grief

Have a Laugh in Heaven for Me: A Memoriam of Walt Staples

March 16, 2012 By Sarah Reinhard 1 Comment

I don’t know, really, how I became friends with Walt Staples. We were both members of the Catholic Writers Guild, and I suppose that’s where it started.

At one of the online conferences, we became crit partners.

What that means, with someone like Walt, is that I got a first glimpse at his hilarious and insightful stories. I’d tell him where to add a comma, catch where he left off closing quotes, and other incidental items like that.

He read my stuff, too, and he was really helpful with suggestions and tips. He told me, when he read the early versions of both Welcome Baby Jesus and Welcome Risen Jesus that he found them invaluable for himself.

I treasured that praise–it was deeply meant and it came from a fellow writer, working from the trenches as I was.

Over the course of our friendship, we became pen pals. I haven’t had a pen pal since my girlhood, and I must say…it was delightful. My seven-year-old got involved at one point, and sent him a picture. He sent her back a story based on her picture.

We treasure those two stories, written by Walt for us.

Walt became a hero of mine over the years. He was so amazing that, though we’d never met in person, he could recommend movies for our family and send me books. He loved John Deere and railroads and his Catholic faith.

I suspect he was a boy at heart, all his days. His delight when he shared about how he loaded a couple of different railway game programs on his daughter’s computer was…well, it reminded me of the ornery look my mancub gets when he’s standing in the middle of the table.

Walt saw Catholicism everywhere. He won me over to the way of speculative fiction: he made it funny and relevant and, well, good. I was so looking forward to the day when he would write a book-length work, though his short work was always so GOOD. (I know, too much “good” in one paragraph, but it WAS!)

The life Walt lived is one I think we would all strive for. He was caring for his wife and was the rock in his family’s life. I have no doubt he laughed as much in real life as I did when I read his letters, emails, news clips, or stories.

Walt savored life, and he always, always found a way to smile.

He became friends with my husband through their shared love of cleverness in Words with Friends. My mother-in-law loved him to pieces and had, at last count, TEN games going on with him.

On Wednesday night, as I was collapsed in bed from a version of sickness I’ve not seen the like of in YEARS, my phone rang. Twice. From someone who doesn’t ever call me.

I listened to the voice mail and had a fleeting thought of Walt.

Then I called this friend back and she told me the news: Walt had been found dead at the bus stop. No foul play was suspected.

My first thought was that I owed him a letter.

My second thought was for his family.

My life is better for having known Walt. I’m grateful, more than usual, for the communion of saints, because I know that Walt is there, probably chucking it up with Mama Mary and a handful of other saints.

I can’t wait to see him again.

Please join me in praying for Walt’s soul and for his family.

Some of my favorite of Walt’s writing: Real-Life Romance, part 1, part 2, part 3

Filed Under: in the world, writing Tagged With: friendship, grief, Walt Staples, writing

The January 3 Anniversary

January 3, 2012 By Sarah Reinhard 1 Comment

Dear Allen,

Today is your day. And we remember.

As we look at the beauty of the day, as we struggle through commonplace challenges, as we get on with our lives forever changed, we remember.

As we pray for your soul and those who grieve most deeply, we remember.

As we heal and yet remain broken, we remember.

It’s hard to believe it’s been two years since we got the phone call on the country road, changing all of our lives forever.

Time dulls pain, or so the saying goes. But on January 3, after only two years, I can’t help but think that the pain is not so dulled.

I feel, sometimes, like I end up writing about things that aren’t mine. It wasn’t my husband who died, after all. It’s not my children who have to comfort themselves with thoughts of a father in heaven, as opposed to the feel of his arms hugging them.

Maybe that’s my role. Maybe my job is to share, to commemorate, to expose whatever small part of the grief that I can access. Maybe I am chronicling it and sharing the gift with more people.

Because it is a gift, even though it hurts. It hurts people whose pain I would carry, whose burdens I would bear.

I see it in her eyes, sometimes, when she doesn’t remember to guard them. I see it, other times, in the tilt of a head, in the extra-long moment spent in the bathroom, in the surreptitious wipe of hands across a face.

It’s funny, how we remember. There are times when we’ll be talking about something, and you will come up, be a part of the conversation.

It’s odd, in fact, how we feel that we know you better now that we’re around your girls–all three of them–so much more. I feel, at times, like you left us something like a living memory, one that we may not have appreciated if not for the lens through which we see it now.

You must be so proud of your girls. It’s hard on them, though they are brave and courageous and do their best to be self-sufficient.

Send them some comfort today, a hug from heaven. Have Mama Mary hold them tightly.

Related:

In 2011: Remembering and Remembering with Prayer
In 2010: Be a Mother to Us Now and Living in the Now
Allen’s tribute

Filed Under: family Tagged With: comfort in grief, family, grief, letter

A Great Guide to Help Kids Grieve

June 1, 2011 By Sarah Reinhard 2 Comments

I had never really considered grieving for children before I became the bystander. In the wake of a sudden and unexpected family death, two of my nieces became case studies in children grieving.

I have felt, in the last year-and-a-half, overwhelmingly helpless. I don’t know what to say; I don’t know what to do; I don’t know!

As with so many things with children and other people, sometimes just being there is as important as anything else. Thanks to a new release by Pauline Books & Media, I Will Remember You: My Catholic Guide Through Grief, I have a resource to share with the younger of my nieces, who’s ten.

This book has equal parts reading and writing/activity. It doesn’t just challenge the reader to think about the huggy-kissy parts of grief, but rather faces the steps of grief and explains them with short chapters and with fill-in-the-blank activities, craft ideas, and an ongoing Memory Box idea.

Reading this as the adult who’s going to be gifting it, I appreciated that it was age appropriate without pandering to kids. It’s intended for ages 7-12, but reading this made me want to look up the author for adult resources.

Kimberly Schuler has made a guide that is Catholic in spirit and essential in substance for grieving children. I can’t wait to share it with my niece, and I’m grateful to have a resource like this available to help her.

Filed Under: Books, Reviews Tagged With: Books, children's books, comfort in grief, grief, Kimberly Schuler, life with children, Reviews

In Honor of March 16

March 16, 2011 By Sarah Reinhard 6 Comments

March 16 has long been a day I remember with a mixture of fondness and grief. I’m grateful for this day, though it marks sorrow.

It was on this day that I witnessed the importance of life and the courage of people I would one day call family.

There, at the front of the chapel, in a casket no bigger than the laptop bag I carried with me nearly everywhere, was the baby. The baby she had been told to abort. The baby who lived his life through his mother. The baby who was held first by Mama Mary.

Logan is not a young man, scampering around and scraping his knees. He is not climbing trees or writing adventures. He is not here.

There’s sorrow in that. Even though it’s been nine years and it’s no longer new, there’s still the chance for tears on this day of remembrance and at other times.

But he was given a chance to live, however briefly, because of the faith and humility of a couple who wouldn’t play God.

Allen, who went to his eternal rest early last year, once told me that it was one of the best decisions he ever made with his wife, that decision not to abort.

They went on to bury their boy, as they knew they would. But it remains, for Susie, one of the cornerstones of her faith journey, one of the foundations of who she is.

In the midst of asking why, of wondering what’s next, of just trying to get through day-by-day, we have this day. It’s a pause to consider the eternal in the midst of the temporal.

And though we have tears leaking out of our eyes, it is possible, with God’s grace, to see the rainbow the sun makes as it shines through them. We fill the hole in our hearts with prayers for those who remain, and we thank God for the gifts He gives us, however short a time they may be in our arms.

Filed Under: family Tagged With: comfort in grief, Faith, family, grief

Remembering

January 3, 2011 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

A Mary Moment Monday post

Nine days ago, it was Christmas. Nine days ago, it was a whole different year than now, 2010. Nine days ago, I began a special novena to Our Lady of Sorrows.

Today is an anniversary our family will hold dear and commemorate for many years to come. It is one that marked a ripping apart, a journey into pain, a year of worst fears coming true.

We have spent the year in prayer. We have spent the year with many tears.

We’re not done praying. We’re not done crying either.

All year, I’ve found myself examining Mary in light of sorrow and grief and especially in her title as Our Lady of Sorrows. I’ve gripped her hand and tried to let her do the worrying. I’ve placed worries and tears in her lap, trusting that her Son would nestle there and have special consideration for that heavy pile.

I want to write a lovely tribute about my deceased brother-in-law who, I’m ashamed to admit, I’ve come to admire and respect so much more in the closeness that’s come since his passing. I want to share deep thoughts and life-changing insights, but the fact is…I find that I can’t.

For one thing, it doesn’t feel like it’s my place. For another, I am at a loss for words. Though they usually string together for me, this time, they aren’t. They won’t. And I’m not forcing it.

When we watch our loved ones suffer, we suffer too. When we find ourselves unable to relieve them of their burden, we are changed, however slightly. This year, I have felt helpless, and I know I’m not the only one. I have done what I could, but it has felt piddling and inconsequential in the face of the huge pain and impossibility of so many aspects of this situation.

I have, above all, prayed.

So often, I hate being reduced to “just” praying. I hate not being able to show up and do-do-DO. And yet, looking back over the year and considering my own journey through grief with the people I love, I can’t help but see a glowing lesson, one that points me to prayer.

Today, I will begin another series of prayers. I will embrace Mary’s hand and marvel at the familiarity I find there. I’ll look to her face and find it as tear-streaked as my own, and I’ll remember that she knows this well. Not only did she carry her own grief through the Passion, but she looks on each of us, her children, and feels, so keenly, our burdens of heartache.

Perhaps more than anyone else, Mary understands.

Mary, Mother of Sorrows, be a mother to us.

image source

Filed Under: Faith, family, Inspired by the Virgin Mary, Mary Moment Mondays Tagged With: dealing with change, death, Faith, family, grief, Mary Moment Monday, prayer, sorrow, Virgin Mary

Remembering with Prayer

January 2, 2011 By Sarah Reinhard 3 Comments

Tomorrow marks one year. I don’t want to dwell on it here, because I feel like it’s not my pain and somehow, by writing about it too much, I somehow act like it is.

Don’t get me wrong: I feel pain. We all do.

But it’s nothing to what my sister-in-law and his daughters feel.

So I am posting this merely to ask for your prayers in a special way in the coming days. It has been a rough holiday season, I know, though they haven’t mentioned it. And after a year, the pain is different but still very, very there.

And he is not.

And we remember that.

I’ve learned a lot about my late brother-in-law in the last year. My respect and regard for him have grown. And, for some reason, I feel quite a bit of regret about that, that I didn’t take time, make time, have time in the 38 years he was with us to explore him further.

Mary, Mother of Sorrows, be a mother to us now.

Filed Under: Faith, family Tagged With: family, grief, memories, prayer, sorrow

Mary and Rachel (with a giveaway on top)

November 8, 2010 By Sarah Reinhard 23 Comments

A Mary Moment Monday post

I have small white caskets on my mind. We remember Lucas (Logan‘s older brother) on November 14, and that’s one reason why. I’m also due to have my baby in the next four weeks, and that’s another reason why.

For me, pregnancy and caskets are linked. It’s not a morbid linking, though as I look back at that sentence, I realize it sounds a bit alarming. Maybe I should compare it to how the crucifix means more to me in the context of Christmas than at almost any other time of year. When I see Mary at the manger in our Nativity scene in the front of our church, I sometimes sneak a glance upward, to the crucifix, and think of Mary’s baby boy hanging there. She’s at the foot of the Cross from the very beginning.

I’ve only witnessed two women bury their children. One of them buried her second son, while holding hands with her two daughters and husband. Years later, she would bury her husband, and as I watch her up close, I marvel. And I pray…very, very often, with more emotion than words.

When I read Rachel’s Contrition (reviewed here), I was struck by many things. One was the raw emotion of Rachel Winters, a mother who buried her daughter. I recognized that emotion; I had seen it up close.

Mary’s a part of Rachel’s Contrition, in a way that might seem surprising. Here’s her first appearance:

I turn to the front of the small chapel area and see above me in an arched alcove trimmed with sculpted doves, a statue of the Virgin Mary, her eyes turned skyward while angels, bent in prayer, kneel at her feet. As I look up at her, I find my eyes drawn upward as hers are, and gradually I quit thinking of mysef and think only of my nightmares, of Seth and Caroline, of life. I slide into a seat and stare at her. As I study her, recognition dawns on me. She is the lady in my dream, and the very same woman I saw running into the church. She is the one who was holding my baby.

My baby. How could you take my baby? The pitch in my veins rises to my head and pours out in tears. I may be a horrible person, but I was her mother. She’s my baby. How could you take her away from me?

We find Mary and Rachel again, together, later on:

I look up at the crucifix and try to picture Jesus holding her. I can’t.

Instead I say something I don’t mean to admit. “I had a dream once. Not about Jesus or God or whatever.” I pause not wanting to go back to the memory. He waits silently. He’s good at that. “I saw Mary holding her. It was Caroline’s baptism and Mary was holding her instead of me. I thought it was a lady with long white hair, but then I saw that statue over there and I realized it was her.”

He nods. “Baptism washes us clean and makes us open to salvation. I think it’s very fitting you saw her that way. That’s a good image to start with. Now think of Mary rocking your baby in heaven and Jesus looking over her shoulder, touching her cheek, delighting in her beautiful smile.”

I try, but I’m not ready for that yet. I picture Mary holding her and I still want to pry her out of Mary’s hands. I want to hit Mary with a stick and tell her Caroline is my baby. I don’t tell Father Jacobsen that.

In some deep part of me I understand where Father Jacobsen is going. If I can get to the point of picturing her with Mary and Jesus, I will be able to release her to death, to accept that she’s in heaven and not coming back. I can say it to myself a million times, but I have to make myself believe it. And he’s right, I have to become comfortable with it or I won’t ever really lay her to rest.

I picture Mary holding our nephews, playing with them in heaven, introducing them to her Son, and I smile. But I know about being mad at Mary: it’s something I’ve observed, and something I think I could experience myself, firsthand, given the right circumstance.

HOW DARE YOU TAKE MY BABY? How dare YOU hold him first? What more DO YOU WANT?

Isn’t she supposed to be helping us? How is taking a baby — or a young father — help? Oh, she’s not God; I know that. But she has influence; she has say; she has weight with the Big Guy. Why not help a sistah?

Good can come from what appears to be tragedy; is it still, then, tragedy? Who’s running this show, anyway?

Rachel’s Contrition tells a good story, but it also challenges me to examine my attitude a little more closely. Author Michelle Buckman told me it was a story she had to tell. She also told me that she couldn’t, in any way, remove her Catholicism from this story; it was as much a part of what had to be told as the death of the little girl.

Leave me a comment on this post and tell me why you’d like to win a copy of Rachel’s Contrition, and I’ll select four winners next Monday. Comment by midnight EST on Sunday, November 14. One entry per person, please.