Words
A few days ago I received a note thanking me for a note that I wrote. I haven't been able to shake it. So, as is becoming habit, I have decided to write about it in an effort to let go.
The sender of the note lost her oldest son to a car accident some months back. I felt and continue to feel connected to this lovely woman who deeply bonded with my child, this bond evident every time I walked into Aidan's classroom, every time I spoke with her about my child, about her own children. Three boys.
When I read about the accident in the Times I cried. When I saw her at the place for funerals I cried. I couldn't think of anything to say. Or if I could, I couldn't get it out. Which of course made me want to write something. What to say to someone who is grieving the death of a child? The death of anybody?
As is often the way, I am reminded of a discussion that I had with a group of seniors while reading The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan. There is a chapter called "Half and Half." Chapter 7. Rose, 14, and her father, mother, two sisters and four brothers, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and four-year-old Bing go to the beach. While Rose is supposed to be watching Bing he wanders off along a wall to watch his father fish. A fight between two brothers breaks out, Rose's mother yells for Rose to stop the fight, the fish is caught and Bing disappears into the water. Rose's mother spends the rest of the day and part of the next morning waiting for Bing to return. A last ditch effort, throwing her own mother's ring into the water. He never does return and Rose's mother loses faith in God, her Bible becoming a support for a wobbly table leg.
This story opened up discussion of a lot of things, but mainly how our culture talks or doesn't talk about death. We discussed faith and God and what to say about death and dying to people who believe in him, in heaven. And what to say to people who don't. And what to say to people who haven't decided what they believe. There was one student, in particular, who profoundly changed the way I talk about death. Her brother had been murdered, 18 years old, and I realized as she let loose with some of the well-intentioned but ill thought out things that people wrote and said to her shortly after he died that it matters, what you say to someone about death, about loss. Words matter. It sounds silly to say. Elementary. Nonetheless, I feel the need to remind myself that one needs to be careful how one says things. But not too careful.
Which brings me back to my friend. Most days I don't believe in God, but I somehow knew what to say to someone who does without compromising my own beliefs. I at least knew enough about what to say for her to write me a note in which she thanked me for my words. A sincere note, one that I can't stop thinking about. It's important to say that I couldn't have written the words on my own. To my former student, though you probably have no idea that your words had such an effect on me, thank you.
The sender of the note lost her oldest son to a car accident some months back. I felt and continue to feel connected to this lovely woman who deeply bonded with my child, this bond evident every time I walked into Aidan's classroom, every time I spoke with her about my child, about her own children. Three boys.
When I read about the accident in the Times I cried. When I saw her at the place for funerals I cried. I couldn't think of anything to say. Or if I could, I couldn't get it out. Which of course made me want to write something. What to say to someone who is grieving the death of a child? The death of anybody?
As is often the way, I am reminded of a discussion that I had with a group of seniors while reading The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan. There is a chapter called "Half and Half." Chapter 7. Rose, 14, and her father, mother, two sisters and four brothers, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and four-year-old Bing go to the beach. While Rose is supposed to be watching Bing he wanders off along a wall to watch his father fish. A fight between two brothers breaks out, Rose's mother yells for Rose to stop the fight, the fish is caught and Bing disappears into the water. Rose's mother spends the rest of the day and part of the next morning waiting for Bing to return. A last ditch effort, throwing her own mother's ring into the water. He never does return and Rose's mother loses faith in God, her Bible becoming a support for a wobbly table leg.
This story opened up discussion of a lot of things, but mainly how our culture talks or doesn't talk about death. We discussed faith and God and what to say about death and dying to people who believe in him, in heaven. And what to say to people who don't. And what to say to people who haven't decided what they believe. There was one student, in particular, who profoundly changed the way I talk about death. Her brother had been murdered, 18 years old, and I realized as she let loose with some of the well-intentioned but ill thought out things that people wrote and said to her shortly after he died that it matters, what you say to someone about death, about loss. Words matter. It sounds silly to say. Elementary. Nonetheless, I feel the need to remind myself that one needs to be careful how one says things. But not too careful.
Which brings me back to my friend. Most days I don't believe in God, but I somehow knew what to say to someone who does without compromising my own beliefs. I at least knew enough about what to say for her to write me a note in which she thanked me for my words. A sincere note, one that I can't stop thinking about. It's important to say that I couldn't have written the words on my own. To my former student, though you probably have no idea that your words had such an effect on me, thank you.
posted by Jane | 1:59 PM
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