A Talmud Discussion



                                        

There is an interesting discussion in the Talmud, an ancient Jewish writing. Those Jews had the custom of rending their garments – literally tearing their clothes – to symbolize the ripping apart that death brings. But the question was raised, after the period of mourning, could you sew the garment up and use it again? The teachers answered yes, but, when you mended it, you should not tuck the edges under so it would look as if it had never been torn. This symbolized the fact that life, after grief, is not the same as before. The rent will show. The next question was, can you sell that garment? The teachers answered no. The rending and mending of our life is ours and others cannot wear it.
No, we don’t get over it. We change and grow. Our life has a difference which is ours alone. Perhaps we can help each other make that difference, the kind of difference that increases the world’s supply of compassion, love and healing. 

By Dennis Klass
Bereaved Parents USA

A Mother's Perplexity Concerning 
    Her Daughter's Death. 
                                            


Iyanla Vanzant stops and thinks for a moment. She has a confession.
"I think my greatest perplexity or challenge right now is death," she says. "My perplexity about death is that I lost my daughter [last] December and I don't know where she is."
She's talking about her daughter Gemmia, who died a year ago from colon cancer at the age of 31.
"'Gemmia.' It meant my precious jewel," she says, clearing her throat as tears fill her eyes. "Where is she? I've been asking that question since she died. Where is she? Where is she? I do believe there is life eternal and that she's some place. I want to know where. What does she have on? What is she doing?
 Where is she?"
If she knew where Gemmia was, 
what difference would it make?
"I'd find a way to get there," she says. "I'd find a way. Whether it's meditation or, I don't know. I'd find ... a ... way. I just want to know she's OK. I just want to know she's all right. I don't have to stay. I'll just go for tea. 
But I want to SEE her.
"I'm just asking. All you have to do is ask," she says, smiling. 
"When the time is right, I'll know."

 A Love Song of Krystal




The mention of Krystal's name
May bring tears to my eyes.
But it never fails to bring
Music to my ears.

If you really are my friend
Please, don’t keep me
From hearing the beautiful music.
It soothes my broken heart,
And fills my soul with love. 

                    Nancy William's Poem,                          
modified by Krystal's Mom, JoAnn Webb
 

Mom's girls are so proud of Mom when Mom earned her Bachelor's of English Education Degree at the University of North Florida in May of 1985. Look at all of our happy faces. The invisible cord between mother and child, though invisible to the human eye, 
shows in our body language, our eyes 
and our facial expressions. 
The Mother-Child Cord really exists
 and is eternal!
L to R - Karen, Krystal, Mom, Kina, front-Kelly.



THE CORD 

We are connected, My child and I,
By an invisible cord not seen by the eye.

It's not like the cord that connects us til birth
This cord can't be seen by any on earth.

This cord does it's work right from the start.
It binds us together attached to my heart.

I know that it's there though no one can see
The invisible cord from my child to me.

The strength of this cord is hard to describe.
It can't be destroyed it can't be denied.

It's stronger than any cord man could create
It withstands the test can hold any weight.

And though you are gone, 
though you're not here with me,
The cord is still there but no one can see.

It pulls my heart I am bruised...I am sore,
But this cord is my lifeline as never before.

I am thankful that GOD connects us this way
A mother and child Death can't take it away.

~author unknown~

  One Last Time 








I looked upon you one last time,
Your face I know better than mine.
I stroke your beautiful, blonde, curly hair and kiss your face.
I hold your graceful and soft hand.
First, Krystal, you are warm and smell like my precious child.
Then Death does its Bastardly Business.
You feel so cold and out of place.
Your sweet ears turn purple.
Your smooth skin turns ghastly yellow and hard.
You are covered by a simple white sheet to your neck.
But I see your sweet feet.
My God, a toe tag on my baby’s toe.
Horrors of horrors.
How can this be so?
I try to leave but am stuck in space,
As reality slams me with a blinding roar.
I try to listen to the voice of reason in my head,
But my heart screams,
“I can’t leave my baby in this place of the dead.”
Krystal, I know you are gone and can’t come back.
Without you life is wrong, the future black.
This anguish cuts so deep.
I feel it even in my sleep.
My heart cannot fathom that you are gone.
As my mind cries out that this is wrong.
I am your mother, and you are my soul.
I was to be the first to go.
You had a life of raising your boys ahead of you.
Years of mothering….life….joy….
Now never to see Andrew and Daniel grow to manhood,
Alas I know life shall never be whole.
As I turn to somehow stumble away,
My heart so shattered it hurts to breathe.
I look back at your face I know so well,
This is truly the dark, lightless pit of Hell.

Written by Krystal Duss's Mom, Jo Ann Webb.
In Memory of my daughter, Krystal Duss.
March 5, 1974 - December 10, 2003
Krystal and her husband, Joe, were bringing their one year old twin sons, Daniel and Andrew, home from a doctor visit when a drunk driver slammed into their mini-van and killed my precious Krystal. I received the call every parent fears and went to the hospital and into the trauma room to identify my sweet baby. Krystal, I miss you more than words can even begin to express. I will always love and cherish you. I would have gladly died so you could have lived to raise Daniel and Andrew. I was not given the choice. I wish I could have saved you. I would have if I could have. I am so sorry Krystal that you were 
cheated out of your life.
Endless Love, Mom
          

This song is in the Audio and Video Section. Please tale the time to listen to it.

"With Hope"

This is not at all how
We thought it was supposed to be.
We had so many plans for you.
We had so many dreams.
And now you are gone away,
And left us with the memories of your smile.
And nothing we can say.
And nothing we can do.
Can take away the pain,
The pain of losing you, but...
We can cry with hope.
We can say goodbye with hope.
'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end, oh no!
And we can grieve with hope.
'Cause we believe with hope.
(There's a place by God's grace)
There's a place where we'll see your face again.
We'll see your face again..
And never have I known
Anything so hard to understand.
And never have I questioned more
The wisdom of God's plan.
But through the cloud of tears,
I see the Father's smile and say well done.
And I imagine you
Where you wanted most to be,
Seeing all your dreams come true
'Cause now you're home
And now you're free, and...
We have this hope as an anchor
'Cause we believe that everything
God promised us is true, so...
We wait with hope.
We ache with hope.
We hold on with hope.
We let go with hope.

Song- "With Hope" - Steven Curtis Chapman 

Me & My beautiful sisters
I love you we will meet again

Krystal and Mom

We will reunite in Heaven when God calls your name, Our family chain is broken but one day it will link again...THANKS FOR BEING THE BEST MOM ANY GIRL COULD ASK FOR~~can't wait til the day I can hold you in my arms again & tell you how much I've missed holding you & loving you...Thanks for all you do Mom  I know your heart is broken but fill the crack with my memories til we meet again

A beautiful Family~~MADD...Please DON'T EVER  DRINK & DRIVE Just look at thisheartbroken torn apart family just from one drunk who decided to drive PLEASE DON"T DRINK & DRIVE~~~God Bless The survivors much Love being sent your way this Easter from friends of angel Mark Fearon  NJ

Precious Child
song by Karen Taylor-Good 
Please click on Audio Section and listen to this beautiful song under Audio Clips.



In my dreams, you are alive and well,
Precious child, precious child.
In my mind, I see you clear as a bell.
Precious child, precious child.

In my soul, there is a hole
That can never be filled.
But in my heart, there is hope
'Cause you are with me still.

In my heart, you live on,
Always there never gone
Precious child, you left too soon.
Tho' it may be true that we're apart.
You will live forever... in my heart


In my plans, I was the first to leave.
Precious child, precious child.
But in this world, I was left here to grieve.
Precious child, my precious child.

In my soul, there is a hole
That can never be filled.
But in my heart there is hope
And you are with me still.

In my heart you live on,
Always there never gone.
Precious child you left too soon,
Tho' it may be true that we're apart.
You will live forever... in my heart.

God knows I want to hold you,
See you, touch you,
And maybe there is a heaven
And someday I will again.
Please know you are not forgotten until then.

In my heart you live on.
Always there never gone.
Precious child you left too soon.
Tho' it may be true that we're apart
You will live forever... in my heart. 

       



          
                     
The Water Bug Story
                                                                     

                    


Down below the surface of a quiet pond lived a little colony of water bugs. They were a happy colony, living far away from the sun. For many months they were very busy, scurrying over the soft mud on the bottom of the pond. They did notice that every once in a while one of their colony seemed to lose interest in going about with its friends. Clinging to the stem of a pond lily, it gradually moved out of sight 
and was seen no more.
"Look!" said one of the water bugs to another, "One of our colony is climbing up the lily stalk. Where do you think she's going?" Up, up, up it slowly went... Even as they watched, the water bug disappeared from sight. Its friends waited and waited but it didn't return...
"That's funny!" said one water bug to another... " Wasn't she happy here?" asked a second... "Where do you suppose she went?" wondered a third... No one had an answer. They were greatly puzzled.
Finally one of the water bugs gathered its friends together. "I have an idea. The next one of us who climbs up the lily stalk must promise to come back and tell us where he or she went and why." 
"We promise" they said solemnly.
One spring day not long after the very water bug who had suggested the plan found himself climbing up the lily stalk. Up, up, up he went. Before he knew what was happening, he had broken through the surface of the water and fallen into the broad and free lily pad above.
When he awoke, he looked about with surprise. He couldn't believe what he saw. A startling change had come over his old body. His movement revealed four silver wings 
and a long tail.
Even as he struggled, he felt an impulse to move his wings... The warmth of the sun soon dried the moisture from his new body. He moved his wings again and suddenly found himself above the water.
He had become a dragonfly. Swooping and dipping in great curves, he flew through the air. He felt exhilarated 
in the new atmosphere.
By and by the new dragonfly landed happily on a lily pad to rest. Then it was that he chanced to look below to the bottom of the pond. Why, he was right above his old friends, the water bugs! There they were scurrying around, just as he had been doing some time before.
Then the dragonfly remembered the promise. without thinking, the dragonfly darted down. Suddenly he hit the surface of the water and bounced away. Now that he was a dragonfly, he could no longer go into the water...
"I can't return!" he said in dismay. "At least I tried. But I can't keep my promise. Even if I could go back, not one of the water bugs would know me in my new body. I guess I'll just have to wait until they become dragonflies too. Then they'll understand what has happened
 to me, and where I went."
And the dragonfly winged off happily into its wonderful new world of sun and air... 


   


Dear God, please remember
 Krystal who has left 
the pond we live in...and remember me.

                                           

My Insanity Is A Sane Reaction .



"A momentary lapse into sanity,
where I realized that my insanity is a sane reaction
to an utterly insane event.  

from Companion Through The Darkness by Stephanie Ericsson

"When it seems that our sorrow is too great to be borne,
Let us think of the great family
Of the heavy-hearted into which our grief has given us entrance,
And inevitably,
We will feel about us,
Their arms and understanding. 

by Helen Keller

The Death Of A Child.



"The death of a child takes you on a journey like a hawk carries a rabbit through the sky.  It eventually drops you either dead or wounded.  What you see and do on the journey is up to you.  The journey itself is not."

      by Robert R. Thompson, M.D. 
whose son, Paul, died in an automobile accident.

Your Questions




I'll tell you;
I'll be bold.
You can not know what this is like.
I don't want you to know
firsthand.  But do not dare surmise
or worse, pass judgement --
you'll hear a different poem from me.
Not the poem that tries
with constricted throat
to speak the unspeakable,
recapture in foolish, shallow syllables
the trauma of loss
so you might
know for a moment
grief that gives life,
transcends,
blesses with wisdom.
It's my choice to share these lessons.
It's your choice not to listen
if you cannot bear
what I also thought
I could not survive.
I will understand 
and wait
until you need this lesson
like a lifeline
when you are drowning.
You will die, too, you know.
There's nothing I can do about it
but have you drown in my poem
for only a moment,
then come gulping to the surface
looking into my eyes
smiling because you are not dead
but happier than you were before
to shake the water off your head,
go home and kiss your children,
tuck them in bed,
sleep yourself unsettled
but wake somehow refreshed.
so I keep telling my story,
what I know to be true.

I am different.
I felt it right away.
I wanted to die to be
with Andrew.
Others knew;
some forced themselves to touch me
as though my flesh had fallen away,
leaving my skull
to remind everyone of death.
it has taken me years
to recognize my face in the mirror,
to know who I am,
but I tell you
my face shines like Moses face
and I refuse to hide it anymore,
cover it up with makeup
or put on a smile 
to make it easier for you.
Do not avoid my eyes.
Do not walk away from me.
I am a mother.
Come close, sit down
and listen.

We'll begin with your questions.
Ask me, for example,
why you never received
 a thank-you note
for flowers, food
or charity contributions
because I need to tell you.
After the funeral, I threw away
the funeral home's inadequate
thank-you notes given to me in a box.
I intended to write all of you
but years went by,
and I never thanked you
for salvation in flowers,
nourishment of fried chicken,
poetry in "Given in the memory of...."
One day I hope to see
the Jerusalem pine a friend
 planted in Israel,
Andrew's oak pew in a new chapel
 by the beach,
a music room full of children singing
where his memorial plaque proclaims:
"Make a joyful noise."
When my knees buckled,
I fell backward
onto your gifts like pillows
and like a person convalescing
propped them around me.
Now that I am better I can
write a long note to say thank you
and I love you
and I'm sorry it all happened.

For words of comfort even now,
you might say and some did say,
"You still have another son."
Now I ask you,
"Do you hear
your logic?
When your mother died
did your living father make it easier?"
What saved you, you ask?
Unconditional love.
I was lucky with Andrew.
We were happy.
Nothing left undone.

You see I shall tell you
what you already know,
don't shake your head
and dismiss it because it is simple.

Let's pretend you have climbed
a dangerous mountain,
reached the summit to see
the wise old woman 
who lives on the peak.
Your bruised knuckles knock
 on her door.
It opens.  She's standing there-
you can't believe it-
wearing shorts, 
her hair pulled back in a rubber band.
You've come all this way, 
it's not what you expected
and worse yet
she goes to her desk, 
gives you a paper, 
one of hundreds, all typed,
"Live each day as through 
it were your last."

You see our problem,
 you already have this at home
in a needlework picture.
Because it is nothing new
you may turn away, 
but I won't worry about you.
You are a climber,
 an asker of questions
with answers
cross-stitched on your walls at home,
 hung in old frames on a nail, 
hiding a flaw in the plaster.

I'll ask the next question for you
because you may not think to wonder,
"Is there anything you 
would have done differently?'
Yes, I'd bring his body home,
put his blue casket in my living room, 
group all the flowers around him.
Imagine all the flowers.
Think of two more days
for me to look at my child,
discover the bruise
on his forehead that wasn't there
when we were playing.
I learned of his injury weeks later
when the funeral director told me,
"He was so beautiful.
We did nothing but cover the blow."
For two more days
I could have spoken to my child
 face to face
before forced to speak
only to darkness or you.
There were not enough chances
to touch him,
put my cheek next to his.
I wouldn't have been afraid
of my child's body;
but I left him at the funeral home
in the corner room
on the second floor
and visited whenever I could
because I did not want to scare you.

Next time will be different,
I'll put my loved one in the house
like my mother's family used to do,
and we'll all gather around
like sitting by a fire.
At the cemetery, like a rabbi
I'll take a shovel
and heap the dirt back in the hole,
doing the raking and sodding myself.

Let me tell you.
You would not know how to ask
about the day they set his tombstone.
I watched them stand
 the small granite cross
in a footing of wet cement.
When the workers left,
I touched the stone
carved with his name in full
because that's the way he said it,
written in all capitals
because that's the way he wrote it:
ANDREW CAMERSON MINTON.
I broke a branch
so I could write to my child
in the margin of wet cement,
"I love you.  I miss you.
Thank God I will see you again."
You see I have learned
chances don't come again.
I listen to what they say,
"Opportunity is brief.
Remember cement gets hard.
Yesterday is set in concrete
unable to record your words."

Shall we go on? 
I have seven years to tell you .
I read the question in your eyes:
"How have you managed to go on?"
You'll hate my answer:
more needlework,
perhaps a needlepoint pillow?
Let me paint the canvas for you.
Now go home with your fists
 full of rainbows of wool, 
thread the needle through the holes,
in and out like a pulse.
Nail your finished canvas on a frame,
stretch it square,
bind it with a cord
braided of your hair.
Put it on your sofa,
show it to your friends,
teach them One Day At A Time.

No more questions, but you are concerned.
You suggest I get out and get some exercise.
Exercise!?  Exercise!?
Grief is isometric.
Are you looking at my face?
I have the face of a sprinter.
I grimace and strain
like the runners I saw
in the New York marathon.
Those toward the end were suffering,
dying, thought more alive 
than most of us
cheering for people we didn't know,
"Don't give up!  Keep going!"
Some were passing them water.
The runners ran on,
 some fell skinning their knees.
If you pass me a cup of water 
you will see what I see up the road-
a rugged uphill course
 I"m determined to finish.
I will make it
if I pace myself,
forgive myself when I fall,
and stop long enough to accept the water you offer.