Feathers From Heaven: Loving Blessings From Beyond

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First, the loneliness

Tony and Liz* met at a widower/widow support group. They clicked and continued a steady, comforting companionship. Although we grow in numbers day by day, being widowed---losing a spouse/life partner sure feels lonely! Who else but another grieving spouse can understand how it feels to now wake alone, eat meals alone, make decisions alone, do all the little daily things alone. You look at that section called 'Emergency Contact' on various applications and medical information forms and you're struck (often stuck) wondering: No one's got my back! No one's waiting for me!

So Tony and Liz had many conversations, learned each others' stories---joys and heartbreaks, accomplishments and dreams. They appreciated being real with each other about losing 'the love of their life.' And that's when Liz shared about the feathers. 

People have long had experiences of contact with a departed loved one. It may be a familiar scent in the air, the appearance of a symbol, object, song; the possibilities are endless and deeply personal. Sometimes, a surviving spouse or family member had requested "when you get to heaven, send me a sign," and there may have been an agreed-upon indicator. Liz had heard of someone receiving a feather as a sign of wellbeing after death. She liked that idea and told her dying husband, Lenny: Please send me feathers of encouragement.

Well, she got feathers! Liz has told of feathers wafting in her home, and laying on unexpected surfaces. It warms her heart. She shared the story of feathers with Tony, who'd never heard of such things. He'd not asked his weakening wife for a heavenly signal and now regretted it. What a comfort it would be to somehow hear from Maura!

One afternoon, sitting together on Liz's patio, a feather drifted down and settled on her leg. Look at that! they both happily acknowledged. Moments later, the feather lifted on a slight breeze and, "of all the places it could have gone to settle, it landed on my leg!" Tony marveled.

There was no doubt in their minds. It was a loving blessing from beyond. 

How To Respond

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Readers come to this blog to learn and grow in sensitivity. The takeaways I'll leave you with, as a caring friend are these:

• Be supportive, whether or not you believe in unusual or paranormal experience. Say:
•  I can tell you have been comforted by this, and I am so happy for you. 
• Who am I to judge whether this is possible or not? It is fascinating, wonderful, and a blessing!
• Do not judge, belittle, try to explain, or re-direct your widowed friend to what you deem are more worthwhile activities or insights. 
• Read: Be Brave With Your Life

Read more about special messages from departed loved ones: 

Unusual Comforts in Grief: keep your opinions to yourself

Thank you for caring and sharing!

*This true story was shared with me, but for their privacy, I've changed names.

Comfort Objects: Rereading Memento Notes

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The Growing Through Grief series

I have a notecard tucked in a dresser drawer that warms me just by its cover. It is undated but, thinking back to when I had that box of notecards, I place the note around a time I wanted to relocate. "Make your own Adventure" it urges. Inside, my late husband wrote a special message of admiration and support, and it 'wows' me every time I read it. 

The Condolence Coach has often used the George Santayana quip 'there is nothing sweeter than to be sympathized with.'  But now I know there is nothing sweeter than to be encouraged for being who you are and for the writer's certainty that great things are still to come from you.

I stumbled upon the card while sorting through papers after my husband's death and then, it became a note of encouragement I periodically turned to. As my grief journey progressed, my need for the card lessened. But just yesterday--about 13 months after the death, I yearned for that experience of being deeply known, accepted, and cherished; I opened the drawer, and there it was, waiting to give me a handwritten hug and high five.

Comfort Objects

Growing through grief is a process of finding, using, and very gradually decreasing dependence on comfort objects which stand in for your loved one. Rest assured that anything qualifies as a comfort object and no one but you can choose it. It can be as big as a house or as tiny as a hair. I wrote on the subject of comfort objects and legacies in these posts:

Plaques and Pavers: Memorializing Love

Greatest Generation Dads

Unusual Comforts

A Life Story in 15 Songs

Recipes Soothe Our Souls

A Lasting Tribute

Readers should be very clear on these points:  

Gradually decreasing dependence on the comfort object is:

• entirely up to the grieving individual
• can occur quickly, very slowly, OR NEVER
• is one indication of growing through grief, but is not a required step

Some comfort objects are assimilated into survivors' lives. Comfort objects can be given as legacy gifts like Dad's cherished pickup truck is now driven by a grandson; a warm sweatshirt continues to dispel morning chill; Mom's apron acquires new splatters as the dog eared pages of her cookbook guide new hands to great chili or that must-have Thanksgiving side dish.

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Visit any park or museum and you will see a fundraising opportunity put to good use. Organizations offering the design and installation of memorial plaques and pavers touch hearts with a public comfort object. My friend Lauren had experience with this and encouraged me to consider it. I enjoyed creating such an item for a community park in remembrance of my late husband. The plaque inscription, Providence was his earthly compass, Love his North Star, warms not only my heart but will do the same for anyone who sees it.

Encouraging Aftercare

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Back to that note of encouragement...Because notes of encouragement are so powerful, so nourishing to the spirit of a grieving person, I would like to suggest readers consider writing them as "aftercare" to someone on the grief journey. My cousin Susan lives across the country, but she and her late mother regularly sent me cards of encouragement. Messages like you are strong, you are doing exactly what you need to do at this time, I admire you for _____, the rainbow on this card  is waiting for you are bravery boosters, and their arrival in an otherwise ad filled mailbox always put a smile on my face. 

5 Key components of a note of encouragement

1. Choose a card with an inspiring image or inscription
2. Refer to the inspiring image or inscription in your personalization
3. No timelines: life is meant to be a flow
4. Be effusive (that means be unrestrained and heartfelt)
5. Be optimistic (see the gifts and potentials even when your recipient can't)

Is there someone you could encourage today?

Thank you for caring and sharing!

My Turn to Grieve

The Growing Through Grief series

I am known to many as the one who is easy with matters of dying and death. I can discuss ways to make the end of life sacred, the paperwork of death, funeral options and military honors. I do this with the conversational tone you would use to discuss the price of organic veggies, local car repair shops, or summer travel plans. For over ten years, I’ve been known as the Condolence Coach by a world of readers, but I am long overdue for a new post, and here’s why.

Last fall, when my mother entered hospice, my zeal to discuss death’s details and grief journeys, withered. In truth, it cowered in the corner, shunning all but the most necessary social contact. Sharing the life-altering news became my daily ‘small talk.’ A dog walking neighbor might comment on last night’s wind and I replied: “my mother is in hospice.” Meeting another shopper at the grocer’s card rack, I offered, “my mother is in hospice but I think she’ll make her 90th birthday.” To my relief, people were kind.

Perhaps it’s not accurate to say I lost my 'zeal,' when the real loss was ‘innocence.’ While my experience and knowledge as a hospice volunteer and funeral professional deepened insight and compassion, it was always ‘someone else’s loved one.’ Detachment preserved the innocence of my heart. Now, this was my heartache.

Sadness Selfie

Across the country, heavily sedated with the standard hospice cocktail of morphine and lorazepam, Mother wasn’t taking birthday phone calls. I quelled the panic of her slipping away by reaching out psychically. I imagined her approval and laughter as I played dress-up with the pink paisley poncho she had sewn for me fifty years ago.

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Digging through my jewelry box, I ringed its neckline with lapel pins she’d given: quirky cat, pine cone, straw dolls, and artsy swirl. Like the young bride seeking her mirrored reflection on the morning after deflowering, I sought mine and took a selfie, seeking to preserve the transforming mystery of my profound sadness. 

Until I was called to serve at my mother’s deathbed, my vigil occurred thousands of miles to the west with intense meditations, journaling, tears, and talks with my husband. I began to trust the truth of a message I’d texted when she was still able to communicate: 

“You are a fabulous woman:  

and will always be so, with or without a body.”

Photo used with permission,
Jim Hunter, Fairbanks, AK

Sacred Grieving

I began reading Grieving- the Sacred Art, Hope in the Land of Loss by Lisa Irish. Long believing death is not a medical event but a sacred one, I embraced the idea of sacred grief. Initially stunned by what Irish calls “a swirl of painful and overwhelming emotions,” I felt validated by her words, accepting that my moments of disorientation were sacramental emotions. Irish promised that if I did not identify grief as ‘the problem’ it would become ‘the solution’ and offer me hidden gifts. 

The first gift was an opportunity to vigil at my mother’s bedside. Though I was not new to this process, the intimate ministry of care for someone I adored was as riveting as it was taxing. ‘Profound’ remains one of the few useful words for this time.

Photo used with permission,
Jim Hunter, Fairbanks, AK

In the months since my mother’s death, I have received more of grief’s gifts: peace, wisdom, and gratitude. Glimpses of siblings’ grief have proven that we all walk personal paths through loss. My long held advocacy of the value of condolence notes, was affirmed. After I shared the news of my mother’s death--along with the narrative obituary I’d composed, the arrival of sympathy cards and supportive emails became an invaluable balm. I shared most of them with my family, thus multiplying their comforting impact. As the Condolence Coach, I reversed my rigid opposition to electronic condolence; for expediency and privacy, it has a place.

Sacred grieving deepened my spirituality. I celebrate my mother’s legacy of preferences and mannerisms. I believe her soul remains within reach through love. I find that memories should be curated-- as enduring or disposable. I strive to avoid regrets-- those shoulda, coulda, woulda’s-- which only sour the sweet gift of recollections.

Am I done grieving? Deadlines and calendar pages have no place in this sacred experience. I have--and will have--days of longing for my mother. 

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In 2014, I reblogged Elaine Stillwell's article, An Emergency Kit For a Bad Day . She stressed the importance of self-care, and the value of being prepared for the unexpected "black days" that can arise after a loss. My emergency kit also includes outdoor exercise, meditation moments, gratitude for a birdsong greeting, the surprise of a heart rock in the trail, and volunteering in my community. These are the stepping stones for my inner peace, one day at a time.

Thank you for caring!

Beth Surdut: Paying Attention is an Art

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Meet Beth Surdut: Environmental Artist, Textiles Painter, and Writer. I had the pleasure of meeting this deeply spiritual and deeply earthed woman, during a recent gallery reception for her wildlife art.

Creator of "The Art of Paying Attention," a series of illustrated wildlife radio essays and true adventure stories heard and seen on NPR, Beth is always watching and listening. From the field or face to face, she raises the bar of attentiveness, for each of us. I introduce her today because she understands the journey of death.

Sacred Journey

Let us revisit the concept that death is NOT a medical event, but a spiritual one. It is sacred but often, only the dying person knows this! Beth told the story of painting a silk scarf to be gifted to a woman with terminal illness. "This will help," said the dying woman as the scarf was draped around her shoulders. When deeply asleep, the scarf could be removed and freshened but otherwise, "Where is my scarf!?" the woman demanded. Beth noted: "the healing scarves I make (unless otherwise requested) contain the Hebrew r'fuah  shleimah (complete healing, the short form of a prayer requesting the complete healing of body and spirit), whereas  a tallit-- a prayer shawl-- is for meditation that is not  necessarily associated with distress. Both are made with kavanah (intention) and offer places of comfort."

Beth also explained, for my benefit, the purpose of the Jewish prayer shawl, Tallit. As it is placed over the head and drawn down over the shoulders, the wearer enters a world of soul and God, absolute truth, the ultimate All. Prayer and meditation should be a journey--of seeking and enlightenment.

'Sacred Dying' is a term coined by the late Dr. Megory Anderson, and a ministry I described in my post Silent Night, Holy Night: Sacred Dying is another reason to write condolence. Whether you are a hospice volunteer, friend or family member of a dying individual, your presence at the deathbed can be uplifting if carefully considered. Vigiling is not for everyone, and Sacred Dying mentors stress that behaviors such as wailing and denial at bedside are disturbing to the journey and work of dying. I encourage readers to sign up for the 10 Tips to Vigil & Establish Sacred Presence.

Comfort objects

Clearly, acknowledging the sacred journey with a special scarf such as those created by Beth Surdut is like hanging a welcome banner:  My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Psalm 73:26

As life, ego and cares falls away, a special object of comfort-- if given with great love-- focuses attention on a good death. Do you remember the scene in the 1981 movie, Arthur, where Dudley Moore brings gifts to his dying butler, Hobson?  The seemingly ridiculous gift of a basketball became a true comfort object--an undemanding companion.

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What would you choose for a comfort object? Is there someone you know who needs one?

Thank you for caring!