August 2016 - Judy Herman

Loss can be mysterious and unexpected. In this case, I learned lessons of grief from a clay cup. Click here for audio version.

It wasn’t just any cup. My 23-year old son who moved out to Seattle two years before gave me this treasured gift. The unglazed belly of the clay cup made my coffee vibrant with flavor. The handle fit my hand perfectly along with indention for my thumb at just the right angle.

The artisan-crafted clay cup held depth of meaning in ways I didn’t realize.

It was a daily ritual to write in my prayer journal drinking from my clay cup with a lighted candle by my side. While on my front porch rocking chair these tangible items helped me meditate and pray. My heavenly Father and my long-distance son were invisible, yet present. I felt close to both.

At the time, my younger son was getting married and my daughter and granddaughter had just moved across the country.

Adult children moving or getting married is not an easy transition for any mom. Click To Tweet

And then, while in the kitchen, the unexpected happened. I was totally caught off guard. It was like a slow motion movie clip when each frame passed by in focused terror! My beloved cup fell off the crowded countertop and shattered onto the wood floor; gone in an instant. The shock made time stand still.

A nauseous pit in my stomach screamed out. An uncontrollable floodgate poured out of my red splotchy face. My husband picked up the pieces to assess it’s fixability.

Nothing could be done.

My tears wouldn’t stop.

I woke the next morning missing my cup. The uncontrollable tears and gut-wrenching feelings came in waves like an ocean tide. It lingered for several days.

This is crazy, I thought. It was just a clay cup. Why am I reacting like this? What is wrong?

I scheduled a counseling appointment with my therapist.

She encouraged me to make a mosaic out of the shattered pieces. Although I’d never be able to drink out of it, I could make it a piece of art; something new and beautiful.

My therapist helped me identify the meanings I attached to that clay cup. She helped me gain focus to my loss. I became more aware of what I was really grieving.

Here’s what I’m learning about grief.

Grief is universal and unique. We all experience loss and we are all affected by it. Loss is not only the death of a loved one. It’s the death of a relationship, a season of life, a dream, or an attachment.
Grief is meant to be felt. Willingness to feel the sadness and cry the tears makes us more whole as human beings. Feeling depth of loss gives us capacity to live and feel fullness of joy. Click To Tweet
Grief is necessary. It tunes us into the value of our relationships. It gives us clarity. It helps us let go and make something beautiful where sorrow existed.
Grief has meaning. When we take time to face our loss and pain, we gain clarity. We appreciate others more. We’re able to hold the preciousness of “now”.

It’s been three years since the initial sting of my shattered cup. Waves of grief settled and joy came back. I can live in the “now” and embrace the emerging adulthood of my children. I enjoy this “empty nest” stage of life with my husband. It feels free and full.

My husband and I make our trips across the country visiting my long-distance children, cherishing the time we have. Tears still flow with our “good-byes.”

I now drink from another clay cup with more awareness. Whether it’s loved ones, relationships, seasons, or dreams; all are meant to transition and grow. Be thankful for now.

Questions to Ponder

What are you learning about grief?

What are things that hold meaning for you?

How has a loss become something new and beautiful?

I met my friend for the first time several years ago in the Waltz line at our local dance hall.

We were newly single women discovering the healing art of ballroom dancing.

Our similar life experiences gave us instant connection. The dance floor was a special place.We discovered the Princess parts of ourselves otherwise hidden. Click To Tweet We laughed and compared stories. We complimented each other and twirled to test the flow of our dresses.

We secretly longed for our prince charmings.

Ballroom dancing allowed us physical connection with the opposite sex that was acceptable in no other type of environment. It was safe. There were rules of etiquette. It was proper only in that context. Our male partners were our friends and acquaintances.

We hung out at each other’s dance parties and special dance events that became too many to count. The ballroom community became a place of belonging.

We both eventually danced right into the arms of our husbands.

Joe and I had a private wedding on the beach of Lake Michigan; just right for us. Theirs was a grand event!

It was a fairy-tale wedding.

Marcia and Donald wedded at St. Peter and Paul’s Basilica in Chattanooga, surrounded by family, friends, and our dance community. I was a little jealous at first, yet that didn’t stop me from being overjoyed with them.

Joe and I were among the prelude of couples who waltzed down the aisle to welcome the bride. Marcia’s elegance dazzled guests with her military-uniformed son accompanying her. The violinist played an instrumental version of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On.

The “something borrowed” on her wedding day was my cream-colored lace shawl. It was perfect for her November wedding day walk from the church to the dance reception.

The frequency of mine and Joe’s dancing gradually declined to once a month. Her’s and Donald’s dancing never slowed down. I’d never seen Marcia tired.

Too brief and unexpected.

She was so healthy and her symptoms so undetected before her diagnosis. It had been less than two months and a few text messages back and forth between us. I assured her of my prayers. I was determined to be there to pray and cheer her on in her battle against cancer. I left her a phone message the day she planned further treatment in Nashville. I was hoping to hear her voice; and her to be encouraged by mine.

God had other plans. Joe and I stayed by her side, loving, watching, and praying along with her family.

We must have been soul sisters all this time.

In those five hours of saying good-bye, her sons became my sons. Her sister and brother became my siblings. We listened. We watched. We waited.

Joe and Marcia shared camaraderie serving on the board of our local USA dance chapter. His job was to choose the music playlist with just the right tempo and variety for our monthly dances.

Joe brought a playlist of easy listening music to ease the tension. After all, Donald needed soft music to aide his grief. Gentle waltzes for Marcia seemed appropriate.

After he played several, Donald said, “Are slow Waltzes all you have? Marcia’s favorites were dancing the faster Foxtrots and Swings. Do you have Elton John’s Crocodile Rock or Frank Sinatra’s Come Fly With Me?”

As Donald laid next to her with her head on his chest, the hospital bed became their dance floor. Marcia’s breathing seemed calmer and more rhythmic. The hours ticked by with this energetic showcase of Foxtrots, Sambas, and Swings. . . and a few faster Waltzes.

We watched her dance from the arms of her husband into the arms of Jesus.

Through the tears we could imagine her angelic princess figure with her flowing white gown twirling through the streets of gold.

This sacred time for Joe and me is beyond description. We cling to each other a little tighter. We see each other through the lens of gratitude and uncertainty. We cry together and pray more than before.

Marcia and Donald showed us how to love deeper and be gentle with the delicate soul of our relationship. We may even dance more often.

I’ll always be grateful for Marcia O’Conner.

I miss you, my friend. And I miss you and Donald as a couple. Thank you for showing Joe and me how to dance in the deeper places of our lives.

Lessons of Grief From A Clay Cup