I went to a Supper to taste the Christ, I was so hungry for him. So very hungry after months of vacuity, and when I received the bread he was suddenly there, in me.
With friends and needy and grieving and isolated and savoring, I went creative: the paintbrush and the hammer and the string making patterns I could follow.
I imagine that, like me, you want an answer: something to eat or do or break or understand that will make the difference, make this bearable.
This is the stage that all of Shari’s thinking blog readers have been dreading for years, when her humor and good sense desert her and she disintegrates into dramatic, navel-gazing grief for weeks on end.
Thank you so much for your advice and wisdom on my last post. I wrote what follows before I read your stories, but I could be quoting you. You also said some things I’d never thought of before. Thanks for being so brave in sharing your words. Here are the suggestions good women gave to […]
Dear Son, It is always easier not to feel. Some days, even weeks, I am entirely numb, knowing I lost you but unable to feel a thing—no love, no loss, no tears. Then comes a day when it all breaks over me. And afterwards I get up and clean my house again and cook supper […]