be normal. We do not know who we will be at that point nor who will still be with us.

We have read that the gap is so difficult that, often, bereaved parents must attempt to reach out to friends and relatives or risk losing them. This is our attempt. For those, untarnished by such events, who wish to know in some way what they, thankfully, do not know, read this. It may provide a window that is helpful for both sides of the gap.


 

September 20, 2011

I HAVE LEARNED

I’ve learned - that you cannot make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved. The rest is up to them.

I’ve learned - that no matter how much I care, some people just don’t care back.

I’ve learned - that it takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it.

I’ve learned - that no matter how good a friend is, they’re going to hurt you every once in a while and you must forgive them for that.

I’ve learned - that it’s not what you have in your life but who you have in your life that counts.

I’ve learned - that you should never ruin an apology with an excuse.

I’ve learned - that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes. After that, you’d better know something.

I’ve learned - that you shouldn’t compare yourself to the best others can do.

I’ve learned - that you can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.

I’ve learned - that it’s taking me a long time to become the person I want to be.

I’ve learned - that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you see them.

I’ve learned - that you can keep going long after you can’t.

I’ve learned - that we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel.

I’ve learned - that either you control your attitude or it controls you.

I’ve learned - that regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first, the passion fades and there had better be something else to take its place.

I’ve learned - that heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.

I’ve learned - that money is a lousy way of keeping score.

I’ve learned - that my best friend and I can do anything or nothing and have the best time.

I’ve learned - that sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you’re down will be the ones to help you get back up.

I’ve learned - that sometimes when I’m angry I have the right to be angry, but that doesn’t give me the right to be cruel.

I’ve learned - that true friendship continues to grow, even over the longest distance. Same goes for true love.

I’ve learned - that just because someone doesn’t love you the way you want them to doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have.

I’ve learned - that maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you’ve had and what you’ve learned from them and less to do with how many birthdays you’ve celebrated.

I’ve learned - that you should never tell a child their dreams are unlikely or outlandish. Few things are more humiliating, and what a tragedy it would be if they believed it.

I’ve learned - that your family won’t always be there for you. It may seem funny, but people you aren’t related to can take care of you and love you and teach you to trust people again. Families aren’t biological.

I’ve learned - that it isn’t always enough to be forgiven by others. Sometimes you are to learn to forgive yourself.

I’ve learned - that no matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn’t stop for your grief.

I’ve learned - that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.

I’ve learned - that a rich person is not the one who has the most, but is one who needs the least.

I’ve learned - that just because two people argue, it doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. And just because they don’t argue, it doesn’t mean they do.

I’ve learned - that we don’t have to change friends if we understand that friends change.

I’ve learned - that you shouldn’t be so eager to find out a secret. It could change your life forever.

I’ve learned - that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.

I’ve learned - that no matter how you try to protect your children, they will eventually get hurt and you will hurt in the process.

I’ve learned - that even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you, you will find the strength to help.

I’ve learned - that credentials on the wall do not make you a decent human being.

I’ve learned - that the people you care about most in life are taken from you too soon.

I’ve learned - that it’s hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice and not hurting people’s feelings, and standing up for what you believe.

I’ve learned - that people will forget what you said, and people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

~ Unknown Author
(I Had to repost this...)

September 19, 2011

YOUR COMPASSIONATE FRIEND


 I can tell from that look, friend that you need to talk
So come, take my hand and let’s go for a walk.
See, I’m not like the others, I won’t shy away,
Because I want to hear what you’ve got to say.

Your child has died and you need to be heard
But they don’t want to hear a single word.
They tell you your child’s “with God” and “be strong”…
They say all the “right” things that somehow sound wrong.

They’re just hurting for you and trying to say
They’d give anything to help take your pain away,
But they’re struggling with feelings they don’t understand
So forgive them for not offering a helping hand.

I’ll walk in your shoes for more than a mile…
I’ll wait while you cry…and be glad if you smile.
I won’t criticize you or judge you or scorn
I’ll just stay and listen ‘till your night turns to morn.

Yes, the journey is hard and unbearably long
And I know that you think that you’re not quite that strong
So just take my hand, ‘cause I’ve got time to spare…
And I know how it hurts friend… for I have been there.

See, I owe a debt you can help me repay,
For not long ago, I was helped the same way
As I stumbled and fell, thru a world so unreal…
So believe when I say that I know how you feel.

I don’t look for praise or financial gain,
And I’m sure not the kind who gets joy out of pain,
I’m just a strong shoulder who’ll be here till the end
I’ll be your Compassionate Friend

The Compassionate Friends/USA
Written by Steven Channing of TCF Winnipeg

September 17, 2011

Bridal Shower for Desi...

  
Joey & Desi are
getting married
in 36 Days!!!