Issue # 1
Meeting Time: Thursday, January 5, 2012 @ 7:00 p.m.
Meeting Location: Pekin Hospital Lower Level Conference Room
Program: Group Discussion. Reviewing 2011 painful events that may have
overshadowed tradiional family celebrations.
National Website: www.compassionatefriends.org
Pekin Chapter Voice Mail Number: 309-352-6000
New Year’s Wishes for Bereaved Parents
To the newly bereaved: We wish you patience with yourselves in the painful weeks, months, even years ahead.
To the bereaved sibling: We wish you and your parents a new understanding of each other’s needs and the beginnings of good communication.
To those experiencing marital difficulties after the death of your child: We wish you special willingness and ability to communicate with each other.
To those who have suffered the death of more than one child: We wish you the endurance you will need to fight your way back to a meaningful life once again.
To those of you who have suffered the death of an only child or of all your children: We offer you our eternal gratitude for serving as such an inspiration to the rest of us.
To those of you who are plagued with guilt: We wish you the reassurance that you did the very best you could under the circumstances, and that your child knew that.
To those of you who are deeply depressed: We wish you the first steps out of the “valley of the shadows”.
To all fathers and those of you unable to cry: We wish you healing tears and the ability to express your grief.
To those of you who are exhausted from grieving: We wish you the strength to face just one more hour, just one more day.
To all others with special needs that we have not mentioned: We wish you the understanding you need & the reassurance that you are loved.
By Joe Rousseau, former TCF President, Tuscaloosa, AL
Board Meeting at Bushong's. (For Tues. Jan 10th at 7:00 P.M)
HAS BEEN POSTPONED TO FUTURE DATE.
. . . From the Heart
A compassionate friend speaks . . .
I want to share two ideas that have helped me since the death of my 24 year old son Ben, in April 2004. The first is writing; writing about your fears, your anger, your faith, your dreams, your questions, your loss, your hope, your emotions, and your feelings. Most of the things I put down on paper or computer I never share. But I have found that the steps (recording, revising, thinking, and remembering) take a lot of thought and tears to get it right. Although it does not change the outcome, for me, writing helps me “organize” a little corner of the chaos that seems to fill our minds and our world after our child dies. By going through the pain instead of around it, I think more clearly and I feel less out of control.
My personal grief journey has also led me to the skies. I love looking at the stars on a dark clear night and love looking at pictures of real stars, galaxies, and other heavenly bodies. When I see stars, I think of a verse that gives me hope about the future; “Maybe they are not stars, but holes in the floor of heaven where the love of our children shines down to us”.
It gives me comfort to think of so much love still existing that heaven can’t hold it all, yet it makes me sad thinking about how many of our children are waiting for us. I use the constellation Orion as one of the places I look for “Ben’s star” to represent his love shining down. Pick a star, see the light, feel the love.
By Herb Leonard,Co-leader TCF Huntsville Area Lovingly lifted TCF Huntsville Area Newsletter
A NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION
People all around us are making their resolutions—lose weight, give up smoking, save money—the list is endless. Three years ago my only resolution was to survive, although there were times when I wondered why. There has been a gradual change in my New Year’s resolution, one that I did not consciously think about, and which probably explains my involvement with TCF. That is to tell people what grief is like and how damaging it can be if there are no loving people near to help you through it. The destructive power of grief is pervasive and long lasting.
To those who have worked through their grief, make a resolution to let others know what helped you. Give “I” messages like, “I really appreciated my neighbor’s short visits right before dinner,” or “My boss was so understanding about my inability to concentrate that first year”, this way they will know these are suggestions that may help someone else, not rules set in concrete. At least it may start them thinking of ways they might offer assistance to those burdened with fresh grief.
This year, let us come out of the closet and let people know where to find good information about healthy grieving.
By Rita Glancey, TCF Boise, ID Lovingly lifted from TCF Greater Ozarks Chapter Newsletter
An Image of Grief
I am a tree, standing alone in the winter. I feel cold,
empty, gray and ugly. The winds of grief have ripped
away a branch and left me unbalanced— with a great
gaping hole. The sap of my innermost being rushes to
the hole to provide a balm for the pain of the open
wound. The icy cold rain of my weeping falls through
the shaking of my boughs.
I continue to sway in the harsh gales of reality,
and the keening of the winds are the
voice of my heartache.
But, under the ground there is life.
Each root of love, friendship, care,
family, and faith is feeding into the trunk,
and I know for a certainty that surely spring will come again.
The bark of time will cover the rending wound.
The scar will always be there, but the drain on my heart will be over.
The leaves will burst forth and gently surround the wound
with breezes of living memories and promises of life to come.
My boughs will be heavy with the wonder of living.
Nestled near the scarred trunk,
secure in the knowledge that God is my refuge
and the sweet bird of happiness will sing again.
By Anita King, TCF Hagerstown, MD
Little White Blanket
Little white blanket . . . First snow on the grave since you left. How can it be? Just yesterday you were here. You left in summer’s humid heat. Cicadas sang your eulogy over fresh-turned soil. Now snow’s first appearance covers your smooth, flawless sleeping ground. Little white blanket covers and cares for you when I no longer can. I care for you now with prayers and memories and by framing photographs of times gone by. Photos of you and me. When I look at us, I can still feel you sitting next to me, breathing, smiling, living your life with me. Then I feel you gone from here, from me. I never knew before how to feel what’s not there. Feeling the not-me-ness of me, without you. Little white blanket tuck in my loved one. Cover her gently, make her comfortable, send her my love. When spring comes and little white blanket disappears, let the crocuses planted bloom their first blooms, counting every first since you left.
First morning without you, first week alone, first month bereft, first Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, first New Year . . . a strange year without you. With the passing of time, I fear I’ll forget you, so I hold onto my grief, as I once held onto you. Little white blanket, first snow on the grave assure me she’s cared for, that she won’t forget me, that we are still us, that I am still me, that somewhere in spirit she is still her. First snow, nature’s wise surround for my departed, little white blanket, teach me how to mend the hole ripped in the fabric of my life, christen the ground, baptize me in understanding the cycles of life . . . living, loving, and letting go.
By Deborah Antinori, Basking Ridge, New Jersey Loving lifted from Bereavement Magazine, Jan./Feb. 1999
