The Man Next Door, Part 2

Read Part One Here

Tim looked at me like I was crazy when I carted the box of binders inside. He knew how frustrated I was at my lack of time to write, and he was afraid I'd spend too much time wading through someone else's work to do my own. I also think he worried that I'd be too nice if I didn't like the book, even though George had insisted he wanted me to be straight with him. I was worried about that, too.

Sometimes it was a slog going through the double-spaced pages. This was no short memoir, like I had written. It was an epic novel spanning decades, exploring class, family dynamics, American History, and theology. Some of the chapters plopped me right into the scene, leaving me wondering which thread of the story I was reading about. George told me he sometimes liked to keep his readers guessing, but I didn't want to have to guess. Tenses occasionally shifted, making me lose my place.

But each night, when I turned out my light, I thought about JD, the young boy in the novel. I pictured him growing and maturing among the agricultural fields and streams where my suburban town now stands. I wondered if he'd go off to college. If he'd get the girl. If he'd find faith.

It dawned on me.

JD and the other characters had become real to me. And once again, I was awed by how anyone ever writes fiction. How I could hear JD's voice in my head as clearly as someone I knew in real life. How I could practically smell the reek of liquor as his alcoholic father stumbled in and out of his life. How the funny and poignant anecdotes of the townspeople placed me in a community as believable as the one I live in right now.

In my pre-sleep thoughts, it was as if I were watching a movie.

I was no expert on publishing, and certainly not on fiction, but I knew without a doubt I could tell my 94 year old neighbor that I loved his book and wanted to help.

More to come...

Read Part Three Here

New Year

Hello Bedford Falls! Hello you old Savings and Loan!

Ok, so I haven't been as far afield as George Bailey, but it sure SEEMS like longer than just a week since I've been here with you. During that time Tim and I celebrated our 18th anniversary at a B & B, and I got Margaret to join me in a little furniture painting project, hoping that some cold hard cash (if it sells) will inspire more mother-daughter projects.

I hope your holidays were good, and if they weren't, I hope you are proud of yourself for just making it through. That is no small thing.

Now that we are easing into 2015, I hope to do a little more writing and speaking, and a lot less snacking.

My BIG NEWS for this winter is that my fleece-lined leggings and I will be going on a World Vision trip to Armenia! When I was invited, it only took me about 5 seconds to say YES! I am looking forward to seeing first-hand the work World Vision does to improve children's lives. I also have A LOT of learning to do about Armenia, its history, and its culture. I can't wait to share my experiences with you here.

I thought for starters you might like to read this World Vision blog post about Armenia and our upcoming trip.

P.S. If you are in the Richmond, VA area, I'd love for you to join me at First Presbyterian Church on January 27. Here's the info.

The Dream

The first winter after we lost Jack, my friend Courtney shared a dream with me. If you have read Rare Bird or followed this blog for a while, you remember how she and other friends experienced signs, visions, and dreams regarding Jack during those first few months. I was no longer surprised, so I just took it in.

I was disappointed that this dream didn't have to do with Jack, but with me.


In it, Courtney saw me walking beside a creek. Not THE creek in the woods behind our neighbors' house, but a different one, on a bright day. I had bare feet and I walked in about an inch of water that saturated the grass beside the creek. Then, I lay down face-first in the grass, getting wet all over. People walking with me tried to tell me to get up, saying that I didn't need to get myself wet, telling me I might become muddy. But I stayed on the ground, wet but not muddy, and continued to splash the crystal clear water. Before long, another woman whom Courtney knew, in pain and also grieving, traced my footsteps, following me.


Courtney and I both interpreted this dream to mean that I was letting myself feel my grief, and while that might have seemed too messy or uncomfortable for others who so wanted to spare me pain, it was something I was going to do anyway. And there were others, even people I didn't know, who came behind me, observing.


I didn't realize at that point that my grief journey would be a public one, first through this blog, and eventually a book. I didn't have any sort of mission to demystify grief, or to peel back the curtain as to what survival could look like. I just wanted to get through the holidays without giving up. I wanted to shake the cobwebs of shock and horror out of my head, and write from my heart. I wanted write about my fierce longing for Jack, a longing that grew out of great love.


I don't know if I will write about grief forever.


There are other things to be discussed, of course. Light topics such as fleece-lined tights (yay!) and the making and eating of scones. Heavier topics such as our failure to live better, as lights in the darkness, even when we know better.  


I never planned to lose Jack. I never planned to write about grief. In my first years of  blogging, when people asked me what kind of writer I was, I  would answer, "A Life Blogger" because I wasn't sure if my writing was more about my kids, decorating, my faith, or candy corn.


And even in writing so much about death, I guess that's what I still am. I write about LIFE. And I hope I can do justice to those dear ones who come after me, watching.

How We Write

When the lovely Allison Slater Tate asked if I'd like to answer a few questions about my writing process as part of a blog tour, I said "Sure!" even though I don't know how much of a process I have.

Is drinking tea all day and cruising Facebook a process?

Allison is the talented writer whose post about moms staying in the picture with their kids went viral and landed Allison on the national news. Her piece really touched me, as it made me think of how grateful I am to have been in photos with both of my kids while my son Jack was still alive, even though in some of them I'm wearing denim overalls and a scrunchie.  I love reading Allison's words of wisdom on her blog, and all around the internet for that matter.

Thank you, Allison!


HERE GOES:

1. What am I working on?

My book, Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love is in the typesetting stage! You can even pre-order it now from Random House, Amazon, or wherever you like to buy books.

It is starting to sink in that my words will be in a book, uh, forever. I'm the type who constantly replays in my head all of the conversations I have at parties, making sure I didn't sound like an idiot, so you can see how I might be having a little stress about my words being in print. Is it too this? Too that? Not enough?

In an effort to keep myself calm, I'm attempting to stay busy until the release date, September 9. This means I'll be blogging more frequently at An Inch of Gray. Not so frequently, I hope, that you'll start telling me to step away from the keyboard, but enough to get some of the random non-book thoughts that have been floating around in my head onto the screen. I felt like I fell off the writing wagon, while writing my book. I know that doesn't make much sense, but the words kind of POURED out of me very early on, and a great deal of time after that was spent just figuring out where to put what, what to keep, and what to discard. It wasn't truly evident to me at the beginning of the process what the book would be about, so I have pages and pages about my childhood and other topics that I didn't put in the book. Maybe some of those thoughts can lead to a future project...

In addition to blogging, I am working on a short article for a MAJOR women's magazine. I've been reading women's magazines since I was a little girl, and I'm so excited I could just scream! This should be a great way to let magazine readers know about Rare Bird. I also think that seeing my by-line next to glossy pages of recipes, face creams, and fashion will somehow, finally, convince 12 year old Margaret that writing is my new gig.

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I think my memoir differs from others because it is truly a memoir of very early grief. It captures the pain and shock of losing our son in a terrible accident. I began writing it less than a year after we lost Jack, and it was pretty much finished by the two year mark. In fact, some of the material came from this blog, which quickly became an example of grief unfolding in real-time. One day I was posting first day of school pictures of my two kids. Then, I had to tell my wonderful readers that Jack had died the very next day.

I do not yet have the wisdom that comes even 5 or 10 years out from a tragedy. Books with that kind of perspective have helped me a great deal in my own journey, but I hope Rare Bird will offer something, too. Looking at the early stages of grief, without the benefit of years of introspection and the certainty of survival will, I hope, provide an honest depiction of grief for those going through it, and for those called to walk beside suffering people. I did not write this book as a tribute to Jack (although it was very tempting!), or as a how-to manual of survival. Instead, I wanted it to be a glimpse of real loss and real hope that could somehow be meaningful to everyone, because everyone loses something in life, just by living and loving.

3. Why do I write what I do?

Well, I began writing to share small, funny observations about our family's simple, imperfect lives. That was more than 6 1/2 years ago, when it wasn't yet all that okay to let on, even to close friends, that your life was hard and complicated. It was before my friend Glennon's hilarious post "Don't Carpe Diem" went viral, giving women permission to let go of trying be perfect and sucking the marrow out of every damn day. In my small way, I hoped that the honesty that came through my writing would help other moms say, "Yeah. Me too."

When Jack and Margaret got older, they got less comfortable being the subject of my little stories. Tender moments were often followed by, "You aren't putting this on the blog, are you?" Because of that, I began transitioning to blogging more and more about decorating, painting furniture, and thrifting.

My writing changed again after Jack's accident as I found myself digging deep to try to understand how and why what was so precious to us was taken away in a flash. I wondered, on the screen, where God was in all of this. I showed up every day or so to show my readers that I was trying to survive; and they showed up to cheer me on and give me a reason to keep writing.  I didn't want my writing to be too painful to read, but it soon became clear that loyal readers were willing to step into the muck with me as I woke up each day to face life without Jack.

Because of their generosity and commitment, I didn't feel like I had to sugar coat anything. When I didn't feel strong enough, my writers began providing material, too, telling me how Jack's short life was impacting them, and by sharing the mysterious, spiritual signs God was sending them...signs that comforted, whispered and sometimes shouted, "This is not all there is!"

So I guess I have just written what is going on in front of me. Will I always write about grief? I don't know. I'm trying to be open to what comes next.

4. How does my writing process work?

If a topic or an observation comes to me, I jot it on a scrap of paper-- which could be the back of an offering envelope at church, a grocery receipt, or occasionally the small notebook I keep in my big green purse. It would not be that unusual to find a note in my house that says:  "gyno, dog barf, gravestone." I also keep paper by my bed in case I get a writing idea during the night.

I recently quit my job managing a small Christian bookstore in order to have more time to write while Margaret is in school. Unfortunately, this extra time has translated into less writing than ever! I think when my days had more structure, I felt more committed to carving out small pockets of time to write. Now I'm more likely to wander the house, make multiple cups of tea, fluff my back pillows, talk to the dog, or have a snack.

I realized early on that I will never be an early morning writer, just as I'm not an early morning exerciser or socializer. It's like I told my best friend Cynthia-- who goes by Diana in the book-- "Please quit inviting me to meet you for breakfast. It's never going to happen." And in more than 30 years of friendship, it hasn't.

My most productive time to sit down and write is between 10 am and 9 pm. Because Margaret gets out of school by mid-afternoon, I made sure to go away several times while writing my book, just for a few days here and there, so I could power right through those late afternoon hours. I write very quickly, kind of like I talk, and go back later to revise. When possible, I like to let a post sit for a few hours before posting it. Often my writing that touches a cord, however, will be something I've dashed off in the last hour before time to pick up Margaret.

Well, I hope that answered the questions. I am truly honored to share my words and my life with you here on this blog--  yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Thank you for making me feel less alone!

My lovely writer friends Susie Klein, from the blog Recovering Church Lady, and Jennifer Killi Marshall, from Bipolar Mom Life will be answering these same questions one week from today on their blogs. Don't miss out!

The Words of a Stranger: The Power of Writing

I don't know who wrote the words on the yellowed pages that fell from the book I pulled off the thrift store shelf. At first I figured they were study notes, or maybe a simple to-do list, but after a few seconds of reading the nearly indecipherable handwriting, it became clear that these were the private thoughts of a troubled soul.

What should I do with them? Tuck them in my purse? Put them back in the book and leave it on the shelf?  It was not a current title and might never be purchased. What was the next stop on the journey for unwanted books?

I bought the book and the pages along with it and became their steward and a witness to the pain of one hopeless morning in the first week of 1996. The thoughts and feelings of a man who felt disconnected from family. Marginalized at work and in community. Who craved recognition and acknowledgment, but got neither. Who wanted to be valued and to make someone proud. Who recognized his deepening depression but wanted to try to tough it out without medicine. Who understood how some people, including the protagonist in the book I now held, would turn, on their darkest day, to suicide. He wrote of his one great love, a woman whom he had cast aside "like garbage" and the one he was now with, even while knowing there could be no future together.

I think back to my own life in the early days of 1996. It was a time of personal and professional promise. In a few weeks would come a rare Virginia blizzard, and Tim would purposely get snowed in with my roommates and me. There would be parties, card games, a snowy trudge to the local movie theater, and cooking together in the big, drafty kitchen. We were so young. A few months later he would propose, and the promise of a future together as a family became real. In the waning hours of that year, on a strangely warm December day, we would marry.

In the almost 18 years since, it's clear my life has not turned out the way I would have imagined or planned. Not that I did that much planning anyway. We had two kids not because that was the magic number, but because that was how many we had before the thought of having more frightened us. I stepped off the career path because I was able to stay at home with Jack and Margaret, but I had no real picture of what my second or third acts would be. And my own family relationships chugged along with varying  levels of beauty, pain and sometimes dysfunction. We stayed in my home town because it was all I knew, and the years kept moving past and we grew settled. Life happened.

And then the creek happened. And we were dragged to the depths of a despair and pain too deep for us to have ever imagined. And now, almost 2 1/2 years later, we stand again on dry land. Not because we are healed. Not because it's all okay, but because we have hope. It could be that our survival is just one more form of settling, more trudging forward without a plan, because that's all we've ever known how to do. But maybe it's more. Maybe it's a peace that doesn't come from us and our plodding, or from our strong wills, but from God and our love for Jack.

I wonder about the man who wrote those pages. His mind and heart felt no peace that day. No shelter in the storm. Has he kept going for all these years? Did he find help in the way of needed medical attention, acknowledgment, and healed relationships?

I don't know.

But I am hoping he found some release and relief in the writing itself. In turning his thoughts over in his mind. Of getting them down on paper. On seeing what parts of life he could change, and what parts he couldn't.

I don't think writing is THE answer, but it is AN answer. I know it has been for me.

Frozen

My shoulder started hurting for no good reason around Thanksgiving. I guess it's because I'm getting old. I told my friend Jane that I was babying it a bit because I was afraid I'd torn something, and she said, "Don't baby it! That's the worst thing you could do. You might end up with a Frozen Shoulder." She gave me exercises, which of course I didn't do.

Poop.

So, this week I finally dragged myself to a doctor and found out I have....a Frozen Shoulder! Yippee! Right after giving me a shot in the shoulder and referring me to a physical therapist who would then recommend the exact same exercises Jane told me about two months ago, the doc sat down for some chit chat.

"What do you do for a living?"

I recently quit my job managing a small Christian bookstore, so I tried out something new:

"I'm a writer."

I've never said that before. It sounded strange, maybe a little bit of a stretch, but it felt good, too. I hadn't anticipated the next question, even though it was an obvious one.

"So, have you written any books?"

"Well, yes, my first book is coming out in September." Now, THAT felt great to say!

But why oh why wasn't I ready for the next question? I know I need to get used to speaking about my book. I need to not be embarrassed or ashamed about the subject matter. I need to believe that there is a reason I've been given the chance to tell my story, and that it can't help anyone if I don't share it.

Deep breath: "Well, it's a memoir about losing my son."

"Oh, I'm sorry. But I sure won't be reading it. I don't DO tragedy."

The doctor's words did not offend me. He was on the spot, in that little exam room. He had plunged into something uncomfortable and scary, when all he wanted was a few seconds of small talk. And his thoughts were not so very different from ones that I have voiced before. I mean, who wants to DO tragedy, if they can help it?

I remember that when Jack was born almost 15 years ago, I abruptly stopped watching some of my favorite shows, most notably Law and Order SVU. I just couldn't take the depravity of the world and the way it made me feel so vulnerable, especially since I had a little one to take care of now. No longer fascinated by the dark side of the human experience, I wanted to shield us from it any way I could, and covering my eyes and ears seemed like a viable option. I had to seriously limit the Oprah book club books I read, too.

I understand that the doctor doesn't want to read my book. I totally get it.

Then today, at my first physical therapy appointment, the therapist asked me how many kids I have. I had already cried when it felt like she was breaking my arm, and more tears trickled out when I said, "I used to have 2, but now I have 1." It's not what I expected to say when asked this question, as if Jack had ceased to exist in a "poof!" but it's what came out. Usually I just say "2" and leave it at that, but she and I will be seeing each other 3 times a week for a while, and I didn't want to make her feel even more awkward later with follow-up questions if I had led her to believe I had two healthy kids at home with me.

It's interesting, because in the next months, I'm going to have to figure out how to talk about what I write about. I'll have to get out behind the screen and actually talk to people. I'll be attending conferences and meeting people, and eventually promoting my book. Not only am I a horrible sales person, "Umm, you, uh, wouldn't want to buy some Girl Scout cookies, would you?" I am also reluctant to put people on the spot and make them uncomfortable.

They are such natural questions, "What do you blog about? What's your book about? How many kids do you have?" but they freak me out. The last blog conference I went to, I brought a stack of business cards that I was too chicken to give out, when people asked what I blogged about, I said, "Uh, Life," and when I wasn't hiding in my room, I tried to stick very close to people who already knew my story.

I'm thinking my honest yet awkward answers to the doctor and the physical therapist were important baby steps for me.

Do you have any suggestions? Is there a way to know if someone just wants a quick, pleasant interaction versus the truth? Do I use the same gauges I use in determining whether someone really wants to know how I'm doing or is just asking to ask?

Shall we Gather at the River?

I pull up to my friend’s river cottage for three days away by myself. The drive starts out rotten, but the further I get off the highway and away from the congestion, the easier my breathing gets and the more relaxed I become. I’ve been feeling burdened lately just having to live through Jack’s 14^th birthday and also facing some major decisions for our family that involve time, money, and perseverance, all of which seem in short supply these days. The idea behind my time away is to help me get a handle on my writing and to give Tim and Margaret a break from me. I’m hoping this solo writer’s retreat won’t end with our having to buy a new car like the last one. Considering I rake in $100 a week right now at my day job, I don’t think our finances can handle any more writing retreats like that one.

I’m nervous about being on a river. I don’t know what to expect, as I’ve had some trauma being near water since Jack’s accident. Our family used to love to be outdoors and did a lot of hiking near creeks and rivers, but if this river looks anything like a creek, I don’t know if I can handle it.

Stepping into the cottage, I see the view out the big back windows. Beautiful, calm water for as far as I can see. A sloping green lawn reaches down to a tiny sandy beach, maybe 8 feet wide, and the Potomac River laps soundlessly onto the sand. There are no woods, rushing water, or sheer drop offs here. It looks more like the ocean than a river, and I am not afraid.

I take off my shoes and head out into the grass, greeted by a small yellow lab. When I look up, I see a man, maybe a decade older than I am, sitting on a metal glider, enjoying a cigar. I pet the dog and then walk over to meet the man, who lives in town but comes to his cottage on “The Rivah” each evening to relax.

If this were a horror movie, I’d tell him I’m staying here alone to write a book, then he’d come back a few hours later, maniacal Jack Nicholson smile on his face, to do me in.

If this were a novel, the dog, smelling Shadow on me, would keep coming over from his lawn to mine, until the man invited me over for a beer and then, well, you know. We’d find out his wife has left him and I was recently widowed (sorry, Tim) and the healing power of the river and the bald eagle family overhead would bring us together.

But this is neither a horror movie nor a novel, so I go inside and watch a Duck Dynasty Marathon, wondering if I’m good enough and strong enough to write a book. I wonder if breaking into my friend’s unopened box of Thin Mints is poor form. I wonder if the words “Sharing Size” on my bag of M&M’s represent a command or merely a suggestion. I fall asleep on the couch.

I write on and off the next day few days and fantasize about our family having a small place like this to spend quiet Christmases or go crabbing in the summer. I realize I am only picturing three of us, not Jack. Would it work, or would it be too quiet for Margaret? Would we always have to invite a friend along? I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this will work, our future in a fictional riverside cottage or elsewhere, but in this brief moment, it doesn’t feel horrible to think about.

And that is something.

 ******

Love and Peace to you this Friday. I’m off to celebrate the life of my grandma, who lived into her 90’s and passed away peacefully while I was at the river house. I’m picturing her having a joyful reunion with her son Charles and her great-grandson Jack today.

 

Quick Check In

Okay, Christmas and New Year's provided me my longest blog-break ever, and I sure missed writing and YOU.  Just wanted to jump on here today to say hello and that I hope you had more smiles and laughter than tears and yelling during the holidays.

Margaret went back to school this morning, and in a moment I'm heading off to the country to try to do some writing. The house where I'm staying has no internet connection, which could help me be a tad more reflective and productive. No promises, though. When I was in college I rented a hotel room so I could be alone and complete a major project. I specifically asked for a room with no TV in it. You can imagine how delighted I was when I discovered a tiny black and white model in the bathroom. Yep, instead of doing my project, I found myself perched on the bathroom counter in my pj's watching "Battle of the Network Stars."

Much love to you today. See you in a few days...

Big News

Sooooo, I have some exciting news to share with you:

I'm writing a book.

A book!

You may think that my light-ish number of posts recently would be a direct result of the fact that I've been typing away in my laundry room/office writing said book. Truth is, as soon as I decided to write a book, fear set in, as did a lovely case of the shingles all over my scalp. This rendered me incapable of writing anything much more detailed than a grocery list or an occasional non-pithy Facebook status update. And then the storm came. Oh my.

Tim said to me tonight, in that most helpful way he has, "I was reading your blog and I think it's time for a more substantial blog post. You know, not like 'I did this today, or I went there.'" Humph.

Here's the thing: I will not let fear make my decisions. I will not let fear make my decisions. I will not let fear make my decisions. Yeah, I typed that three times. It has also been on a hot pink notecard on my fridge for the past 7 years during which, unfortunately, I've let fear make a lot of my decisions.

I did not want to wait another day before telling you, my friends, about this brand new thing. Even though typing it here scares the heck out of me. Thank you so much for the encouragement you have given me and will give me.

You help make me feel stronger than I am.

I hope I'll make you proud.

Oh, and if you want to know what I did today, or where I went, I saw the movie "Argo." Wow. Best thing I've seen in years! That update was for you, Tim:

Feelings

I used to say that I was as shallow as a puddle. My friends would disagree, and I knew shallow wasn't really the word I was looking for, but I meant that I just didn't seem to experience things as deeply as others did. Sure, I cried at the drop of a hat from any perceived injustice-- an over plucked eyebrow, or another Friday night home in front of Falcon Crest-- but I also felt a steady undercurrent of hope and stability running through my life.

When I observed my friends, some of their highs were so high, their lows so low. They were SO! IN! LOVE! Everything mattered. They seemed passionate about guys, God, and life in general, which made me wonder, again and again, if I was missing something.

I never craved drama or excitement; in fact I tended to run the other way. Jerry Springer was certainly not a show I could watch...far too nervous-making. I felt like I needed an Advil and a Silkwood shower after seeing that kind of raw, shouting, chair throwing emotion laid bare.

Binge drinking, college drama, or jealous girl fights? No thank you. Just take the guy-- please-- it's not worth it to me.

I think I was drawn to an equally Steady-Eddie in my husband Tim, because although I was pretty sure we'd never wear each other's blood vials around our necks a la Angelina and Billy-Bob, or engage in all-night love fests, we were also unlikely to have all-night screaming matches or engage in name calling, unless the occasional whispered "Ass" out of earshot of the kids counts.

It seems weird to me that parts of my life story are dramatic.

But even in that drama, the way I've faced things remains pretty compatible with how I've always been. So, I often wonder, am I too restrained and repressed, or is this just how God made me?

Because I don't want to try to circumnavigate the pain of life by just quietly plodding through it! When my mom dropped dead so many years ago, I bought new pens and immediately started writing thank you notes. My siblings and I did not cry or moan together. We held it so far in as if merely saying the word "Mom" would transport us to a scary place of despair from which we could never return.

And when Jack disappeared into the creek, just seconds beyond my grasp, I knew I could scream and rail, but I didn't. Not really. Because what else is there to do as you sit in your dark kitchen with your friends, knowing in your heart that your son is dead, except put out cheese and crackers for your neighbor with low blood sugar because everyone missed dinner and it's going to be one hell of a long night?

Call it shock, call it denial, call it peace. I do not know.

I guess my biggest fear as an even-keel person, is that I will somehow plod, plod, plod through life like a robot. I DO NOT want to be this way simply because it is more socially acceptable, less messy, and quieter!

I want to make sure I let myself feel, if I even know how to.

At least on some level, I'm certain I do.

I know how it felt to have Margaret's dimply, toddler arms wrapped around my neck, giving my back an extra little pat because she knew I liked it. The world felt calm and safe and delicious. I know how it felt to mother Jack-- and how my delight in his depth and character made my heart grow larger in a way I can still feel when I think about him. How after 20 years I can still conjure a rush of love when I remind myself that a man who handles raw chicken for you, puts feta on your salads when you would have just settled for lettuce, and hands you two vitamins in the morning is far sexier than someone who lives life on the edge.

And I realize that writing is one way I let myself feel.

I may be doing ordinary things on a given day-- shopping for school supplies, doing time in the hell that is Abercrombie, working, or sweeping up dog hair in the kitchen (again!)--but through pausing and writing I'm letting myself "go there" in my grief.

It may not be dramatic. But it helps me. I just know does.