“A Grief Unveiled” by Gregory Floyd about the first year following the sudden loss of his six year old son is an incredibly raw and moving book, as I remember it. I read it some time ago, but several thoughts and images in particular have stayed with me. If you haven’t read it already, I think you might benefit from it. It’s a thought…

I don’t know if this is appropriate here, but something that I have found so helpful when we have lost two babies, is to include them in our Litany of the Saints at the end of family prayer time. This doesn’t mean we don’t stop praying for their souls, but if we believe in the Communion of Saints then it is ok to ask our family members to pray for us as well. I have found so much peace in this act. It means they are still included in our daily lives and that while they are gone they are literally still involved with us in an intimate way.
And while you contemplate the mystery, I also have been thinking on my end how I woke up yesterday morning and said, “today is Amy’s husband’s funeral.” I kept you in prayer. It is strange, because I do not know you, have disagreed with you politically, and yet that was my first thought. The Holy Spirit has an amazing ability to take care of His own.

Amy, your sharing is a blessing to me. And your “why” is incredibly true. My mother’s death over 20 years ago is still filled with “whys” and “how comes.” Somehow, I am not sure they will ever end for us. Are the “whys” of death supposed to end? Probably not. Peace to your day!

When my father died — a man of very good health — I was truly stunned.
I was practicing law at that time and, as I was calling opposing counsel in a case in which we had a scheduled trial that coming week, my legal “adversary”, whom I did not know well on a personal basis, told me simply: “Don’t try to understand it now. But someday you will understand.”
I thought that to be a kind, if somewhat awkward statement. But it was odd enough that I kept in mind………..for years. And for years, I didn’t understand my father’s death. I tried to understand it, but I didn’t.
Then one day, almost seven years later, I understood. In the middle of a crisis in my own life, I saw the meaning of my father’s life, not just for me, but the meaning of his life in a bigger sense.
One aspect of that meaning was the role he played in the transmission of his faith to me and his spirituality to me. I came to see the positive role that a father can play in the life of his wife and children……..and in the lives of other people.
It was a good example, on a micro level, of the kind of paradigm shift that Bernard Lonergan taught about. It’s not about a change in the facts, it’s about how we organize and ultimately understand the facts against a new horizon.
Take your time, Amy. It may not compute for some time. But your desire to find meaning in Michael’s death is definitely the right path to follow.

I remember last year when my grandmother died my mother saying something very similar. She kept saying, “How could this happen?” Well, my grandmother was almost 90 and had been expected to die for some time, so there was no tragedy or surprise. It was, as you say, just weird: how can someone be here, and then not be here, just like that? So I think your feelings are probably not unusual, if that helps at all.

We will not forget to pray.
o{]:¬)

I agree with Suzanne. Gregory Floyd’s book is raw and moving but in a gut-wrenching peaceful way. Hard to describe but his words and experience stay with you…and help you along the journey.
I am praying for you and the children, Amy. You are such a strong lady and we all join you in praying for Michael.

God bless you. My prayers are with you.

Dear Amy,
I lost my mother suddenly, in the way that Michael died. (She still had kids at home, too, although not so young.) My sister was murdered some years after that.
I think these kind of deaths – the kind that take you completely unawares – are different than when someone is seriously ill and you begin to prepare yourself. (I am not discounting that kind of loss at all. I am just saying, it is different. It hits you differently. Maybe it is the lack of a goodbye. I am so sorry you didn’t have that.)
And the best image that I have come up with, that has helped me, is the image of an earthquake. I used to live in Southern California, and there are many, many places where you can see the effects of the earth shifting. Diagonal lines of sediment in the rocks. Mountains, rising from valley floors. Or think of the Grand Tetons. Magnificent, but all the result of the earth moving. Sometimes it is inexorable. (We all get older and move closer to death every day.)
But sometimes it is quick, sudden, completely disorienting, a shock, fearful.
Yet, out of that a new landscape takes shape. Which might even have some beauty in it after awhile. You never forget. You never ‘get over it.’ These kind of losses are always part of the landscape of your life.
But you eventually learn to live in the new landscape.
It does happen. It just seems like forever.
I think there is another ‘bad part.’ It is when it isn’t in front of you every second. And then you feel guilty about that. But, it is life – and the life of God – moving you past that moment of total grief and loss and bringing you closer to healing. I think of that when I hear the promise in Revelation – when every tear will be wiped away. We have to learn to live without tears and into joy sooner or later. A good part of that learning happens to us here, I think.
The only other thing I have to offer is the third verse from one of my favorite hymns – “How Firm a Foundation”:
Here is the whole hymn:
How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent word!
What more can He say than to you He hath said—
To you who for refuge to Jesus have fled?
“Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My gracious, omnipotent hand.
“When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;
For I will be with thee thy trouble to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
“When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all-sufficient, shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not harm thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.
“The soul that on Jesus doth lean for repose,
I will not, I will not, desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.”
So, I continue to pray for you that the rivers of sorrow do not overflow, that all the things that must be done now can be done with courage and grace, that the worries about finances are not too great.
It isn’t a bad hymn to have playing in the back of one’s head as all the next tasks come across the horizon.

I lost my stepfather to a heart attack. He was only 46 years old and it totally came out of the blue. Truth be known, I’m not sure the weird “does not compute” feeling ever goes away. The intensity of grief does. New routines get established so the mundane things of everyday life don’t have this eerie quality to them anymore. But that mostly comes after the one year mark passes. Until then it seems like every thing that happens is the first time without the person and throws you back a few steps all over again. I guess the takeaway from that is just to understand all these sorts of things are normal and part of healing.
I’m already amazed at how you’re handling this, but don’t even take that as pressure to put on a good face for us. You’re still in my prayers.

Nine years ago, my older brother died suddenly a few weeks before his 31st birthday. He was in excellent health and was physically fit (he was a firefighter.) One morning, he just didn’t wake up. No explanation. An autopsy was performed and was inconclusive. I had spoken to him the night before and we planned to see each other the next day.
I vividly remember how surreal everything was for awhile. All of our family and friends were there to comfort each other, and I kept expecting my brother to put his arm around me and tell me it was o.k.
Nine years later, I still feel a dull pain at the loss but I find great comfort in knowing that there will be a day that I will see him again. I am not sure at the purpose of his death, but I know that I am a better person for having had him in my life.

Amy,
I met you and your family at the Catholic blogging conference in Atlanta last year (I sat behind you at Mass, and your sons played with my infant daughter under the seats! *grin*)
God continues to bring you to mind, and I pray for you every time. My prayer is that you will experience His presence in a very real, tangible way during this time… and that you will be able to experience joy as well.
My thought this morning was directed to The Blessed Mother. As I was emptying the dishwasher, the thought came, “You know how devastating it is to lose your husband. Pray for Amy today and hold her close.”
I can sympathize with the “strangeness” you mentioned. When my brother died — even though his death was expected — I was stunned with the almost “claustrophobic” feeling I felt, as well as the panicked “No! Wait! He can’t be dead yet! I forgot to tell him this… and this… and this…”
I couldn’t wrap my brain around it for quite a while.
I found “A Grief Observed” by CS Lewis to be inspirational. Here was one of my great heroes, being so totally honest with his feelings of anger, sorrow, betrayal, and all the rest after the death of his wife.

My father died suddenly at work thirteen years ago. It made no sense and really it still doesn’t. My mother died seven years ago after being sick for only one week. I’m still trying to digest that event all these years later. The sudden loss…where did all that energy, vitality and love go? Of course my faith has sustained me and helped me work through that strange darkness I felt and sometimes still feel. It is the burden and cross of deep sorrow. Praying did not bring me much relief early on, but trying to pray, receiving the sacraments was a balm for my soul that I just did not feel at the time. You will hear many good and well meaning comments as the days unfold. Take what helps and leave the rest. Be very patient and gentle with yourself.

Still praying, dear one. There were times, with loss, that I would nearly hyperventilate — worrying that if I didn’t hold onto something (perhaps I was the only one to know a particular detail) that it would be gone forever.
Nothing that is good is ever lost. God holds these things securely (as does Our Lady in her heart) as treasures. They are secure with Him, and one day we will see them — not as we remember them — but transformed.
Knowing that, I could relax and trust that even the most minute detail was in good hands. If I could remain faithful to the end, then I would be privileged to see God in His fullness — and perhaps these details will spill into my lap, overflowing (even if I had forgotten them) but restored to me in a new and richer way. What joy in that!
Beyond this feeble attempt, please know that words cannot express our sorrow for your family, still.

In the immediate wake of my father’s death and the death of a few good friends, I had the uncanny sensation that because they were so completely in my thoughts and prayers and dreams in those first weeks of mourning, I was in their company in a way that I never had been while they were alive. While this sense has diminished in the months and years since, there has always remained what I can only call a living and palpable bond between us that can be activated into full strength at the oddest, apparently slightest times. Quite apart from what we believe as Catholics about the afterlife (or perhaps this is part and parcel of it) I have found this sense of a different and ongoing sort of togetherness incredibly consoling.
Another jolt you should prepare yourself for is the first time you see “Michael” on the street. It won’t be him, of course. On closer examination you might even wonder how you ever thought that stranger looked like him. But in my experience such sightings occur most frequently in the first months after the loved one’s death and then decrease, but never entirely stop. The last one of these I had involving my Dad was three and a half years ago, flying home from Rome and Britain when my plane touched down in Wales (the country of my Dad’s birth) when who should get on but the spitting image of my father. He was at the other end of the cabin and I knew if I went any closer the resemblance would fall away so I stayed where I was and wallowed in this unexpected visit.
My Dad had made a good age (89). I no longer lived with him day by day, nor with my friends. Which is to say, I don’t know if this same kind of dynamic I describe in these cases could possibly come into play when dealing with the loss of someone so utterly central to your life as a spouse and the co-parent of your children. But I hope and pray that you and the children will also know whatever consolations there are to be had at this incredibly sad and difficult time.

Michael preached our parish mission last Lent, and memories of that mission linger still as we approach the next Lent with out him.
What people said after his mission was how different it was. One parishioner said, “This did not feel the same as past missions; it was more like a retreat.”
What Michael gave us: Adoration.
We had adoration of the Blessed Sacrament every night during the Mission. And it made the people hungry for more.
Before Michael came, we had adoration once a month, on Good Friday.
Now: Eucharistic Adoration and Holy Hour with sung vespers Every Day.
Extended Holy Hour (2 hours) every Thursday , with Vespers, Precious Blood Chaplet, The Seven Offerings, with extened silence.
We still have a full day of adoration on First Friday.
After our notice in the parish bulletin
http://stedwardcatholic.org/docs/020809.pdf
people have been promising prayers and masses, and we scheduled three Masses for him in March.
And of course we will pray for you, Amy. I remember when my Father died suddenly at 56, walking around as if in a fog for weeks afterward. The fog clears slowly. I often say, “It is not about understanding, it is about loving.” That is a lesson I remember from that time and it still works for me today.
I turn 56 this summer, and as I remember my father Francis, and Michael, and all the men in my life who have departed so suddenly, I remind myself that I am cut from the same cloth and must be ready at a moments notice.
God bless you, and thank you for sharing such moments with us.

dearest amy,
first of all, i cannot even begin to tell you how sorry i am for the loss of your dear husband, your friend. and secondly, having lost many people who were very near and dear to me, some of them having died suddenly, without explanation, two were murdered, one died of a heart attack, one in her sleep, another in a tragic accident, two to cancer and then my own miscarriage of a baby of 23 weeks, the thing that resonated with each loss, was that it didn’t seem to matter how quickly they’d died. watching the two that suffered so much from the cancer wasn’t easy either. the saying good-bye process can be just as hard when there is more time to say it. and so with death, just as in life, there is a cloud of mystery which surrounds the coming and going in and out of this world, which as Catholics, we know is not our home. it is probably best that you pray to Our Lord simply for the grace, not to understand it, as you never will in this life, but to accept it, as the will of the Father. what a test to our faith are things of this nature and caliber. and it is only when those around us, who do not believe, see us with our faces wiped clean, with a gentle peace about our spirits, because we trust that the ones we love, while gone from us, have not been annihilated, for they do live on in eternity, that we become witnesses to the true faith. the Lord called michael home, his work was done and thanks be to God that he lived such a good life, serving God in his writing and speaking, taking care of his family and what more could one ask for because at this point, that is what will bring you comfort-for his legacy is one of love for Our Lord and His Church, you, his wife and his babies.
i know that when my two cousins were murdered, they were so far from the path that God sets for each and every one of us and that has been something that still bothers me to this day. and then by the light of the Holy Spirit i came to the conclusion that i would never understand the hows and whys of such senseless tragedy, but never again would i worry so much, unless the person i loved was outside a state of grace, and in that case, all that was left to do was pray, which it seems like, that is all we can ever do anyway. but in this case, michael was not-thanks be to God. and so my prayer for you today is God bless you and keep you and your family, so that one day you might all be reunited in eternity.
and finally,
“happy indeed is the man who follows not the counsel of the wicked, nor lingers in the way of sinners, nor sits in the company of scorners, but whose DELIGHT is in the law of the LORD and who ponders HIS law day and night. He is like a tree that is planted beside flowing waters and all that he does shall prosper……..”
ps. sorry for rambling so.

My favorite aunt died suddenly this past summer. Two years before that my uncle died in a hit and run.
My aunt was someone I had known practically all of my life. She was always there. Smiling, happy, kind.
I still can’t get over how weird and wrong it feels to know that she isnt in this world anymore. She had such a great laugh from the belly that was just irresistable.
I don’t know if it will ever feel right. Just warning you. Other things will get better but probably not that.
C.S. Lewis might have said that this is because death, as we know it anyway, is not right. Its not the way its supposed to be and we know that deep down. We will never be able to acclimate to it here in this world.
The good news is that sense that it is wrong is probably the best evidence that we have, personally, that there is such a thing as eternal life.
Michael was meant to live forever and so he does. His not being here is a glitch in the system that we are promised will be fixed someday by the God who keeps his promises even onto his own death on a Cross.
I am so sorry for your loss, Amy.

My husband’s mom died suddenly; just literally dropped. She was 49. Paul and I weren’t married yet (got married a year and a half later) but she was definitely a part of my life.
It is strange, that sudden-ness. I found myself thinking I would see her out places. Your brain just isn’t used to someone just being gone. It was like she was out of town and was going to call, or that she was just in the next room.
What’s hard for me is to find that balance between knowing this sort of thing can happen — because when it does, there’s your proof — but realizing it’s not the norm. Finding that balance between appreciating the beauty of life and living in the moment, but not living in fear of this happening again.
A friend of mine (my mom’s age) had a child die, years ago, and she said after that happened there was no more fear in her life. She realized that the worst had happened to her, this thing she had been afraid of (as all mothers are) and she survived it and saw that God is bigger than it all. She felt like after that, Satan couldn’t try to paralyze her with fear anymore.
Anyway, I’m tempted to delete all this but I’m going to keep it and hope maybe it makes sense and somehow offers something. It’s random and disjointed, but it’s my thoughts on the matter and what I’ve experienced on this topic.
Peace and much love to you, Amy.

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Amy, I have had the same experience. Never been too much a stranger to death — my grandfather’s family are undertakers, have had a number of deaths in the extended family all my life — but when my mother died I was still surprised by it. As in, wow, I didn’t really understand this. How can this be? A friend of mine had the same thing.
But then, I’m puzzled by my children, too. I don’t really understand how before there was nothing, and now they are here, in my house, little people.
I suppose if I didn’t live with the evidence, I wouldn’t believe in life or death. Much too strange for me.
**
My sincerest condolences, by the way. Praying for all of you every day.
Jennifer.

Amy & all. My sister was killed in a traffic accident in 1985 when she was 16 (I was in college and 21.) I happened to be home that weekend. I grew up a small town/city of about 35,000. After dinner, my sister was going to meet some friends and since she was coming right back my dad went out to get us all ice cream cones, which my dad hastily put in the sink, as the State Highway Patrol showed up at our door and rushed us to the hospital. There we spent a surreal four hours of waiting, until we were told by a physician who was also a friend of the family that she was gone. It seemed everyone we knew was coming and going from the hospital. The thoughts and the possibilities that race through your head can best be desrcribed as that of a roller coaster ride that doesn’t end. This roller coaster of emotions continued for many months and years. I remember a priest telling me that the familty was goin gthrough something few will ever go through. We would either get bitter or better. He was praying that we got better. I can’t imagine how anyone without a faith life could ever fully recover from a sudden death of loved one cut down in the prime of their life.
It took me a while to let go of what might have been if truck that hit my sister’s car had the right brakes and bumper. It took me a while to come to terms why everyone else in the car didn’t have so much as a scratch but my sister was dead. Images of the emergency room and seeing my sister in her condition were hard to shake. Coming home at 1 AM and calling familty and friends with the news about what happened seemed unbearable. Faith is the only thing that could have helped me process the enormity of it.
Fortunately, the core group of friends from the Catholic school that my sister and I attended helped me and my parents more than I could ever describe. I spent the summer as a State House intern in Columbus, which was an hour away. Most every day after work my friends showed up so we could play a quick nine holes of golf before it got dark. It was the one thing I looked forward to each and every day, a healthy diversion from the roller coaster of thoughts. Having been raised in the 1970s and 1980s when the emphasis on Catholic saints and devotions wasn’t exactly high, I really began to explore all of it and it really helped me come to terms with the events along with deepening my faith life.
People react in different ways, I recall my parents being so thankful for those friends of theirs who always were at their side. However, they were mystified by those who basically disappeared. Years later these “friends” would confess to my parents that they didn’t know what to say or do, so they did nothing. I recall seeing people around town who would come up to me afterwards and say nice things. I also recall those folks who made eye contact with me and disappeared behind what ever they disappear behind. I also recall going to my local bookstore and attempting to find books on sibling death. There existed books on the death of parents, grandparents and pets but not siblings. Thankfully, that has now changed.
Amy and everyone, I can honestly say that prayer moves mountains. I won’t go into it here but suffice it to say certain events happened that were beyond human explanation. They happened when (my parents and me) least expected them and looking back needed them the most. Sometimes I feel sad that my wife never got to meet me sister. She has red her funny ramblings, poems and serious reflections but alas it is only paper. However, I feel as close to my sister now as I did then and I know that is only possible due to the beauty of Catholicism.

When my 17 year old son Alex died, (he collapsed after running the 400 meter event at his high school last April), I was furious. Had I not been open to a large family? Hadn’t I homeschooled him to make sure that he grew strong in his faith. Had I not prayed to my childrens’ guardian angels every morning to keep them safe spiritually and physically? Had I not prayed every day that all my children would lead long lives? When he was on life support in the hospital had not hundreds if not thousands prayed that he would wake up? Didn’t the young people in town have a Mass said for him and young people who had never before set foot in a church attended? Hadn’t five priests given him last rites in the hospital and a healing priest, Fr. Tom DeLorenzo come and pray over him for his healing? Didn’t I bless him with holy water from Lourdes and Medjugorie? And didn’t the nuns from St. Walberga’s Monestary in Bavaria pray over her relics for his healing? Never mind the rosaries and chalplets said for him.
Now I have come to the conclusion that Alex was taken to because he was ready for heaven. People have told me stories of his goodness and selflessness, so many instances that I coudn’t have imagined. He did not have to struggle any longer on earth to become worthy of heaven as the rest of us do. He already was! Now with him praying for us, maybe one other of my prayers will be answered. That is the prayer that all of my family will get to heaven and be together eternally.
I highly recommend Gregory Floyd’s book, ” A Grief Unveiled.”and I will be praying for you and your family.

Amy,
I lost my husband to cancer nine years ago – he was 45 years old. Although it wasn’t a sudden death by any means, it was still so hard not to have him there, to talk to, to share life with. The urge to tell him about something I’d read, someone I’d seen, something I’d experienced (wait until I tell Jim…, Jim won’t believe this…) stayed with me for a long time – and each time it was with a jolt that I realized he wasn’t there to hear my story.
We also had two young children, both in elementary school. I think being there for them, helping them get on with their lives, was a tremendous help in getting through the first year. That and, of course, my faith. How one gets through such a loss without a deep faith in God, redemption, salvation, and everlasting life is beyond me. Never stop praying for him and thanking God every day for having brought him into your life. I will keep you, Michael, and your family in my prayers.
Ann

The mother of one of my daughter’s friends died last week. This poem was part of her funeral. It brought my daughter peace amidst her swirling emotions.
Rabbi Chaim Stern on love and loss:
It is a fearful thing
to love
what death can touch.
A fearful thing
to love,
hope,dream: to
be-
to be
and oh! to lose.
A thing for fools, this,
a holy thing,
a holy thing
to love.
For
your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.
To remember this
brings painful joy.
‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing,
to love
what death has touched.

I have had three of these, as you say, strange deaths in my own life. They never get easy:
As a young man 2 fellow altar boy friends of mine died much to young. The first died at a summer camp. Friends had received a call from him just days before telling them how awful his camp experience was. Days later reports came back that he vomited in his sleep and choked to death. All kinds of stories followed and all of them speculative at best. Was he drunk, was he high, or just sick? His brother was devastated, his mother even worse. It wasn’t until a year later when a simple weekday mass was said in his memory that I began to feel any comfort. Mass was the rhythms in which I came to know James. We served mass reverently and easily knowing cold what we were supposed to do and our motions moved without much thought around them until the odd thing would happen. A friend tripped and fell into the aisle once. A large candle fell and hit a priest nearly burning him another time. We would react and then move back into reverence once the issue died down and probably we would laugh about it later over dinner. It was all about presence. Being present to one another without thought, with ease, with the rhythm of the mass parts–sometimes mundane but mostly joyful.
I think much of our lives are indeed like that. And even when those lives are taken unexpectedly, disrupting that rhythm, it is the rhythms in which we knew them that keeps them in relationship to us, praying with us, living with us. It is a different experience for us Eucharistic people who need the tangible and visible sometimes to make sense of the mystical but the mystical is no less present even without those accidents. These rhythms to me are indeed communion, revealing God who always lurks where we least expect to find Him.
The last of these strange deaths was my college roommate, who was always a sick young man and who many of us expected that he would die young. He had a heart condition and even had a defibrillator attached to his heart our senior year. That machine gave him and extra 3 years or so. He had been doing so well and so, when he told us that he was simply having his defibrillator replaced we all relaxed and thought it was rather routine.
Surgery is often tough to recover from and in this one, Dave, my friend, just didn’t have the fight. Without any warning one of our other roommates called and gave me the news straight. Dave was dead. I beat up a studio pretty good that day at the radio station–angry wasn’t the word for the emotion that poured out of me–it was more like frustration. I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. I didn’t feel like it was his time yet–although I knew it probably wasn’t far off. His parents lost their only child and had given their very lives over to his care for over 25 years and now he was just…gone. Unfair. Even the dog was upset at it.
But what happened next reminded me a lot of this friend, who was possibly the most unselfish person I had ever met. Everyone rallied around each other that week. We made sure people stuck together, got the things done that needed to be done. We shopped for Dave’s family and made sure people had rides to all the week’s events. We laughed a lot (he was a stand up comic), cried a lot and prayed together. In short, we lived very full days noticing all the small stuff. It was how Dave, full of illness and pain for most of his life, lived each day and taught us how to live. Dave often healed broken relationships between people by simply making fun of how ridiculous arguments could be–so even now, one of us often plays that role when others are fighting or simply acting stupid.
Timing, rhythm, the adding up of time shared often is like a dance and that all gets lost when the music abruptly stops. But the best dancers don’t even need to hear the music. They know the rhythm intimately –and it is in remembering the rhythms of our shared lives where we all will always dance with joy.

You wrote – “There is a mystery, as I was telling Dorothy, and what I feel driven to do is not “understand” it, really. It is not even to “accept” it. It is something different, and I don’t get what that is – where that space is and waht it looks like.”
I had a thought and some personal things to share but they pale in comparison to Dave and Jennie and especially Herman’s comments – what they said.
That is what the space looks like. It’s living the mystery.
As a child I didn’t understand it, as a teen and young adult I chocked it up to psychology but beloved and now deceased friend told me it is what living with the communion of saints is like.

Hi Amy,
I’ve never posted on your blog before though I do read it. My family and I have been praying for you and, with pregnancy hormones helping, I’ve cried for all of you several times over the past week. I’m afraid other than prayers and the purchase of a few books, there is little we can do.
But I remember when my grandfather died suddenly of a heart attack. I was so stunned and confused. I couldn’t compute it into reality. Because I couldn’t grasp it as real, I couldn’t cry and was called “heartless” and “cold” for not reacting. That was 16 years ago next month and I was only 13 at the time. But I think, out of everyone, I’m the one who still misses him the most today. When I visit my parents in Florida, I visit his grave. I wished he could have been at my wedding and know how much he would love playing with his great grandchildren if he was here (even if the mess they make would have driven him nuts). In some ways, time seems able to dull the pain and in others it makes our longing greater because of all the things we want that person there with us to experience and share in. Time has a way of making things surreal very real but it also helps bring it into perspective … that just has things happen today and pass into last week, last month, last year, so will all things pass until we are all together again united through Christ in Heaven.
God bless you all.

Amy,
Last year, I lost my mother (not suddenly) and my sister (more or less suddenly – a result of lung surgery). Yes, there is definitely a weirdness to it. It’s a void, maybe like anti-matter. Hard to explain and words don’t convey what the feeling is. It strikes at the oddest times, too, when we least expect it. The times that I expected to feel the loss most, I did not feel it as much as those times that kind of swept me off my feet and I was totally off-guard. I can brace myself for the wind, when I know it’s windy, and then I get knocked over by a feather.
You have all been in my prayers and will continue to be.

I have felt that weird feeling, too, in the days after people close to me have passed away.
You are correct — it’s surreal and odd … as if they could still walk in the door at any moment … as if maybe it’s only been a dream from which you will soon awake.

I don’t think there is one reaction to death. In fact, I have reacted differently a number of times. I think the connection between thinking about death and living it start a chain-reaction where your faith and hope have to become more real than ever before, because is it all we have left. The strangeness comes from our loss of the person and our filling in the parts of our lives they left.
I think the raw-ness of it all makes death difficult. We have to face one of the realities we don’t like to think about much.
You might remember Fr. Todd Reitmeyer who was one of the first blogging priests. He was a friend of mine from college. When he died it shocked many of us who knew him, but one thing we never asked was “why”. We knew that Fr. Todd lived for Christ and he also died for him as well.
I know several people that have come back to the faith because of Fr. Todd’s death and the witness he bore. His little brother Tom entered the seminary for the Austin Diocese this past year and I told Tom that his brother, Fr. Todd, would have laid down his life to see Tom’s conversion – which is exactly what he did.

I found these to be comfortable words at a time like this…
Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without affect,
without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you,
for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just around the corner.
All is well.
Canon Henry Scott Holland
1847-1918

Like many here, I’ve experienced numerous losses – some sudden, some not-so-sudden. From a 21-month old nephew, to a 91-year-old grandmother. In the last 24 months, 3 suicides. I don’t get over it, I don’t get through it, I get on WITH it. I try to figure out, each time, how to “be” in a world that no longer contains “loved one.” There is a Michael-shaped hole in your heart…and to paraphrase another Paul (Ricouer this time, not St Paul)…his absence IS his presence.
Much like Christ. (that’s me, not Ricouer)
And you are right, it totally doesn’t compute. The world looks different (“why can’t everyone else see that?”); In my mind, I was an orbiting moon without a planet anymore. It will never compute – so as several have alluded to above, give yourself the freedom to be with that. Give yourself the freedom to experience everything that you will experience – difficult and joyful. (ok, enough “advice.”)
I’d offer Nicholas Wolterstorff’s Lament for a Son as far and away the best book I’ve ever read for “processing” all the things I myself could not express. I also offer, with some trepidation – you might wait awhile – Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. I thought she was in my head at times…
God bless, Amy. I’m immensely touched by your honesty and vulnerability, and am privileged to sit quietly beside you as I may. You remain in my prayers.

Sigh. That’s Ricoeur, not Ricouer. I’m a geek.

I’m glad you have comments on for this dear Amy, you and your family and most of all, your dear husband have been in my prayers since I learned of your loss.
May his Memory be Eternal, and know that you always have my love and prayers.

Amy…
Forget the books to read for now. Pray, find someone who will listen instead of tell. Guide the kids, but don’t put off the crying. Pray some more. Then pray some more. God will place the people in your life now you need and you will recognize them as you pray. Did I mention prayer? Keep the big decisions at arm’s length for awhile. I’m sharing from my own experiences when my daughters died in a car accident. Got to do it all over again on 9/11 when my brother was caught in the WTC. Pray and mourn. And don’t rush to the books. I read “A Grief Unveiled,” which I saw recomended here, way too early in the game and thought it was the worst thing I had ever read. Avoid anyone who thinks they can explain this to you or tell you they know how you feel. We don’t and they don’t. It’s not one day at a time, it’s one minute at a time. Know that, don’t push it, and pray. If you’re ever back in the Fort, we do dinner for fellow mourners on this road. You’re always welcome.

Amy, my father died on his 40th birthday. It will be 36 years this July. I think of him and pray for him daily. It never gets easier, you just learn acceptance. You and your family continue to be in my prayers.

I don’t know if this will make much sense, but I will try and express it. When my dear friend Gretchen died of lung cancer in August just days after her 39th birthday, I realized it left my soul filled with strange paradoxes. It felt empty, yet full; I was angry yet filled with joy; heartbroken, yet comforted, and all of this at the same time. It was almost as though all the vices (despair, anger) which I would have anticipated with her departure to be with the Lord were overcome by the fruits of the Spirit: hope, joy, comfort, love.
God has blessed you and your family and may he continue to do so in aeternum.
P.S. Euthus was the first Greek word I learned while studying the Gospel of St. Mark. I look forward to your insights.

Amy, I am very sorry for your loss. I really agree with what Ragamuffin said earlier here. The intensity of grief lessens but I still don’t “get” why things like this happen. I still miss my Mom. And I was thinking yesterday as I have done on many occasions, if only I could call her this one time. So I do talk to her and anticipate what her answers might have been. I still have so much to say and share – I believe that I learned so much from her that I still get answers, just not in the way I did before.
Our family has new routines and we do have great memories. And I am so grateful she was in my life. Sometimes, I let myself have the “pity party” for a while (not as often as I used too) and then continue to move on and try to honor her life by living a good oneself with my own family.
I am in awe of your ability to share this with us. I am praying for you, your family and your husband.

Grief has its own rhythms. In my experiences with the deaths of friends and family, it’s always been different and never what I expected. I didn’t cry when everyone else did, but earlier or later. I felt horrible for weeping until a friend pointed out that Jesus wept at the death of a friend.
The hardest thing to accept is that sorrow ebbs and flows over time. Years after my father’s death, I still catch my breath occasionally when something reminds me of him. Other times the memories only make me smile.
Our culture has become very focused on “getting over it.” In the workplace, your mourning is expected to be completed by the luncheon after the funeral, so you end up weeping in the ladies’ room because you’re suddenly unbearably sad. Mourning clothes and periods had their purpose. They cued strangers to treat the bereaved gently. One friend grew up in a family when everyone gathered at the house of the widow for 30 days each evening for the rosary. It meant she was never alone with just the children and her thoughts – at least at dinner.
Despite the current pressure to get back up to speed immediately, know that there will simply be times when your mind will shut down and you’ll be overwhelmed. At the same time, when that happens – all our prayers will be with you.

Dear Amy and sons,
I am so sorry for your sudden loss. I was on retreat with guest speaker Johnette Benkovic this past weekend when I heard about your husband. I too lost my daughter in a tragic accident eleven years ago, sometimes it seems so long ago and yet I can bring every detail back in slow motion at any given time as if it just happened. There are no real answers, but in faith we believe it is part of God’s perfect plan. I pray that the Blessed Mother comfort you and place her mantle of love and protection around you and your children, may she carry you in her most immaculate heart and place you all in the heart of her beloved son, Jesus.
The Lord has something special for you to do, but for now your task is to be soft and gentle with yourself, let your tears flow and allow yourself time to grieve. Surround yourself with loving friends and family that will help you and let you share your pain and sorrow.
You and your family will be in my prayers.
Love,
Linda Sacca

I thought of you when the funeral was taking place and pray for you and your children. It must be hard for them too to lose their father so suddenly. Leanne Payne, who has a wonderful healing ministry, lost her father when she was a little girl. She said that years later during a prayer service, the Holy Spirit said to her, “Forgive your father for dying.” It took her aback since she had not realized she had somehow blamed him. But she did forgive him and that brought her great consolation.
You’re right about the strangeness of it all. My mother died in May 2005 and about a year later I was showing one of the sisters a photograph of her that I put on my computer. She said, “I think your relationship with your mother has gotten better since she died.” Her remark took me by surprise, but as I thought about it I realized it was true. Death can bring healing of some things that aren’t healed in life. It’s a comfort knowing that now the loved one who died really understands things and holds no grudges, although we who are alive can hold them. Death is not the end of the relationship.
I had a vivid dream a few months after my mother died. She and my younger brother Louie, who died in 1996 from leukemia at age 33, were in some kind of big terminal, like a train station or an airport. They were waiting on a really long line to go somewhere. I was getting on the line too. But I didn’t feel good about it, and I realized that I wasn’t supposed to be there. So I said goodbye to them and left the building. I don’t know what it meant for my psyche, but I interpreted it that it was their time, they were where they were supposed to be. But I had to leave them. It wasn’t my time–not yet. It will be someday. That scares me a little. Faith doesn’t necessarily take away the fear.

Amy,
Grief and loss are such strong emotions, and at times, so deep and painful we think we cannot go on. But we do.
I have lost a dear friend, both of my parents, and my dear priest, “Father G” as we called him. After each loss, it seemed to me like time should stop, the world should stop, even if just for a moment. Yet it didn’t. I would notice the traffic zooming by, people going about their daily routines, and I would think, how can it be? How can life just march on without my loved one? It seemed cruel and unfair somehow. Maybe a part of me did not want to be separated by time, fearing that memories would fade, I would forget the sound of their voice, yet time stops for no one.
It seemed like the recently deceased long lost twin would pop up in the strangest places… I would see someone that looked like them at the grocery store, driving in the car, or at church. For a split second or less, I would think, “that’s them!” but the reality of thier departure was ever too soon back in my thoughts. At one point I saw a man at the grocery store that looked so much like my father, that I followed him with my shopping cart, and finally explained to him that I was staring at him because he looked so much like my father!
People often say that seeing the loved one’s body helps with acceptance and is good for you. I have seen more than a few dead bodies now, and each time, I hope somehow that they will look the same. They never do. Life has been robbed of them, at least the life that we know, the life we here on earth can understand and grasp. We so badly want to see what they look like in heaven, and have to hold on to hope and our faith that one day we will.
I talk to Father G. often, and I feel like he does hear me. I can still hear him talk to me, give me guidance, and laugh warmly at some of the silly thoughts and concerns I express. He was my spiritual director, and God used a white haired, 70 year old celibate man to put me on a spiritual path I had never before traveled. Although I only had the fortune to know Father G. for a few years, he will always be with me, he will always guide me from his place in heaven. The relationship has not ended. Your relationship with Michael has not ended either. He is still there, loving you, listening to you, and praying for you. I believe that.
Amy, I have rambled on and on, and it’s not like I know you except through Kathryn. I tend to express and process my thoughts best by writing as well. I hope that something I have said will help you enter in to the mystery of death, the new chapter of your spiritual journey that is so foreign, so unexpected, yet yours all too suddenly.
Susan

Amy and family, first, sorry about your loss.
My mother died in late 1999. We did have our difficulties in our relationship, but starting one day before her year anniversary of death, we started receiving miracles. Very loving, very personal, I would even presume to say canonization quality. I now see her in the light of God’s love, and feel her protection and intercession more strongly as the years go by. But it’s still a loss in a human perspective.

Dear Amy, It IS weird. Hold onto the weirdness. It’s mega important. You will never be the same again. Like the Phoenix you will emerge from the ashes. Hold fast when the dull numbness and the tiredness and the loneliness hits and remember how you are loved.

Amy,
I do not know you in person but I feel like I know your mind, soul and spirit through this blog and your former one as well, and I gasped and said oh no! when I read here that your beloved husband, whom I also “knew” only through you, had died. Please accept my condolences.
My mother died suddenly of a heart attack while at work. This was several months after the death of my father, who died after a long battle with heart disease and cancer. They were divorced. But it was one of those divorces where they never stopped loving (and hating) each other.
How bizarre it was. Like here we all were flying to her condo and going through the motions of preparing a funeral. Like a childhood game of pretend we were pretending that we were burying our mother. My siblings and I gathered at her condo and fought over the TV like we were kids waiting for her to come home from work. Even the cat stood at the patio door waiting for her. The days up to the funeral were all pretend until I saw her laying there in the casket and the weeping of her sisters and brothers, and my brother and sisters too. I was shocked into reality by the last people who saw her on earth who told me that as she was dying, she had laughed at the pain in her chest, and then said, okay I’m going now. And that was it.
I was shocked by the reality that death is merciful. It is a mercy that my mother who felt unhappy and unloved all her life died with her friends helping her; that she died laughing at I think not just the heart attack but at the lifetime of pain she was about to shrug off. For her to be able to laugh like that told me she had seen something that gave her great joy.

Amy,
What a horrible shock it was to hear about Michael’s death. I’m so sorry.
As I’m sure most people do, I wish I could just take away all of your hurt and sorrow. But that’s not possible and probably not wise anyway. Hurt and sorrow do have a place in life, unfortunately.
Since you’ve asked people to share their own stories here I will. I don’t have any words of wisdom but want to share this with you.
I know exactly what you mean about the surreal nature of all of this. As you may remember, my Mother died of lung cancer two years ago. It still feels surreal to me. I even am sometimes literally startled by the thought, even after two years.
At first I dreamt about her a lot. That was comforting as well as frustrating. I was comforted by other people telling me of their dreams of her. I think that not all of those dreams were simply memories. I truly think God uses our dreams for his purposes.
The worst thing I feel now is the jealousy when I hear about other people surviving cancer. It’s terrible, but it’s an honest feeling that I must deal with.
My Dad had a heart attack about a week ago and yesterday I was wondering why this 81 year old man was allowed to survive but Michael was not. I’m happy that my Dad is still here, but I just wonder about why things work the way they do.
I’d better stop before this becomes Meggan’s therapy session rather than words for you.
The biggest thing I have to say about death and my experience with it when my Mother died is that Faith most definitely carried me through. I never ever imagined that it would, as strange as that sounds.
I am on the verge of tears and ache inside for you. I can only imagine what you feel yourself. But I remember how strong you are and how much stronger and faith filled you’ve grown throughout the years.
God bless you and your kids, most especially Michael and Joseph. I will hold all of you in my prayers.

P.S. May I add? Please don’t feel diffident about blogging. You are a person of integrity and therefore capable of resisting sentimentality. These reflections and a certain distance which you maintain between you and yourself (if you see what I mean) help many others.

Amy,
My prayers are with you and your family. You have done a great service for others telling people to carry identification all the time. A woman I know went unconscious while running in Newark, and it was only after four days that she regained consciousness, the hospital found out who she was, and they notified her terrified husband.
God’s love be with you.
MCG

Amy: This past Friday I attended the funeral for the husband of a classmate and good friend. I hadn’t been to a funeral for quite some time (several years, amazingly enough), and it was many things: sad, surreal, beautiful, poignant, powerful, emotional. The homily was a moving and rich reflection on the Eucharist and the Communion of saints. I prayed, of course, for the departed husband and his dear widow, but also for Michael, and you and your family. I was overwhelmed by both the deep pain of life in this valley of tears and the great mystery of God’s providence and love. You will continue to be our prayers in the weeks and months to come.

There is a trinity in life as well as The Trinity in my church. And that life trinity is dancer, mirror and observer. There is the one dancing — moving to the music of life and death. Sometimes that is me. Sometimes that is the person who is doing the dying.
There is the mirror. The one who mirrors, sees and responds. When I am the dancer it is a particular, heartfelt love that I feel when someone mirrors me. Sees me, for who I am. Who mirrors not my action or my self, but my essence. Showing me that I am. Sometimes I am the mirror for another. A child. Or the one who has lived, and is moving out of my ability to mirror, through death.
And there is the observer. The one who holds both in love. Watches. Sees. Observes. Witnesses. Sometimes I feel that presence from a friend, or a mentor. Or a child. And sometimes I sense that I am holding a dancer and a mirror in my heart. I see them, truly see them.
And mostly, when I am quiet enough, this is how God is in my life. Animating me with the dance. Mirroring my life and my pain and my joy and my aging. And observing and witnessing me even when no one is around.
My experience with your work, your blog, your family and your writing about the loss of Michael is something like that. Caring. Loving. But not so much personal. More like part of a larger, more profound and meaningful plan.
It does not make my experiences less painful when I see them in this context. I do not grieve less. I do not hurt less in “understanding” — but I do feel more rooted in the experience, and know that there is meaning beyond my understanding.
Much love – Cindy

Amy…
I wish I could give words, a story, anything to help make sense of your loss. I, like the many others who’ve written, haven’t been spared loss either. All I can say is this: we cling to what we have around us. For those of us with faith and family, that is what sustains us. You will never make sense of the insensible, but you will come to a certain level of acceptance and understanding and the love that you shared with Michael will remain as real then, as it was and still is. How odd it must be for you, to receive so much counsel from those who only know you through your writing. I don’t “know” you, but can assure you that your loss has impacted my life, and accordingly the lives of those around me. I had begun to take so much for granted…my eyes are once again opened to the fragility of life, the beauty of love and the pain of separation…
I offer you, once again, my sincerest condolences for the loss of your dear husband. May God rest his soul, give you peace and comfort and I thank you for sharing your pain in this journey which is ever before all of us…

My husband died after collapsing at the pool, aged 30. Shock and awe are the words my spiritual director used to describe it years afterward. The shock is indescribable – and 22 years later I still occasionally think, gee, I should call Tom and tell him something. And it’s just as odd as it was coming home the first night to find his pajamas still on the bed. Awe of how God cares for us in all those around us..
May God be with you all….

When my dearest friend died two and a half years ago, the aspect of the grief I experienced that was perhaps the hardest to deal with was the realization that I was bearing the loss, that I could go on breathing, that I could go on living. God gave me strength, but in a weird way, I resented the strength, as if the the only way the loss could be fully expressed would be not to be able to bear it.
I pray that you will be able to trust your instincts as you learn how to bear the loss, as God gives you strength and comfort to carry on through your grief.

I lost my husband to a sudden and mysterious illness 13 years ago. He was 43. I still think of him a thousand times a day, but it does somehow get easier with time. I admit I don’t understand why God took him when he did, and never will, but it is a great solace to me to know that he is in heaven. One of the hardest parts about dealing with it all is the single parenthood thing. Each time one of your children does something good (or terrible!) you will want to share it with Michael because he loves them as much as you do. It’s so hard because he can’t be there physically for you and the kids although he would be if he could be! The good part is the kids will keep you busy and engaged in life. My advice is to connect with other young widows (I joined a grief group which was a tremendous help) and develop friendships with women in a similiar situation. They know and can empathize. God Bless.

I just don’t think it’s supposed to make sense, to us, here on Earth. It is my fond wish that all will be revealed to us when it is supposed to. You have my deepest sympathy and my prayers.

Dear Amy,
I am so sorry for your loss. I will continue to pray for the repose of Michael’s soul, and for you and your children, especially your little ones.
I was a little older than your younger two when I lost both my parents in the space of 18 months. My mother, to pancreatic cancer when I was barely 12, and then my father when I was 13 to a sudden and completely unexpected heart attack on Thanksgiving day. There was a great difference in these two losses.
We knew Mom was going to die for almost a year, so when it came, I was prepared to mourn. I grieved intensely. When Daddy died, I think I was in shock. The empty, blank feeling that it sounds like you have as well. It was so hard to accept that he was gone–no goodbyes, no chance for a last hug, no chance to tell him one more time how very much I loved him (I was definitely Daddy’s girl!). I still miss him very much indeed (and Mom, too), and it has been 36 years. I didn’t show, or even feel, much emotion at his funeral, which still seems strange when we were so close. I can’t explain it, and I am not sure that there is much help for you here, but over time, I have found solace in his faith and in mine, and in the mysterious kindness of God.
God bless you, Amy, and your family with you. May God make His face to shine upon you, and give you peace.
Mary Cambridge

Disoriention after the death of a loved one – it’s the mystery of it all, life itself.
Sunday night my son & I were discussing the discovery of all those planets out there that might have life – #1 because they seem to have water and #2 they appear to have volcanoes. Why volcanoes? A recent National Geographic photo came to mind – a volcano spouting and many lightening bolts above it. And we both remembered – electrical charges are what zaps the super-heated material from the interior of the earth and starts up the first living organisms.
It brought back Zoology class many years ago – not long after the double helix of DNA/RNA was identified. The wonderful professor spent the first lecture talking about God and life and that learning how God’s intricate universe works does not negate the wonder we should have for His gift of life itself.
It you think about it – it is just so awesome that we have concscious human life and all it entails. The entities we evolved from were colonies of itty-bitty beings that specialized and worked together – like the man of war still functions. With upper level animal life, the brain finally took over and runs the whole show as an integrated being. Then came consciousness.
Human life is actually improbable, if you think about it. It’s so amazing there is life at all, much less intelligent and feeling human life.
What an amazing thing that humans write and perform and love music, experience love and affection for each other, exchange and argue our thoughts and opinions, invent and tell stories that move us. All of this is accomplished through a living physical body, but that’s not the whole story.
I think that’s why the death of first my father and then my mother seemed so weird, so disorienting. After all that went into the development of a functioning, human being, all that incredible magic (and biological effort) is just gone like a snap of the fingers. Nothing else in our experience just disappears like that.
The close survivors’ lives have been oriented around and shaped by (and in reference and response to) a living personality who is suddenly no longer there. I think there’s a sense of free-fall until you start to shift and accomodate. The life experience with that person, though, is never lost.
When you can stand it: I recommend the Ode to Joy from Beethoven’s Ninth. Listen to it via Leonard Bernstein on YouTube – after praising the joy of human love, it goes on to declare the existence of joyful human love means there has to be a God out there who created it all, gifted us with it and has His purposes.
Brüder! über’m Sternenzelt
Brothers! over the starry canopy
Muss ein lieber Vater wohnen.
Must a loving father dwell.
(quietly) Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?
Do you prostrate yourselves, you millions?
Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?
Do you sense the Creator, world?
Such ihn über’m Sternenzelt!
Seek him beyond the starry canopy!
Über Sternen muss er wohnen!
Beyond the stars he surely must dwell!
Über Sternen muss er wohnen!
Beyond the stars he surely must dwell!
That’s where Michael, with whom your soul communed here on earth, is now. He newly understands the mysteriousness of it all – life and death.
I’ll pray for Michael and those he continues to love here on earth.

My son died five years ago today. One of the things I have noticed is that odd things can set me off. Things that I wouldn’t have thought of at all to be grief-inducing would send me weeping because of some distant association between it and my son. You probably have already discovered this, but prayer helps so much. If it weren’t for the knowledge that God has some master plan I would have despaired. That first year, Lent started on the 25th like it does this year. The only thing that I could bring myself to do was to pray the rosary. I felt like life was a penance enough. If you have a hard time doing penances this year or giving things up, don’t worry about it. If you want to do extra things that is fine, but you will have lots of suffering and “offer it up” opportunities as it is. Lent started three weeks early for you this year and will last much longer than forty days. God bless you.

Amy,
My dad, a church organist whose greatest love was sacred music, was killed in November 1973 in a car accident when he was 39. My mom, then a stay-at-home mom, newly widowed at 38, was left with 4 kids aged 16 and under. I was the eldest.
My first thought when hearing he had died was “what will become of us?” The rug had been pulled out from under us; I felt unmoored, unsure, vulnerable. I felt I had entered a new maturity, forced to mature emotionally and spiritually while my friends went on with their lives. I went through the motions of keeping up some of those friendships, but knew deep down I was different, for I had been asked to live a new life COMPLETELY with a new definition of security: God was now at the helm. Articulating this was not possible then, but the reality was daily growing inside me. And yes….when I’d walk up the hill to the cemetery it was surreal to stand at his gravesite in the snow, and think, “Dad’s under my feet. Wait, but not really…” and then just sink to my knees in sorrow in the snow and cry until I had nothing left. Somehow I think I received grace through those visits, though, and gradually I needed to go there less and less to feel close to him.
This “new” way of life (actually simply a new experiential awareness of life’s dimensions) has stayed with me ever since. I’ve since always felt somewhat removed from the world, known not intellectually but with real certitude that this – meaning the temporal – is (thank God) not It. Having my father, who I know loved me deeply, in heaven, has given the place a living reality that no book can convey.
There were a few lessons learned from this – my mom, an only child, independent, willful, determined, was not inclined to ask for help, and I wish she had been more open to it, for it would have taught us a better lesson than not letting others be of help. It truly does build up a faith community when we can learn to receive as generously as we give. Maybe it’s the flip side of charity, you know?
Also, at his funeral were several dozen priests and deacons from the area who had all known him well. I can’t describe the comfort of seeing that long river of white vestments processing in for his funeral Mass. It was the first of such comforts, and a visual memory that I’ve cherished since. Their support and prayers were invaluable. Truly the Church knows how to care for its suffering.
My heart ached with shock when I read your post last week about Michael’s sudden death, and it brought back, though with 35+ years to dull it a bit, the swift sick sensation of burning pain that accompanies such loss. Know this, though – he remains with you in a new way, and he is not alone in his attentions for you and your children. Love becomes magnified and transfigured in heaven, changed into something completely new and shining. He and the Lord will continue to father you all.
You have my prayers,
r.

I’ve been re-reading the comments here and I want to say one more thing.
The death of my Mother has made me much more empathetic to other people who have also suffered the loss of a loved one.
It isn’t that I didn’t care before – I just didn’t understand. Someone would tell me that their mother, father, aunt, uncle…or whoever, had died and I’d express my sympathies, but I couldn’t feel sympathetic.
Now I know what it means and I appreciate you allowing everyone to comment here. As you said, “it will be helpful to me and others.” I hope it is, indeed, helpful to you.
It has been helpful to me to read these comments.
Thank you, Amy.

Amy,
In my surreal experiences with sudden death (my Mom, car accident), the psyche took a long time to catch up to the shock. Sitting through the wake, funeral, I subconsciously was thinking I got home, I’d share with Mom how this or that happened.
For a long time afterward, particularly when a crisis happened, the instinct to go pick up the phone was still there. As a single mother myself, she was the go-to person. Numbness set in, a sort of what do you do when your go-to person is here today, gone tomorrow transition. I have a wide support system but those intimate and private things that were always part of the casual chatter in the togetherness leaves a strange and unexpected hole. (My mother was like the second parent to my children – she was a constant presence – picking them up, driving them to lessons, etc.)
I had financial/job-related changes I had to make during this period (because of the divorce), in all these forced changes, there was a numbness that I had to consciously be aware of and shake myself out of. With the sudden death of an intimate person, I felt like a big piece of my identity was stolen. You are reinventing a piece of you.
The most important thing to me, as I know it will also be for you, was getting my children through their own metamorphoses, vigilantly processing it with them. This was the gift that guided me safely through storm. Helping them, always helped me – and eventually seeing them flourish brought the peace.
So sorry.

Dear Amy
First off: Though a loyal reader, and I pray for you and your family and share your loss in a profound sense, I sadly don’t personally know you. I live far away in Australasia. and I have never commented on this blog before.
What brings me write here today is this: I have a story of loss in my life (who doesn’t), but one very different, and whose difference may be useful (I am hoping). This story of death and loss has a very clear answer to the “why” – and yet will not give me peace, though I pray for this soul to find peace (and feel that it finally has).
That soul was my father’s, a man who raised his children as a loving and caring family man, but who took his own life, in a time if loss, depression and physical sickness, under legal threat and profoundly lonely, and despite a strong Catholic background further away from the Church than ever before.
I was literally on the other side of the world when he took his life, and in a final email he very clearly told me why he had decided to do it. What he couldn’t tell me was how to deal with it.
I clearly knew why – but for many years I did not know how to even attempt/admit grief. Like you, I never got a chance to say good-bye (how could I), I was angry and disappointed, but most of all: numb and seemingly nonplussed. The grace of our Lord allowed me to finally make peace with what happened, and to find a “how” to the deal with the “why”.

Amy,
Everyday reader, very rare commenter here. I was extremely sorry to hear of Michael’s death. I too went through a sudden death. My mother died at 51 after being really sick but at home for a week. My last memories of her are trivia, we were planning my going to my first big dance at age 14. The next thing I learn, from a family friend babysitting my younger sisters and brother was that she was in the local hospital waiting for surgery. But she died before they could perform it, they just could not stabilize her. My father woke us up with the news at 6 AM, so the “kids” could get some sleep, since he was at the hospital when she died at 2 AM.
What got me through was my parents friends from our local area and my father’s brother. They made sure that we were not alone. My father, a Protestant, with a little knowledge of the Catholic faith planned a Catholic funeral Mass with the gentle help of my Catholic pastor and church organist.
But when the funeral was done reality hit, since I was the oldest most of the housework fell on me and the weekdnd babysitting since my youngest sibling was 5. So I made the mistake of not grieving or asking for help till I was 18.
The lession I learned was that you must make time to grieve, pray. And make time for the children, because they will need to ask you things, I know I did and let them grieve.
I have prayed for Michael and I thought of you and your family at the time of the funeral.

Dear Amy,
My biggest loss was not a sudden one – my grandmother was 91 – but perhaps this shall be helpful. I hope so.
For the longest time after her death when people asked me if I was alright, I wouldn’t know what to say. I got the sense that what I felt like saying, they didn’t want to hear: “No, actually, I’m not. I’m awful but thanks for asking.” Sometimes I indulged and said that.
The well of unconditional love within me that she was, was gone. Or so it seemed. I’d go to draw upon that well and find it empty. Prior to her passing I didn’t even know I was doing that.
Eventually I came up with a better answer to everyone’s well-intentioned question. It boiled down to this: the universe itself has changed; there’s a whole in it where she used to be and it feels as if the planet’s very axis has shifted beneath me. It will never be the same again. It’s time to redefine “normal”.
In time I learned to live on this new planet, in this new world.
On the other side of that was the realization that it was not the planet’s axis that had shifted, but my own internal one. I was the one that had changed, not the universe. Now I can honestly tell you that she’s with me more now than she was when she was alive, because when she was alive, she was only with me when she was in the same room with me. Now that limitation is gone.
Granted: every December 11th, I DON’T CARE about any of that. Every December 11th I want her here, now. Physically present, looking me deeply in the eyes, loving me in that way unique to her. As others have said, you never really “get over it”. You just change. The new you acquires a new normal. God gave you that chapter. Now He’s giving you another one.
You, he, and your family are in my prayers…
Regina

“There is a mystery, as I was telling Dorothy, and what I feel driven to do is not “understand” it, really. It is not even to “accept” it. It is something different, and I don’t get what that is – where that space is and waht it looks like.”
Amy: I’ve been praying for you, your kids and Michael since you blogged about what happened and will continue to do so.
I’m not sure I can add anything here but one thing did come up in my mind after reading the above cited quote.
I don’t have a very Catholic family except for my parents, two aunts (one deceased) and a nephew. Almost 20 years ago now I stumbled back into the faith for a variety of reasons mostly encouraged by watching Mother Angelica on cable and from the example of those who were Catholic in my family.
Being alone in the world and not with much support in the faith, when a close relative of mine died who was a good Catholic, I was struck in the way you describe. That space you describe. I felt separated and yet knew I wasn’t on some level and it made me reflect on the Eucharist. He’s the Glue.
My Mom always told me that kids are the glue in a marriage and that struck when she said it. At the funeral Mass it was that most of all that stunned me that on an intellectual level I understood, better than ever, that the Eucharist is the Glue that binds on an earthly plane and also binds us to the dimension beyond us. She didn’t feel lost to me then and I continue to consult her and all of my passed relatives daily. I ask them to intercede for me and pray for me. It is weird. But with the communion of saints, I never feel alone in the world in a family that is not even remotely as close as yours. It took a long time for me to get not bawl my eyes out over the loss, but that knowledge did help me on my way in that regard.
This happened again but in a different situation. My nephew was ordained a priest recently and when he celebrated his first Mass, at the Concecration, it was again that I experienced that feeling and a knowing. It was not about him, or me or anything else. It was about the continuation of the Glue and the promises of Christ contained therein.
Before I reverted to the Church I remember thinking that emotionally, I could never handle the death of anyone who was most important to me. Since reverting to the Church I know I can, it won’t be easy but I know I can. It’s the Glue that strings it all together and unites us through time and in different dimensions. Of course that’s all based on faith and I still have no certainty as does anyone.
But there’s still something there that brings strength. The only way I know how to describe it is because of the Glue that binds us.
I’ll echo what others have said above by saying about examples and Catholicism. That the particular loved one I mention above, by example, led me back to the faith, along with Mother Angelica and EWTN. I think you can see from the posts here and on the thread where you told of Michael’s passing that he affected a lot of people most of whom you don’t know. Our actions in response to Christ don’t add to the Glue, but they witness it.
I’ll continue to pray for you and yours.
In such a tender and powerful situation I hestitate to post anything but that quote did resonate with me.
Kathleen

Amy:
I lost my parents within 21 months of each other: Dad in Dec. 2006, Mom in Sept. 2009. They were in their 80s and in poor health, but still…
I can relate to the unreality of it all. I walk into their house now and still expect to see Dad at the stove (he was a restaurant chef) and Mom sitting at the table, waiting for her food. When I don’t, it hurts.
One of the things that was shared with me that helps me a lot is something that was said by a woman who lost her six year old daughter to leukemia. Hers was a Christian family, though I don’t think she was Catholic. She said, “My daughter is not just part of my past, she is part of my future, also.” She spoke, of course of the future reunion with her loved one.
You may not be in the place where that quote means anything real to you. That’s OK. The time will come when it will. Just tuck it away for later. When the time is right, you will know it, and find comfort and strength in it.
Like everyone else, I will keep you and your little ones in my prayers. Grief is a journey. There are good traveling days, and really lousy days. Anyone who tells you otherwise is…oh, never mind. Anyway, I’m praying. And though some days you will feel like you won’t make it, you will. You will. YOU WILL. God is faithful, even when we are faithless.
May His comfort continue…

A friend of mine died suddenly last year and I understand the strangeness of having to constantly remind yourself that this is real and not really being able to take that in. . . a sort of phantom limb syndrome. And the oddness and paradox of the grief, like Brian above mentioned, that is an unlikely mix of anger, disbelief, aching, numbness, and then, through all of that . . . a sense of awe and even joy that one you shared your life with one moment, has crossed that great divide so swiftly, and now lives in the joy (I hope and pray) of seeing her Savior’s face. Heaven seems that much more tangible.
The things that helped me . . .
*hearing about Susan from all the different parts of her life. . . classmates, family, volunteers, coworkers and seeing her with new eyes and with wonder at the selfless love she shared and lived with those around her.
*the growing certainty that came with prayer that she was deeply loved by the Lord and that he called her home because of that great love.
*contemplating heaven and looking forward to that eternally joyful homeland where we will never feel loss again.
*finding reasons to come together to be with those she loved and remember her –her birthday, for example. Her happiest one yet, as one friend says.
*the homily from her funeral Mass. Posted here: http://whispersintheloggia.blogspot.com/2008/11/in-him-we-live-and-move.html
I’ve also found that grief was easier to bear in quiet prayer in front of the Eucharist. Looking at our Lord in adoration, I know that on the other side of His presence, as it were, also adoring, are the full ranks of the communion of saints and that I could know and experience Susan in and through that presence now.
I know my experience of grief pales in the face of the loss of a spouse, so some of this may not be helpful, but in case it is . . .
Many prayers,
Marlena

Yes, I get the odd.
Three years ago last Thanksgiving my 22-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident.
For a long time, I could not process it — it didn’t seem real. I kept expecting her to walk through the door.
But it was more than that — I think that when you lose a child there is something that seems so wrong, so out of order, that it is as though the universe has turned upside down. It is strange in such a cosmic sense that your orientation to reality is shaken. Imagine if you placed a pot of water on the stove, turned the fire on underneath it, and watched it turn to ice before your eyes — that kind of strange — as though the laws of reality have been overturned.
I only met you once Amy, at the Catholic New Media conference. I never met your husband, but I am friends with some people who knew him very well and the grief they have expressed witnesses how special he was — and still is.
God bless you.

One more, and that’s my quota for 2009 I think. I really like what Jim from Ft. Wayne (I presume) said above. At one point recently, all I COULD do was – not pray, I had not even the strength for that – follow St. Ignatius’ insight to “avail myself even moreso of the sacraments.” And, as Jim wisely noted, I found someone to listen. I would go to mass daily, and focus completely on the Eucharist: my mantra was, “when everything else isn’t, HE IS.” That, and those who prayed for me when I wanted to but couldn’t – in other words, the sustaining and consoling grace of the Eucharist and shared prayer – kept me afloat. I will ask for that for you.

Amy:
Thanks for sharing from your heart!
These words are not intended to be words of advice on how to grieve because I know that I am not an “expert”, but I do share these comments from my heart.
Isn’t it amazing? As a Christian community should, you, who are grieving the most over the sudden loss of a wonderful husband and father, are, in fact, providing comfort and support for us, your friends and neighbors, as we grieve for the loss of a friend and a coworker. That’s what is so wonderful about living our faith! We are present on this earth a short time and it’s so important to rely on our fellow believers to comfort and support us in times just like this. Thank you!
When my older brother, Dennis, was killed in Vietnam in 1967, I was a young freshman in high school. I remember, as if it were yesterday, my father saying that we had to go to school on Monday before Dennis’ body was returned a week later on Easter Sunday. In our time of tremendous grief, he told me, my two brothers and my sister that we would attempt to return to some sense of normalcy. Believe me, my father did not mean “normal” from the standpoint of “normal” prior to my brother’s death because he knew that it could never be that way again.
I thought that I could never talk about Dennis without shedding tears of sorrow; however, I eventually was able to speak of the wonderful times without crying. That doesn’t that I don’t shed tears more than 40 years later. I believe that God gave us tears so that we can cleanse ourselves periodically, sometimes alone and sometimes with others. Thank God for tears!
Listen to your heart over the next few days, few months, and few years! Yes, years! An attorney friend once told me that you never “get over” the death of a person that you love dearly. You continue on with life with God, your children, your family, and your friends.
As I mentioned in another blog last week, Mike defined for me what a “devout Catholic” is. I am so appreciative of my conversations with him at OSV. He will be missed. I will continue to pray for you and your family as you continue making memories with your children.
May God bless you and bring you comfort!
Jim Morrell

Amy,
Ten years ago my wife delivered a stillborn baby girl. It took many years to understand, and not sure I’ve ever really accepted it. They were very dark days – months – years – and yet filled with grace. Not a joyful grace, not the kind I would wish on my worst enemy, but a grace nonetheless. The grace of yearning, maybe, or knowing despair, and definitely the grace of friendship and support and learning again – all new – about faith, hope and love.
Continued blessings for you and your children, and prayers for Michael’s soul.

Amy,
So many people have left wonderful comments with bits of great advice and love. What you said described many of my own thoughts after the loss of my newborn daughter, and yet her death wasn’t sudden at all. The shock of it all was very surreal, and very sudden, but her death was not unexpected. Here one moment, gone the next. It takes a great deal of time to process.
I am a very practical person. Taking care of all the details and getting my life back on track were top priorities for me after Therese’s death. I desperately wanted life to be back to normal. And as the weeks and months passed, the reality that things were now different became more and more clear. The reality of what that difference was hit hard.
Grief is like swimming in the ocean. There are days when the waves get very big and suddenly you feel like you are drowning. There are days when the ocean seem like a lake and you even feel guilty because you aren’t sad enough, or maybe you forget the waves will ever come again. In my experience I have learned not to analyze it too much, just keep swimming and ask for help when the waves get big.
I felt very uplifted by prayer in the days and weeks following Therese’s death. The body of Christ is truly amazing…but in the months and years that followed, there were many times when I felt very alone. The waves of grief would hit and I was literally drowning because I knew nobody was praying, or at least I felt like nobody was praying. When you feel this way, let people know. Remind them to keep praying for you.
After the shock and initial grief over my daughter’s death, I spent a lot of time wanting things to go back to normal. That never really happened. You hit a new normal, and you are a new person. I remember waking each morning and looking into the mirror at a girl I didn’t know. I desperately wanted to see the old me. But I will never see her again. With time, I realized that the new me was a much kinder, gentler, more sensitive and better person for my loss. My daughter did her job in helping her mama on the road to heaven. This is my only consolation.
I do not understand her death anymore now that I did right after her passing. But I have accepted her death as a part of my life, a part of who I am, and a part of my path to heaven. There were and still are many tears. There was and sometime still is anger. Grief takes time, and it never REALLY ends. I think I read somewhere that the grief cycle for loss of a child is 3-5 years. And by that I mean you come to a place in your grief where you have peace and acceptance, and have reached a new normal. These numbers might be different for the loss of a spouse.
I’m rambling now, but I wanted to write with my experience and to hopefully encourage you. While we have never met, I have prayed for your family every day since Michael’s passing. You will continue to be in my thoughts and prayers.

Dear Amy,
My Grandmother passed away on January 20th. In many ways, we had been expecting it. For a while we’d even been praying for it. Yet, when we got the call, it was a complete shock. Even despite the expectation and the prayers. As you have noted, the strangeness of it all has really gotten to me. The “here today, gone tomorrow” part of it all truly gives me pause. Sitting in her living room, taking care of estate issues, all I can think of is “we’re here because she’s not.” And it’s just so….strange.
My heart aches for you, Amy, and for your beautiful children. Your loss is severe. But we’re rejoicing at the hope of Michael’s tremendous gain. And we’re praying for you all with each passing day.

Amy, I am deeply sorry for your loss. I feel your pain. We lost my niece on Jan 3rd in a tragic car accident. She was a beautiful, pure almost 14 year old. Her best friend survived the wreck, but she also lost her two older sisters (along with her best friend, my niece). 3 good christian girls gone in the blink of an eye. God is a good God and we trust in Him. We are sure we will see miracles from this. Clarissa was ready to be with him and she will do much good for us from Heaven. We will pray for you and your family. May the loving arms of the Father wrap you in his care and love. Peace to you, Hannah

Dear Amy,
My husband, also named Michael, died unexpectedly of a heart attack at work at the age of 54, almost seven years ago. I also experienced the sense of unreality, that even the most familiar things seemed strange.
A friend sent me one quotation which I found helpful (and still do): “Nothing can make up for the absence of someone we love. And it would be wrong to try to find a substitute. We must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation. For the gap – as long as it remains unfulfilled – preserves the bond between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap. God does not fill it. But on the contrary, he keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other even at the cost of pain. (Dietrich Bonhoeffer) ”
I have also learned to rest in the verse “The fatherless and the widow the Lord sustains” (Psalm 146). He has kept this promise for me and my children, day by day and moment by moment, and He will for you and yours.
You and your family are and will be in my prayers.

It is because you have just been at the point where time and eternity intersect. You are still in time, and time like a river, as the hymn so well says, bears us all away, further and further along into the world of experiences, while the person who has died is now a fixed point in our time.
My husband died suddenly, and the circumstances were not pleasant; I can’t say the warm things about him that people on this thread have said about various people in their lives who died. But when I look back, what I remember is the feeling of being on a train that was rapidly carrying me away from some point where I wished to get off but which I could only see growing smaller as I was carried away from it.
The Spanish thinker Julian Marias was a disciple of Ortega y Gasset (yo soy yo y mis circunstancias, I am I and my circumstances) and wrote that human life is lived towards the future. And as Christians, we know what that future holds in a general sense, but we don’t know the experiences that will intersect with our path towards that future. So to some extent, you are feeling that you are being borne away from one point and simultaneously and unstoppably propelled into a future that has so radically changed that you don’t even recognize it. You’re not feeling fear, because you are a Christian, but disorientation.
As a practical thing, I would say it would be better not to make any big decisions for a year or so. Modern custom does not let widows or anyone who is mourning retire from the world, which is unfortunate. Your mind will keep hitting that feeling of “it doesn’t compute” for some time, and it really doesn’t. I used to have complete moments of blankness, a sort of mental shutdown, and in fact I was even very careful about driving, because sometimes I would simply feel so forgetful and absent that I was a danger to myself and others. But you will be moving ahead into the future, and as long as you stay close to the Lord, protected within the Church by this cloud of witnesses and following the steps of people whose future is already over because they have reached the goal, all will be well. My prayers for you and your family.

My father died suddenly (he had HCM-if the cause of death for your husband is listed “heart attack” I suggest you have this ruled out–it’s genetic-dominant–I have it) from a heart attack when I was nine. I was the oldest and had two small brothers. My entire life changed that day. It is a strange feeling. I felt as if the world should stop, how could anyone go about their daily activities? My FATHER had just died…. He was a wonderful man and I was daddy’s girl. All I can say is, it just gets better with time. Each second, minute, hour, day, year gets easier than the last as you rebuild your life without them. Although you really aren’t without them… You have the memories and stories and you can imagine and talk with your children about how your husband would have reacted and he with you, more than he was before (if you can imagine that). I think it must be much harder to lose a spouse. I think it is much easier on the children. You don’t know all of the things to worry about. Our family was also very supportive and we had a group of men who made their presence when needed. I think that it is important to keep strong supportive male family and friends in their lives. My father has become forever immortalized by his best deeds, jokes, silly stories his friends tell about when he was younger (I love these the most!) and to us he has become a saint. My mom was remarried 3 years ago to a wonderful man who also lost his wife and is very happy now. She still makes sure to talk about my father and tell us how proud he would of us and how much he would love my 5 children, and I know that he is.

Amy, I meant to also say that my family and I are praying for you and your precious children.

The expression Euthus — this was the first word that came into my mind on learning that Pope John Paul The Great had died.
It is the word we should all wish to have uttered at the time of our death.
Bless you.

Dear Amy,
I send you my deepest sympathies on the loss of your beloved husband and partner. Death has no words, really, even for the finest writers of which you are one. It isn’t a feeling one can wrap themselves in or around.
When my Katie died I wrote this prayer below. I was in Ocean City, NJ, walking along the beach by myself. She had been gone for one year. I dug a little hole for my comfort, picked up my pen and let the words fall upon the page.
“Fill Me with Your Glory”
In honor of Katie Brant’s Spirit 8-30-70 to 7-10-99
Dear Lord,
Fill me with your glory and your hope.
Help me to remember that without you
I can do nothing very long
But with you,
I can help further your holy plan.
Assist my spirit in remembering
That I can be instrumental and steadfast
Faithfully aiding our heavenly Mother
To nurture all of her children
Through kindness and love.
Teach me to remember what I have always known,
That I came from You and I shall return to You,
And there, within Your perpetual light,
My every tear shall dry away for I shall be with You
And those I loved so dearly here.
Guide me in Your plan to courageously and fearlessly say,
Not my will but Yours be done
Trusting always that my motivations here on earth
Are driven by Your holy will.
Show me the happiness which springs forth from having faith, The peace and joy that forgiveness brings,
And how prayer always makes life meaningful,
Despite any fears, losses or pain
I may be suffering in the moment.
Love me into full being so when I am born to eternal life,
I shall feel fulfilled realizing I recognized and multiplied
All the talents that You gave to me
And the sweet validation and peace I may humbly claim
From listening to You, The Bridegroom of my soul.
With compassion and prayer,
Mary Jane Hurley Brant, M.S.,CGP

Jessica Mesman Smith’s post at IMAGE’s “Good Letters”:
http://imagejournal.org/page/blog/grievingtogether
says what I feel, and far better than I could manage. Halfway through my MFA in creative writing I realized emotionally what I had previously known only through intellect: there’s more than enough suffering and sadness to go around, humanity’s leveling burden.
Prayers. Prayers.
The “Be kind…” quotation, to the best of my knowledge, originated with Philo of Alexandria, though I’ve encountered occasional and suspiciously undocumented attributions to Plato. Warren Farha at Eighth Day Books
http://www.eighthdaybooks.com/
features it (with a Philo attribution) on one of the store’s bookmarks.
Peace.

I, too, sort things through by writing. After my dad died in 2004, I found myself writing about the experience on and off over the next year-and-a-half. Some of my thoughts were posted on my blog, and others were shared in an RCIA class I taught last year during the Easter Triduum.
I had an Old Testament professor once talk about revelation in the scriptures… about how the Hebrew people had certain experiences, and then went back and interpreted them over time, understanding the meaning more deeply in light of subsequent experiences. That whole process made more sense to me after my dad died as I slowly digested the events of his life and passing.
Continued prayers for you and your family.

My prayers have been (and will continue to be) with you, Michael, and your children. May God bless you all.

When my 35-year-old brother dropped dead at work in 1991 I had the same ‘does not compute’ feeling. The emergency room doctor (whose English was not the best) mumbled something about making every effort and then kept using the phrase ‘he expired’, ‘he expired’. In the disbelief of the moment, I could only think that had I known he was about to expire, I would certainly have renewed him, as if he were a library card.
Every Christmas for years afterward most of me seemed to believe he would just show up and tell us he had just been off camping in Canada. There was no reasoning with my brain on this one. It just took time to fade away.
Amy, my prayers and sacrifices are with you.

Dear Amy,
I’m profoundly moved by your courage and faith in the face of your great loss. Also, I’m very grateful for your ability to share and communicate those same wonderful characteristics to us, your readers. Even though the shock and grief are still raw, take comfort in knowing that all of us are with you — and most importantly, God is with you. When we have Him, we have everything, even when it feels like we’ve been stripped bare and are totally alone. May God continue to bless and comfort you and the family. With love and admiration, Pat Gonzalez

My mom. Found on the floor in the time it took my Dad to get the paper. We were utterly unprepared. No apparent Reason- but it struck me then and stayed with me since that at that moment, for the first time in a long time, there had been peace in the family- a peace she had forged and nurtured.

Dear Amy:
I, too, am a reader but an infrequent commenter. It took my breath away when I came to your blog and read about your husband’s passing last week.
As many have said, we don’t *know* you personally, but through your writing we *know* you. Thank you for sharing your family, your Catholicism, your life with us. You continue to carry on God’s work through your writing and we are all grateful.
May you find the peace of Christ through prayer and all who surround you with love.

Dear Amy,
When I was 11 years old, my father (age 37) died of a heart attack. My siblings’ ages at the time were 9 yrs, 7 yrs, and a new brother age 3 months.
We knew heart problems ran in my dad’s family. My father’s mother had seven brothers, five of whom had died of heart attacks by the time my dad’s turn came. My father’s brother had had a heart attack at age 41, which he survived, two years prior to my father’s death.
Nevertheless, this was not supposed to happen to my dad. He was a non-smoker, not overweight, and he exercised regularly. He had medical tests done a couple of summers earlier, after his brother’s heart attack, which revealed no problems. (Of course, this was the 1970s, and diagnostic medicine was not as advanced as it is now.)
I am sorry to tell you that the strangeness you feel shall not ever entirely go away. The grief will diminish, and the sense of shock too. But there is more to it than that. I have often said that the entire experience of my dad’s death had a surreal element to it. That, I think, is the right word. I understand how your experience has a sense of mystery to it. It will start to “compute” over time – the brain has a way of asserting reason into a situation, even if it is after the fact – but your memory of these “I don’t get it” feelings shall stay with you.
Part of the surreality of my father’s passing was reintroduced to me a couple of years ago, when I had a long conversation with my sister about the effect our father’s death had on our lives, specifically on the five or six years that followed. I was quite literally shocked at some of what my sister told me. It was almost as if I had become convinced that the “strangeness” of the situation had not been experienced by anyone else. Obviously I should not have been shocked and I should not have believed that the surreality or mystery had affected only me. I’m bringing this up to lead into my next point, which I hope you will not find impertinent.
Advice is often worth what you pay for it, but I offer you this, having been where your children are now: whatever you do, even if the pain is great, keep talking to each other. Do not deny your feelings, and do not let your children deny theirs. There is no time limit on grief; do not let anyone tell you or your children that after (X) months or years they should have come to terms with your loss. Keep talking to each other, and keep talking about Michael. It may hurt to do so at the time, but it will take you a long way in the process of coming to terms with the hand you and your family have been dealt. A monumental mistake I made as a young person was believing that any reference to my father was an open to door to feeling the pain of his loss all over again, so I avoid the topic as much as I could. I tried not to think about it and I tried to simply adjust to the new direction our lives had taken. But it all ended up coming out later anyway, and caused me terrible problems as a teenager and as a young adult.
I will continue to pray for you and your family.

My dear, We’ve never met but you and your husband’s books have been recommended by good sources. I said a Rosary for you and your husband, prayed for you each day since he passed, and you all will remain in my prayers. I also asked an Order of religious in Ohio to pray for you, which I know they will. Be assured of support from the farthest reaches of the net. Process as you like or want. You have many, many people wishing you and your sons well, and who will not forget Michael. God bless you. He already has and He will watch over you now when you most need it.

Please know that prayers for you and your family continue. I also read your husband’s How To of the Mass book and am giving copies to my confirmation group next week. His work will continue to bear fruit.
When I lost my healthy and holy mother due to a sudden brain hemorhage when she was in her 50′s, I had two infants at home. I was brokenhearted, especially for my father, who lost his beloved wife of more than 30 years, for my brother and sisters, two of whom still lived at home, and my children. It was a blessing for me to have the practical duties of family life to occupy me, but I remember thinking how unreal it all seemed. If this was all a drama we were playing out until our ultimate destiny, what was the point of going through this drill? Why did God choose to fast-forward her drama, and not ours? We cannot know the mind of God, but he made us with minds that wonder why. At the same time, abundant spiritual graces seemed to pour down on us in our time of deepest sorrow, and our sensitivity to God’s presence was magnified. In the suffering of the loss of a loved one, we were painfully confronted with the primacy of love – for God, for one another. Nothing else breaks you and heals you like that.
May God bless you and your family, and surround you with his grace and love.

Last year a good friend of mine died suddenly while visiting family in Martinique in the summer. I found out about 2 months later via email. It didn’t make sense to me at all. I was in a kind of daze for ages, just asking ‘why?’ Why did he die? Why did I know him? What was the point? Why did we sing together in our Church choir? I found myself almost unable to sing because I would hear his voice, as if he was standing next to me as normal.
One day (at my lowest point) I began to think of all the ways that my life had been changed through knowing him – I literally wrote a list. Knowing that those things wouldn’t change, I changed – from asking ‘why’ to just saying ‘thanks’. I don’t know how or why, the change just happened.
My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.

I hope Amy that you render this thread in some permanent form…even a book. It is the deepest and most real content I have seen on the internet in ten years with all due respect to lighter topics. I had no one of our family die out of their proper time but then we as a family went through other great sorrows instead. There is a fairness in all these things. Yet all the above posts are astounding to me in their depth and truthfulness.

Dear Amy,
I cannot say I’ve ever experienced the sudden loss of someone close to me. But I do know the grief of having those dearly loved by me whose salvation is in doubt; there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t worry about and pray earnestly over the fate of their souls. If they were to die today, where would they go? I could only entrust them to the mercy of God.
But how blessed you are to know the fate of Michael’s soul! That is no small blessing, I can assure you. It is the profoundest that God could give you at his death, the assurance of his eternal welfare. Many could not claim to be so blessed, who not only experience the physical loss of their loved ones, but also their eternal loss.
May Our Lady of Lourdes obtain many graces of consolation for you today and hereafter.

Amy, I lost both my parents within a year of each other when I was 21/22. My mother succumbed to liver cancer and my father to a heart attack on Christmas Eve. Both were in their fifties.
It has now been almost thirty years for me and the unexpected nature of my father’s death still is here with me. I still, at times, expect to hear his voice or think I must tell him something. And then I realize I can’t and the sorrow overwhelms me. I struggled after his death, partially I believe because I fell prey to the “Big Lie” as Michael’s last column described. My father was a good man and my hero. Those years following his death were tough. But my return to the Church and gaining a better understanding the difficult issues of life and death and the big question of Why? helped me tremendously. I still don’t have all the answers but at least, the pain and sorrow don’t stop me dead in my tracks anymore.
You and your family are still in my prayers as you face the difficult days ahead. God is with you constantly. I saw that in so many ways when I married my husband and saw how he and his children healed from and are still healing from their loss ten years later.
Annemarie

What I have to say will echo some others here, but I feel now’s the time to write it down, anyway.
Firstly, I’m so sorry, for you and your family and all those who loved Michael.
9 months ago, our family lost a dear friend. Cancer. (And we all asked “why that cancer?” She lived a healthy lifestyle, ate wholesomely, exercised, didn’t smoke, etc) She’d been sick for about 14 months. She fought the disease, with every resource she had. She didn’t give up. At the end, she was suffering intensely, so thin and frail, we felt a touch would break her. But she didn’t give up.
Yet in my mind (and occasionally on the computer screensaver that flicks randomly through our picture collection) she is lively and healthy and joyful and even though we saw her become ill, saw her physical decline, it still doesn’t seem real that she is gone. She was so absolutely FULL of life – how could it really be stopped, be over? The ” life force” or energy was in her eyes even as her body was drained of strength and her suffering increased. It’s so hard to believe that it could just stop. Where could she be, if she’s not here – that life just couldn’t end.
Every so often something will happen and I reach for the phone or sit at the computer to email her, and the shock of the loss comes back. One day last year, DH was working on an assignment, struggling with one part of it and I asked him what would help. He said “what I keep wanting to do is ring K and bounce some ideas around with her”
There’ve been other losses in my life, but it was the recent loss of this friend that really led me to ponder “the communion of saints” that we profess and think about how I was professing it. That’s where I am now, still pondering, reading, remembering, listening, searching for where God is in all of this – still a bit lost, but not feeling so alone.

Read your husband’s post, had the chance to visit the trappists as well. Bother Rene has a rosary cabin in the woods, your husband and love would have spoken of it. This is a special place, given the chance you should return.
“Our Lady of Gethsenamie. Pray for us!”

A very dear friend of mine lost her husband in a car accident several years ago. Here’s what she wrote about finding her way through the pain and dismantling the life she loved to build her new life. Read it when you can. http://twistedvalley.blogspot.com/2007/04/process-of-dismantling.html

Amy, I am so very saddened to hear of your loss..for you and your boys.
I wanted to say that I lost my father 9 years ago..as his death rapidly approached I needed to write. (I picked up a pen and paper in the dark of the night and wrote in my bed, starting with his eulogy and finally a final chapter to his own autobiography.)
To write and write, about him, about what he meant to us, what a mighty man he was. In that writing, I had started my grieving in earnest, for I cried with that pen in hand, I was fiercely proud with that pen in hand, but with it came the very first steps to healing, for that is what grief is.
What I see here is a beautifully instinctive thing…you write and it is part of your grief and ultimately your healing journey. May God bless you through it all, Anne

Dear Amy,
My wife Edith and I suddenly lost our younger son, David, about five years ago, at age 21, with such a bright future ahead of him, as we had thought, and so we can at least unite ourselves with your sorrow in some way.
As has been discussed here, when this kind of thing happens, it seems to me that we want to know what the meaning of it all is, and so I have spoken with a number of priests about it over the last few years, but one of the most comforting things I have learned, and one that may take a while to become more completely evident, has come from a video of St. Josemaria Escriva talking with members of Opus Dei and others in the Coliseum Theater in Buenos Aires. A mother who had just lost her son asked him to explain how one can undergo such a thing with serenity, and he replied that God is not a tyrant, and neither does he behave like a hunter, lying in wait to fire a deadly shot at his target. God takes our loved ones at the time that is right for them, and in order that they can bask in his glory and his love.
At the same time, since He loves you and your children, too, part of His plan must also be to sanctify you through giving you the opportunity to exercise virtues such as sacrificial love, that you might not otherwise have had to do.
Along the same line, I have noted that sometimes when we pray the Suscipe prayer of St Ignatius, the Good Lord takes us up on our offer of everything, or at least of a very dear thing to us. At a (yes, an LC) retreat a couple of months before our son’s death, it was given to me that when we give something or someone to God, we do not suffer privation, but instead in some mysterious way, we experience fulfillment, as part of the great exchange of love between us and Our Lord.
With sincere condolences and best wishes,
Woody Jones

I just returned from the YMCA, where I spoke to the manager on duty from last Tuesday. There was another employee who was there at the time and was the first to work on Michael, but he had not come in yet. I hope I will be able to speak to him later today. I really need to know as much detail as I can, and I need to speak to people while it is relatively fresh in their minds. A bit later: I just received a call from someone who knows the person who was on the treadmill next to Michael. I hope to speak with that person soon.
Yes. How well I understand that.
Reading these comments, thinking about you and Michael in between prayers…all of this has helped me realize that the “weirdness” of it all is not peculiar to me.
When I was 31 and my husband, Bill, 40…he died. No sickness, no lingering, no good-byes. Just gone. Suddenly but unquestionably gone.
There was so much to do, and no time to cry…or so I thought. After everything that could be done was done, I threw myself into a mania of things that I thought would force people to remember him. Little foundations, gifts in his name, anything…my main fear, my only fear was that he would be forgotten.
I needed to speak, at length, to the people who last saw him. I need to talk about him to anybody who would listen. I wanted everyone who knew him to talk about him, to remember him with me.
I didn’t give myself time to cry because I was too busy making sure he was remembered. That was all mattered to me. I grew angry with anybody seemed to want to distract me from my mission of insuring remembrance.
And then, I did what I — idiotically, I know know — had avoided. I stopped, and I grieved, and I cried. And I prayed.
20+ years later, I still pray. I still remember. And I still love him.
Thank you.

Amy – my pastor, Fr. Kevin Johnson, was a classmate of Michael’s and was in St. Augustine last Monday. Tonight we spoke with affection, love and deep heartfelt prayers about you and your family. And of course Michael is remembered at all of our masses here at St. Louis Parish in Tallahassee.
I’m so often reminded of what a small world it really is and that connections made with the heart and with love are real and deep.
I was born in St. Augustine, baptized at the Basilica and have been brought more deeply into my faith by your books and by Michael’s writing.
So, thank you. And God bless you.
Cindy
Cindy – thank *you* for sharing that. It is very helpful and appreciated.