Be Like the Little Children: An Open Letter to Pastor Joel Osteen

Dear Mr Osteen,

When my daughter, Cheyenne, died in 1994, easily some of the kindest and most tender words of solace were offered by the young, sometimes very young, children. They seemed to understand the pain of a baby's death. Some children, often of my friends or neighbors, learned of the news with their parents; the children's faces contorted with sadness, their heads dropped, they hugged me, a few cried.

Years later, even now, when I tell a young child that one of my precious children died - many years ago - he or she will often respond the same way. An old friend's 8-year-old daughter, whom I just met,  said, "That's the most sad thing that could ever happen isn't it? You must still be so sad."

Indeed, I am still sad that she's dead. I will be an old woman, sitting in a chair, looking out a window, and wishing she never died.

It's a concept that is simple enough for a child to understand.

But apparently it is a concept that seems to be far too complicated for subsets of adults. Not just "grown ups" with plenty of letters after their names and copious industry funding sitting around a table deciding who's "mentally ill" and who's not "mentally ill" but also for spiritual leaders, who want to use the Bible, or any other holy book, as a weapon to emotionally assault those who are the most vulnerable.

Mr. Osteen, instead of chiding those who mourn the death of a child, telling them that they "like the attention too much" (shaking my head in near disbelief) and castigating them because when others "tried to lift their spirits", they were not as responsive as you - or others - believed they should have been... perhaps, instead, you and others should join them in the abyss.

Allowing mourners to be in their pain, without trying to make them change how they feel (often to make yourself and said others feel better), would actually be a more compassionate and more Christlike response. Why? Because trying to force a grieving person to feel better is like telling a double amputee to get up and run before she is ready: its insensitive, lacks circumspect, and certainly doesn't even remotely resemble compassion. And Jesus seemed intent on compassion for the weakest amongst... didn't he? Are we talking about the same guy?

I suspect the psychological responses of the couple to whom you make reference in your book were exacerbated by judging others who, like you, are likely terrified to imagine what it would be like to see your own child's dead, cold body laying in a casket. I do understand. That's not an image you want in your mind is it, sir?

So instead of joining them in imagining that horror, one you really can never fathom until it is happening and, even then, the brain does all it can to protect itself from the utter atrocity of the experience, you - and others - use spiritual bypass to "lift up" - only for many, these pushes toward premature healing don't lift up grieving parents- they tear down and alienate and ostracize those who most need comfort and solidarity.

By joining them in the abyss, rather than "lifting them (forcibly) up",  they see that others have stood by them, borne witness to their suffering, not averted their gaze, have offered their nonjudgmental heart and compassion, slowly, ever so slowly, integration comes.

No, they do not "like the attention." No they are not slathering in what you call "self pity."  Their child is dead. 

At what point in your ministry did your heart turn to stone?

This attitude, sir, is the reason that many grieving parents with whom I work turn away from religion, perhaps, even from God. Does Romans 14:13 mean anything to you?  Your words may become the very stumbling block about which the Apostle Paul admonishes.  And I assure you, there is no one more vulnerable than a person who is traumatically bereaved, particularly a parent who has lost a child.

So, two things. I invite you to participate in my training on traumatic grief where I cover the issue of spiritual bypass and religion, and where we explore findings from a survey of bereaved parents I conducted that found pastors and spiritual leaders scored lower in satisfaction with compassionate caregiving than doctors, nurses, social workers, mental health providers, funeral directors, first responders, and investigators.  I'll even pay your tuition.  You can register here.  You will learn more in these four days than you did at seminary, if you attended seminary, I promise.

And two, I encourage you to re-read my opening paragraph and refer you to Matthew 18:3:

Truly I tell you that until you change and become like the little children, 

you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."  

You can begin that change with a swift and open apology to all those so deeply hurt by your words. I hope that your Christ moves your heart to see, to truly see.

I look forward to hearing from you. Of course, you can email me Dr_Joanne@me.com.

Oh yeah, P.S.  "Jesus wept."  Ironically, he knew he was going to resurrect Lazarus. That Jesus - maybe he just wanted attention and was wallowing in self-pity?


*****

Update: I have invited Mr Osteen to either apologize, publicly, to the bereaved, showing a little Christlike humility, explain himself publicly for his statements in Chapter 17 of his book which were so offensive to so many, and/or publicly debate/discuss/discourse about this issue with me.

Sadly, in response, Joel Osteen and his ilk have blocked me on Twitter. To see the photo of the book excerpt that hurt so many, view here.

Seems I may have triggered a little passive aggression from the Joel Osteen Ministry Team because apparently this issue isn't important enough to "matter."

And all this talk about this issue may be evidence of extraordinariness:

Yeah, a special kind of extraordinary, apparently.  As an aside, those folks who sit around that table and make those decisions I talked about earlier? Sorry, but they'd have a number or two for you.

**************

Update 2:

‪#‎JoelOsteen‬ continues to block every bereaved parent who implores an explanation or an apology. He blocks and then deletes the stories of their children who died. He takes down their photos from his wall without so much as an "I'm so sorry you endured this." I'm trying very hard not to judge. But this, to me, not only feels like a devastating violation of what it means to be a spiritual leader but, more importantly, it feels like a devastating violation of what it means to be deeply human.

I want to extend my heartfelt apologies to all the families with whom I've worked and with whom I have not worked. I apologize for the blocks and deletions and for the untrue and uneducated words he published in that book re-published in 2014, Chapter 17, that acted as a psychological weapon against so many already so wounded by the death of a child or a sibling or a spouse or a parent.

As a scientist, as a counselor, and as a bereaved mother, I assure you that the issue of grief, particularly when traumatic, is something that should not be irresponsibly discussed by those who lack the training, experience, education, and compassion to do so: not in a university, not in a book, not in a coffee shop, and not in a church. If you do not know, just listen. If you cannot understand, do not judge. And certainly, never vilify and humiliate someone who has been hurt with a hurt so deep that "not even the depth and breadth of eternity can fill it" (Charles Dickens) the way he did with Phil and Judy in Chapter 17. They represent us all, any person grieving for longer than Mr Osteen deems appropriate and any person who does not appear to respond to the "lifting up" of others.

Let me explain for a moment why I feel so strongly about this. Scholars have found that bereaved parents, in particular, are at increased risk for suicidality and premature death (Sanders, 2006; Qin & Mortenson, 2007; Cacciatore, et al., 2014). Countless studies and common sense tell us that social support is one of the most salient predictive variables in protecting those who are traumatically bereaved.

Conversely, social constraints, like others refusing to talk about our grief, failing to remember our loved one, and pressuring us to move on, are "significantly associated with more depressive symptoms, perceived stress, somatic symptoms, and worse global health" (Juth et al., 2015). What I read in his book is about social constraint. Not just harmless foolery in my opinion but also dangerous.

This is an exceedingly high-risk population, fragile, and they (we) need and deserve love and compassion and patience and humility from those around them (us). Most do not need want to be forcibly 'lifted up' or expected to "move forward" in a few months or even years. Most do not need or want others to judge them. Most want others to accept what they feel in that moment, be it sadness or despair; guilt or regret; or even peace and nostalgia. Given the space, compassion, and dignity it deserves, their grief will slowly change over time. Not give the space and compassion, and dignity it deserves, and ... therein lies the problem. What happens in the spaces between people matters.

Most grievers simply want others to care and remember with them, to allow them to be authentic in whatever that moment brings. In the wise words of Robert Hall, M.D., "I help them be with what is true. The healing comes from that."

A person of influence who misunderstands and declares war on grief not only harms individuals and families. He or she also influences unrealistic expectations and, thus, hostility toward the bereaved in society.

I leave you with the words of Walt Whitman: “Re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body."


Update 3:

If you follow this blog and you're upset by this, I understand. But please do not heckle Mr Osteen in church like this. I support peaceful, nonviolent, and respectful protest. Stay outside his church and hold signs or write a blog. But please don't go into the church and heckle him. Thank you. And I'm sorry - very very sorry - he hurt so many so much.

If you have something you'd like to say about this and you're on Twitter you can use #StandUpToJoelOsteen and #JoelOsteen.

What Love Can Do...

Chemakoh on the day of his rescue

Chemakoh, not even one month after his rescue, thriving

If you haven't read the story of Chemakoh's rescue, 
please read this.

The Hardest Job of All: Mourning Mothers and Mother's Day

From Mother's Day, 2013

Welcome again, Mother's Day... A time of year for celebrating all the wondrous love of moms.

Yet, Mother's Day can be an excruciating experience for mothers whose children have died.

Instead of braiding her daughter's hair, the bereaved mother strokes her once-used blanket that still smells of her little girl.

Instead of going to her son's soccer game, the bereaved mother brings flowers to his grave and brushes away the dirt caked into the capital "B" for Brandon.

Instead of saying, "I'll see you later," she says, "I miss you so much."

Instead of washing her children's clothes and helping them with homework and cooking their meals and giving baths, she spends her days wishing for one more moment, one more memory, one more touch, one more chance to whisper, "I love you."

Like other mothers she thinks of her child, worries about her child, talks to her child, and walks with her child.  She recognizes, like all mothers, the boundlessness of her love, only she sees it at a much deeper level, one that extends beyond the material realm. She welcomes when others ask about her child, compassionately, and when others remember her child.

But the bereaved mother does all of this with an unrelenting pain and longing in her heart that is unimaginable, unfathomable to most. And this makes being a bereaved mother the hardest job of all.

Still, she is a mother. Then, now, and always.

And she is as worthy as any other mother, if not more, of recognition this Mother's Day. Sadly, many will overlook her or be too fearful to tell her that the love she holds so close to her broken heart is seen and revered by others.

Please, take time to send a card, some flowers, or even just a simple email to a grieving mother you know this Mother's Day.

******

I wish all our bereaved families a gentle Mother's Day, recognizing the agony and the pain, the beauty and the love, the unique and irreplaceable relationship between you and your child/children.  My mother's heart to yours...

Two souls that come together as one in destiny: Chemakoh

“Until he extends the circle of his compassion to all living things, man will not himself find peace.” 

-Albert Schweitzer

Two weekends ago, I went to the one place on earth- a seriously remote place- I'd always wanted to visit. Because I'm not ready, yet, to speak of this specific location, I'm going to forego details about the area... it's not a significant factor in this most amazing story.

To make a very long story short, with my camping gear in tow, and after months of preparation for the 10 mile hike that would take me to this long-awaited location, with 120 ounces of water, food, a few garments, my sleeping bag, and bandaids, I (and friends) began our journey.

This is important: I waited decades for this trip.

With friends, moments before the hike began

Within five minutes on the trail, I came upon a scene I will not soon forget.

This particular trail uses mules and horses to help humans carry their packs. I knew this was not something any of us would do, but I also knew many others would opt for this.

But, as we turned the very first corner, I witnessed a scene that will remain ensconced in my mind and my heart, probably, for many years to come.

A horse - carrying many packs tied to a frame on its back- had fallen to the ground.

A young man was treating him very poorly, trying to get him back on his feet.

I yelled. Loudly.  He stopped.  I started to cry, and my heart was pounding.

He took his other four or five horses back up to the top of the trail.

Our group stayed with this horse as he lay helplessly on the ground. He was bleeding from his head and legs, as they buckled under him. I saw this majestic creature, limp and terrified...

I bent down slowly, reaching out to caress the horse. He flinched.

I wept. Openly. Loudly as others hiked past us.

This horse looked in my eyes, and I looked in his.

He finally allowed me to stroke him, and I felt like he knew: I was that horse many years ago. I, too, had suffered as he was suffering.

As people passed us, some asked if I was ok.  I said, "This horse, this horse is hurt! He's been abused!"

But there was no one to call - no cell service - no police - no one because of the remoteness of the location.

We removed the heavy packs from his weary, sweat-drenched back. I can only imagine the relief. Then, we removed the saddle and the wooden frame used to tied the packs.

Underneath, revealed open and bleeding wounds that covered his back, his knees and legs were bleeding, he had lacerations on his belly and around his trunk, and he was horrifically emaciated.  I stood up and my head spun in circles... it was one of the most terrible things I have ever seen.

Only one of the injured areas revealed beneath the saddle

We didn't know what to do.

So we sat with him for about an hour as he rested on the ground, and as people passed by, looking up and looking down but few looking at the horror of the scene, and I plucked scarce grass from the mountainside to offer him. I held his head and he rested in my lap. We could not leave without him, could we? This precious life, my brother horse, child of earth, just like me... how could I leave him? How does a person see this and not do something? What would Jesus do? Or Gandhi? Or Mother Teresa? Or Siddhartha? Or Chief Seattle? My heart literally hurt.  Sobbing uncontrollably, I told him how sorry I was, over and over again, that humans did this to him. I vowed: "I'm going to help you, I promise..."

We offered to buy him from his owner, twice and vociferously. He declined. Abruptly.

Our trip was over. We could not hike and camp now. We had to leave, and my heart broke as I stared at the horse, walking away, fearing I'd not be able to help.

I cannot describe this feeling.

It would be nearly two hours before I could get cell service to make calls. And I made many calls. I called the forest service, the sheriff, the FBI,  local police, animal control, legislators, congress leaders, horse rescues, animal protection groups, superintendents, police chiefs, lawyers, an animal activist colleague, friends, neighbors, strangers, this specific community's police, and their governmental leaders.  For two days, I stayed in my pajamas, made nearly 100 phone calls and sent more than 100 emails. I felt hopeless but I had to keep trying. This animal's life mattered. I had to exhaust every possible means to rescue him and get him the medical care he so desperately needed. I was told repeatedly that there was "nothing (anyone) could do." Repeatedly.

But, I was not going to stop. I couldn't.  I saw into this animal's soul, and I loved him.

Then, my holy grail... I am unable to give specifics as to who helped me right now, but one person heard my plea and a team of governmental leaders got behind this effort.

Seven phone calls with him and six emails... and finally, three days later... I got the call.

"Dr. Cacciatore," he said, "how soon can you get here?" he asked.

"What?" I asked. "What, really, really? Seriously?"

"Yes ma'am..."

Around 4pm last week on a Tuesday we got that call, and by 10pm we had a trailer and a truck with the help of a bereaved father, JJ's dad, and his amazing friend, Eddie. And, at 2am in the morning, three heroic men headed for the long five hour drive - then descended by foot many miles to rescue and rehome this horse. I prayed from 2am until 5am and waited.

And waited.

I knew it would be a very long day so I (tried) to work on my writing and research... but I knew there was something big happening and every part of me anticipated the moment: Four hours later, I would receive a text that said, "Trail Rider reports that they made it out..."

The two amazing officers who helped me to help this beautiful being

Three deeply compassionate men drove ten hours, and two of them hiked 16 miles, to bring this horse home. As they hiked out with the horse- very very slowly toward the rescue - members of the community nodded at them, as if to say, "Yes."  Tourists, shocked by his appearance, thanked them for saving him. Step by step, they came closer to his liberation.

Three heroes, thank you all!

Most of you know I cry easily, usually for grief and trauma related reasons. This time was different. My heart... overflowed with gratitude and relief.  I named him Chemakoh, Pima meaning 'two souls who came together as one in destiny.'  

All my life, I've wanted to hike in this place.  I waited and waited and waited for the right time.

As fate would have it, I never did hike in this place where I'd always wanted to visit... but I now know why my heart always longed to go there... because I was in that place at just at the right moment to meet - and rescue - Chemakoh. Two souls that came together as one in destiny. All these years for just this moment in time and so well worth the wait.

It's been five days since we brought Chemakoh home. The first day was rough. We didn't know if he'd make it.  He moved very slowly and was badly dehydrated in addition to the emaciation.  His wounds were deep and some infected.

Chemakoh coming off the trailer

His first walk in the corral

A little unsteady

To our surprise, in the first 48 hours, we witnessed a dramatic improvement in his health with the help of a wonderful neighbor who agreed to allow us to board him there until we are able to stabilize him and bring him home.

Tender eyes

Getting stronger every day!

Right side, healing nicely

Left side, growing some new skin

Filling out a little

Lots of visitors and tons of love!

And by yesterday, we knew he was going to make it. I knew I'd made good on my promise to him on the trail... I was going to help him. We have a very long road toward rehabilitation of body, mind, and spirit.

But with the love and support of many, we are well on our way.

Chemakoh with Nowch Hasik, the bereaved mama who helped me to name him

Himalayan salt lick, thank you Adele!

The sweetest, most gentle being...

Getting stronger every day, he fell asleep in my arms. Love.

A promise made good...

Covering him in the rain until his shelter is built... he's very happy!

In an effort to reduce animal abuse and neglect there, the officers told me that the local government decided to institute "a scoring system for animal control to use, to determine whether or not an animal is fit to pack."  Many people had to come together to make this happen. Many. And for every single contact, every nuance, every point of a finger, every small effort, I am grateful, grateful, grateful.

And now, my heart is at peace. I think Chemakoh's heart is too... he is home.

*******

Please, first:

If you see a child, vulnerable adult, or animal being abused, do not avert your gaze. Please, with prudence, take action.  And not just one phone call.  Keep calling, persist in corrective action. Don't give up. Don't let anyone placate you. Be sure you are making a change.  If you are a Christian (as the majority religion in America and as someone born into the Christian faith), I implore you to act as Christ would.  He would not walk away from such a scene. Christ is love, and he used righteous, non-violent anger when necessary to right a wrong. Please, do not allow others to harm God's creatures, the two-legged or the four-legged! Do not allow fear to get in the way of love and doing the right thing. I realize it takes time. I realize it takes effort. Please, do it anyway. Take responsibility. Be the light. Without human compassion and action, we will never find our way.

Please, second:

If you are renting an animal for work or leisure, be certain that the animal is treated well.  Do not hire an animal if it looks malnourished, overheated, and is without adequate access to water. If the animal is not well-cared for, don't use it and report the abuse or neglect. And keep your eyes and ears open. Don't be so concerned with having a 'good time' that you miss obvious crimes against the vulnerable, be it a child, adult, or animal.

Please, third:

Recognize the effects of trauma and abuse on others. You can take right action whilst being compassionate.  And don't wait... help others who are less fortunate.  Recognize historical wrongs. Be willing to sacrifice for others as a way to convey compassion. If you are able to donate to aid families at risk, or volunteer your time, do so.  Demonstrating compassion may help others cultivate compassion.

*******

Some people reading this may feel much anger about the abuse of this beautiful creature. I understand that. I felt it too.  Many ask: "How can this happen?" That is, how can humans abuse animals?

Well, the same question applies, historically, to humans abusing humans.

The 19th and 20th century American Indian genocide nearly eradicated entire tribal cultures, and it is a historical abomination that few living today, outside of tribal people and their governments, want to remember, acknowledge, or recompense.

Transgenerational, or historical, trauma is a very real and exceedingly potent phenomena.  The deep psychological wounds and near obliteration of tribes, the killing of countless Native children and adults, the subjugation, oppression, involuntary diaspora, and the kidnapping of children from their families and tribes is an unforgettable calamity that has imprinted in the minds and hearts of those who suffered at the hands of European occupiers.

Dr. Maria Yellowhorse Braveheart delineates the effects of this trauma in her work: traumatic stress, depressive symptoms, exceedingly high premature mortality, poor physical health, alcohol abuse, and domestic violence against women and children, even animal abuse. And these all link together in a dangerous web of enduring risk, perpetuating the cycle of suffering once only inflicted by outsiders. In "Phase 1" of her 6 Phases of Unresolved Historical Grief she notes "no time for grief"...

No time for grief.

No time for grief.

No time for grief.

No. There is no time to grieve when such horrors are systemic, en masse, and unrelenting.

Yet, there is a price to be paid for this circumvention. Grief commands to be seen. It demands to be heard. It insists on a channel of expression.  I've seen countless examples of chronically avoided, suppressed, deflected, silenced, and internalized traumatic grief. It's effects are stunning. This counts for individuals, and for families, and for entire cultures.

The effects of "no time for grief" are stunning.

And these effects often manifest against the vulnerable. 

We must recognize and stop all abuse, human to human, human to human child, human to animal, human child to animal... We must remunerate and apologize for the suffering caused in the past and change our ways.  We must enact both our love and our grief for the past, the present, and the future.

Otherwise, we will never have peace.


We must reach out to others less fortunate and show compassion, because to receive compassion, even if over time and slowly, is to know compassion. And to know compassion is to be able to show compassion.

We cannot give what we have never received.

Update on Chemakoh here.

*******

From the window I saw the horses.
I was in Berlin, in winter. The light had no light, the sky had no heaven. The air was white like wet bread. And from my window a vacant arena, bitten by the teeth of winter. Suddenly driven out by a man, ten horses surged through the mist. Like waves of fire, they flared forward and to my eyes filled the whole world, empty till then. Perfect, ablaze, they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs, with manes like a dream of salt. Their rumps were worlds and oranges. Their color was honey, amber, fire. Their necks were towers cut from the stone of pride, and behind their transparent eyes energy raged, like a prisoner. There, in silence, at mid-day, in that dirty, disordered winter, those intense horses were the blood the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life. I looked. I looked and was reborn: for there, unknowing, was the fountain, the dance of gold, heaven and the fire that lives in beauty. I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter. I will not forget the light of the horses. ~ Pablo Neruda

Dying of Cold: Growing in the Darkness

Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

― Naomi Shihab Nye, Words Under the Words: Selected Poems

She died almost 21 years ago now, on a hot summer eve, as the intoning locusts and wingless nymphs sauntered in their nests. It was a lonely time for me because grief, by its very nature, is disconsolate for a very long time.

I was thinking about the moment I closed her casket as I kissed her for the last time. I remember speaking to myself in my mind, "This cannot be real, this cannot be real" over and over until the funeral director at Messinger's gently put his hand on my back. I turned toward him with a desperate plea in my heart that connected with his.  He said nothing. There was nothing to say. But I could see tears swelling his eyes. He stopped and said, "Take your time."  That was the first act of compassion I can remember. And I am grateful.

I had many horrible encounters with others after her death. Western culture is prepossessed by the idea of "moving on" - furor sanandi, as Freud once said: the rage to cure. Sadly, it is precisely this attitude that adds suffering to suffering, trauma to trauma, for the bereaved.  My colleague, Vanessa Juth, PhD, found that social constraints on grievers, primarily women, the young, and the poor, increased the risk of depression (not grief, depression), stress, somatic symptoms, worse "global health", and poor adjustment to loss  (Juth, Smythe, Carey, & Lapore, 2015).  Surprise, surprise. Simply put, this study confirms what common sense tells us:  pushing people toward "healing" or "moving on" or narrative constraint is the most salient predictor of poor outcomes after loss.

But while many encounters with others were disavowing and invalidating, I also had explicable moments of compassion and love and connection with others, like:

... the nurse at John C. Lincoln hospital who, just after the birth of my subsequent son three years later held my hand and let me feel both the happiness and the sadness that lived together right then. Like the stranger who saw me crying in the baby aisle at the grocery store and just stood beside me and said softly, "I don't know what happened but I'm so sorry."  Like a friend of a friend who asked me her name and didn't recoil when I spoke it. Like my best friend Kelly who, even though she couldn't be there for the funeral, showed up a few years later and apologized for abandoning me and asked my forgiveness. Like Dr. Guillermo Gutierrez who validated the worthiness of her life over and over again, becoming an advocate for the MISS Foundation. Unbeknownst to him, his beautiful young son, Nicolas Gutierrez-Cantin, would die in 2008 and he would reluctantly join our unwished-for-club.  Like the late Senator Andy Nichols (D-Tucson) who, when he heard the story of Chey's death, broke down in tears and said he "couldn't imagine a harder pain."  Like Kim Parrish and Jim Gregory, two strangers turned friends who have never forgotten to email, or send a card, or call on the anniversary of Chey's death. Like my once-neighbor, Amber, who always remembers her in my child-count.  Like Dr. Larry Bergstrom, one of the physicians I met at the Mayo Clinic in 2013 when I was having some health issues who said how heartbroken he feels when he meets someone who has lost a child. Like my dog, Francis, who came up and leaned on me when I was struggling on prom night, 2012, cognizant of what I was missing. Like Katie and Zack's mom who, after losing both her children in a horrific car crash, will reach out one-broken-mother's-heart to another, to ask what I feel like Chey, Katie, and Zacky are doing together. Like Mbug's mom who will handmake beautiful cards to comfort other parents like her, missing their kids. Like KD and Doug, two very special people who have tirelessly contributed to the MISS Foundation to help families whose children are dying or have died. They haven't lost a child but they see the devastation, and they open their hearts to help support others. Without their consistent generosity for the past five years, we would not have been able to help countless families through life's darkest times.

How fortunate am I to have encountered such kindness along the path of such despair? For the simple, fleeting glance of compassion from a stranger to the most benevolent act of generosity,  I am grateful.

These synchronous moments with others epitomize agape, a kind of love for our fellow humans, and this is the kind of space that allows grievers to feel connected and to slowly begin to adapt and integrate loss. And as Naomi Shihab-Nay said in her poem, 

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, 
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice 
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.

It is knowing sorrow, deeply knowing sorrow in all its darkest places and with all its most harrowing faces, that brings us to a place of unparalleled compassion for others and, perhaps one day, for ourselves.  The road of sorrow is not a wide and well-paved road. It is a road riddled with stones, gorges, and barricades. It is dark, uncharted, terrifying. We meet others along the road who offer sustenance: some water, a morsel of food, some direction, a small candle to light the way, a hand to climb out of the hollow when we fall. 

It is these very people who will give rise to our kindness because they have helped us "speak to it", to be with our loss and the darkest moments of sorrow. Their courage and kindness, even in the most infinitesimal of encounters, enkindles within us the ability to grow, from the seed buried deep in the bowels of earth, into the majestic tree of compassion we shall, one day when we are ready, become. And we will shade another.

And our cloth, wet with tears and worn from too much handling, will provide warmth and solace to another. "Man dies of cold, not of darkness..."

And this is how our world will change.

Grieving Savagery

Barbarians always think of themselves as the bringers of civilization.

-Pierre Schaeffer

I went on a long walk in the sun today, contemplating many things in my usual heliotropic style. I started thinking about the ways in which imperialistic reign has harmed and exploited countless others in the name of "civilized" society.  For example, many North American native peoples were once thought to be barbarians, their ways savage, out of control, "wild" and they needed to be "tamed". The "savages" were described as "animals" for their unseemly ways of being in the world (Schwartz, 2008).   They ate when hungry, they let their children play, they worshipped different gods. Rather, the proper way of the imperialist was scheduled, sternly calm, tamed, controlled, and, yes, civilized. And of course, the imperialists, the "bringers of civilization", alway know best. 

Then, I started to think about a concept I'll call 'psychological imperialism'.  Psychological imperialism occurs, much like sociopolitical imperialism, to dominate, control, and "rule over" the emotional experiences of others perceived to be savage, uncivilized, and abnormal. It's a type of psychocentrism; that is, the proclivity to judge one person's emotional experiences with an arbitrary standard set by another; and then to coerce that person into a more socially acceptable, civilized, way of being. The collective ego of those in power of the standards intimates, "I am better than (smart than, more normal than, more controlled than, more ... than) you, and thus, I will subjugate and appropriate psychological dominance over you (enter systemic egoism) as noted by W.H. Auden:   “In most poetic expressions of patriotism, it is impossible to distinguish what is one of the greatest human virtues from the worst human vice, collective egotism.”  

Indeed, the word civilized, etymologically, has fascinating roots:

civilize (v.) 

c.1600, "to bring out of barbarism," from French civiliser, verb from Old French civil (adj.), from Latin civilis "relating to a citizen, relating to public life, befitting a citizen; popular, affable, courteous" (see civil). Meaning "become civilized" is from 1868. Related: Civilized; civilizing.

There are, perhaps, few places wherein behaviors are not befitting a citizen in public life such as grief.  Grief is oft out of control. Grief is barbaric. It makes others crawl in their skin.  It is savagery, distasteful, animalistic. And systemic psychological imperialism is used to quell grief, to force people into dark corners of hiding with their pain, to silence a grieving mother's wailing with mind-numbing pills, to forcibly calm and control that which cannot - and should not - be controlled. 

It may be time to consider rejection of this parochial practice. 

There is no place for egoism and psychological dictatorship in grief. There is no place for tidy, neat, presentable, or civilized. Grief is, often, rather raw, oozing, subversive, chaotic, writhing, and most certainly uncivilized. 

And, like those who fought political imperialism throughout history, seeking to reclaim rights and land and culture and language, we- grievers- can fight against what my friend Dr. Robert Stolorow calls the psychological 'war on grief' and reclaim our right to mourn, whether civilized or more often uncivilized, primal and primitive, uncontrolled and untamable, and certainly savage:

savage (adj.)

mid-13c., "fierce, ferocious;" c.1300, "wild, undomesticated, untamed" (of animals and places), from Old French sauvage, salvage "wild, savage, untamed, strange," from Late Latin salvaticus, alteration of silvaticus "wild," literally "of the woods," from silva "forest, grove" (see sylvan). Of persons, the meaning "reckless, ungovernable" is attested from c.1400, earlier in sense "indomitable, valiant" (c.1300).

Our grief cannot and should not be governed by others. 

Revolt, with loving kindness when you can, against that which seeks to take what is yours. Listen to that sacred knowing deep in your soul that tells you this pain has its place and time, and that your Beloved's absence calls for such protestations. 

When others try to force 'normal' and 'civilized' upon us, when others try to steal from us the grief we have or rush us toward a cure, when others coerce us away from tears and toward something for which we are not yet ready, remember the words of Pierre Schaeffer: those who seek to tame and civilize are, themselves, the barbarians. Who else would foist such psychological harm on a vulnerable other but a barbarian?

So hold your heads high and, listen to the admonition of Walt Whitman to reject that which "insults your soul." Hear the words of Thoreau, "all good things are wild and free", and know that the most valuable grief is precisely that: wild, wild, wild and free of imperialist influence.

Take back what is yours. Take back what is yours.

“We take off into the cosmos, ready for anything: for solitude, for hardship, for exhaustion, death. Modesty forbids us to say so, but there are times when we think pretty well of ourselves. And yet, if we examine it more closely, our enthusiasm turns out to be all sham. We don't want to conquer the cosmos, we simply want to extend the boundaries of Earth to the frontiers of the cosmos.... We are humanitarian and chivalrous; we don't want to enslave other races, we simply want to bequeath them our values and take over their heritage in exchange. We think of ourselves as the Knights of the Holy Contact. This is another lie. We are only seeking Man. We have no need of other worlds. We need mirrors. (1970 English translation)” 

― Stanisław Lem, Solaris

Complicated Grief "Disorder"? Really?

There is some hullabaloo going on about "prolonged grief disorder" aka 'complicated grief disorder.' Yep, another grief-related 'mental illness.'  According to a NEJM blog it is "condition is characterized by intense grief that lasts longer than would be expected according to social norms and that causes impairment in daily functioning."

Ha! Social norms? Around grief? Talk about pathology! Western culture's social norms around grief are as abnormal as you get. The average bereavement leave is three days, many bereaved parents are medicated within days or weeks after a traumatic loss (even in the presence of data to suggest these medications can be harmful and iatrogenic), and mourners are expected to get back to 'life-as-usual' often within weeks or mere months even after traumatic death.

The same blog continues:

"The hallmark of complicated grief is persistent, intense yearning, longing, and sadness; these symptoms are usually accompanied by insistent thoughts or images of the deceased and a sense of disbelief or an inability to accept the painful reality of the person’s death... the urge to hold onto the deceased person by constantly reminiscing or by viewing, touching, or smelling the deceased person’s belongings... often feel shocked, stunned, or emotionally numb, and they may become estranged from others because of the belief that happiness is inextricably tied to the person who died. They may have a diminished sense of self or discomfort with a changed social role and are often confused by their seemingly endless grief."

I've had many emails and calls about this. So, I will say, and those who know me can predict this:

I think certain groups are at risk of - again - being diagnosed and "treated" for absolutely normal feelings and experiences after an excruciatingly painful and traumatic loss. 

For example, I worked with a mother who lost her three children in a fire. Why would she not have persistent and intense yearning? Why would she not long for her children? Feel sadness? Experience an inability to accept their deaths? Why would she not feel shocked... emotionally numb? Why would she not experience a diminished sense of self? And let's not underestimate the power of being surrounded by cruel and insensitive others while in our grief.

Please consider that when others promote 'treatment' for a 'disorder' related to grief, they are asserting that these are aberrant - somehow abnormal - reactions. They are medicalizing what it means to be human, to love and to, rightfully, mourn. Um, sorry, no.

When the overwhelming majority of a population feel the same way, experience the same emotions, and contradict what others, on the outside looking in, assert are "normative", then I'm going to defer to the *real* experts to establish the Gaussian curve for that particular population.

I reject this idea that, somehow, a mother whose three children die in a fire or a mother whose two children are murdered or parents whose baby dies during birth or whose son died at three of cancer or whose daughter is raped and murdered are "disordered" for feeling the aforementioned symptoms. No way I will be convinced of that. Rather, a world wherein those horrific events can occur is deeply flawed and the tendency for our culture to pathologize the pain and suffering they expectedly would endure is a sickness. Of *course* they experience an 'impairment in daily functioning'. No shit Sherlock. This is a NORMAL reaction to ABNORMAL tragedies. Come on, let's use our hearts and our minds about this. What happened to basic common sense?  Of course grief is complicated. So is love. Heck, life is complicated. 

So here's the question: Do some people need support through traumatic grief? Oh yes, yes indeed. Many do. And here's the next question:  Need we medicalize and pathologize traumatic grief in order to provide aid? No, nope, no we don't. And we shouldn't. It is trivializing and dismissive and an offense to our humanity.

The best support and care we can offer is nonjudgmental loving, compassionate space to be with what is... others to remember and speak their names... unconditional respect for our emotional state... a place of safety... time to mourn a profoundly important and utterly irreplaceable relationship, time and space and kindness as we integrate the loss, and eventually, support without coercion, as we find meaning and purpose in life again if and when we are ever ready.