Recently I watched the movie Brothers. I will leave 
out the movie review, but here is a brief synopsis: An excellent family man who is in the military goes back for a second tour of duty and ends up being captured. His family thinks he is dead, and grieves his loss. He is then restored to them (this part really hurt…I wished so many times that Phil’s death was actually just a terrible mistake) but has been altered due to the horrific experience of being held captive. Not a feel good movie by any stretch of the imagination.

There was a scene, however, that provided a glimpse into my life. Before everyone realizes that the hero is not dead, the bad boy character is trying to help his brother’s widow “feel better.” He plans a birthday party for her, complete with a cake baked by her two adorable girls. There are guests, decorations, gifts, candles, and of course everyone yells surprise as she walks in the door. Then the camera pans around the room and you see the exact same look on every face. Expectancy. Did it work? Is she happy? Will she stop wearing the look of grief on her face? Have we communicated to her how much we love her? ARE WE ENOUGH? And that last one hit me right in the stomach. Because as widowed people we constantly carry around the weight of other’s concerns, fears, sadness, and yes, their wishes for our ultimate happiness…as we are observed, discussed, fretted over, and advised by good meaning folks of all types.

The heroine in this scene looks a little dazed. She obviously understands the reaction that is expected from all the people surrounding her with loving birthday wishes, and yet grief is clearly present in the room. Her need to acknowledge her painful loss clashes with the needs of her loved ones to know that she will one day recover from the searing pain of separation that grief inflicts. These same people want to be reassured that they are enough to make her happy, that she will choose to live again because she wants to share her life with them too. As I watched this scene I felt the weight of the wishes that the people in my own life hold close to their hearts for me, and for my children. My shoulders felt heavy, and my heart ached, viscerally I experienced the feeling of being loaded down. The most difficult part of the weighted feeling was that the load was full of good things…wishes for happiness, wishes for wholeness, wishes for the ability to laugh freely, wishes for the unspoken lines of grief that mark my face to fade away, wishes for good things in our future, wishes for life to be a little kinder to our family, and wishes for the past to not always overshadow the future.

As I watched this actress play my part, I suddenly realized that I have carried the weight of all of the good wishes of my friends and family for many years. I dragged them around with me even when I couldn’t believe that any of them would ever come true. Each wish has been piled on top of the next, and I have been walking around like an overloaded juggler trying not to drop any one of the wonderful things that the amazing people in my life hope for me. The idea of putting them down and letting someone else carry the load for me never crossed my mind.

Viewing myself through the mirror of film struggling to honor my loss, and also to acknowledge the possibility of my future, made the weight of other people’s wishing shockingly clear. I wish I had known that my loving friends and family are free to wish as many good things for me as they can dream up, and I am free to be grateful for their kindness, and to allow them to carry the weight of all they hope for my future.

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As I stood looking at the old television, I remembered the day Phil and I brought it home. He was so excited. We bought the new big screen as a part of the house remodel that we did the year before he died. After months of scraping ceilings, removing wall paper, redoing floors, and repainting walls the house was finally ready for new electronics. Phil and I made a deal; I could do whatever I wanted with the home decor as long as he got to choose the new TV. Boy did he take advantage of that deal….his set of choice was huge. So moving it out of the house was no small feat.

I called the kids into the room and said, “We need to move this TV out to the garage.” They looked at me, looked at the monster set, and then we started discussing how to make the move. As we stood in our living room together brainstorming what to do I realized how many times over the past five years the four of us have needed to work as a team. Because we’ve been here before, the four of us, facing a task that usually is done by two adults collaborating, deciding, and then acting.

But when Phil died, I needed my kids to step up when one set of arms was not enough. I needed help when the plumbing overflowed, or the fence fell down, or the shingles were flying off of the roof in the rain. When I couldn’t call out, “Honey!!” I instead called “Kids!”

One or more of them would come to my aid, and somehow between us we solved all kinds of everyday problems. This seemed especially true during the holiday season when decorating, buying presents, purchasing and transporting a tree, hanging lights, and just making it through the hustle and bustle was so much harder in our single parent home. Whenever I reached the end of my rope, I counted on the only other hands in the house to tie a knot for me.

Grief has definitely stolen a portion of my children’s innocence. They make statements now and then that cut me to the quick with their honest observations of life in the aftermath of loss. More than once, I have wished I didn’t have to count on them to be older, wiser, and sometimes braver than their years might suggest.

The scars that grief has left on my kids are visible, and life changing, but as we took that huge television over the last step of our porch and smoothly delivered it into our garage I realized what a good team we have become since death walked into our lives. We are resourceful. We can count on each other. We know our team’s strengths and weaknesses. We believe that we can solve problems together. Everyone has a voice. I would like to say that all of this was true before Phil died, and maybe it was, but we didn’t know for sure until we were tested.

So this year, as we walked out of the garage high-fiving and celebrating another challenging task completed, we spontaneously started singing….we will, we will ROCK you! Five minutes later my daughter walked through the kitchen still humming the tune and I thought to myself…yes, yes we will.

Michele Neff Hernandez 2010

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When I first was able to entertain the thought of marrying again, I would be rendered mute when asked to utter the phrase, “till death do us part.” Those four words mean something completely different to me now that I know what parting actually feels like.

As my heart slowly recovered and love did again enter my life, I subdued a sense of dread about making another lifelong pledge. When I finally said, “Yes,” to a wonderful man and faced the fact that I would be expected to make this promise out loud, I braced myself for the moment in our wedding  ceremony when I would be asked if I would love him until death took him from my side.

But when the time arrived, I found myself overcome with joy that Michael and I made it to that moment. Together we allowed grief to coexist with love, though the concept may not make sense to many people. He didn’t require me to walk away from my widowhood in order to become his wife.

With the assurance that my love for my first husband, Phil, was safe, my love for Michael found room to grow. This new love includes my kids, my family, my friends both old and new, and my widowed community. Finding someone who could embrace every part of my life is a blessing I experience with awe, and instead of crying all I could do was smile.

The tears did fall when Michael and I finally laid down at the end of a wonderful evening full of love, laughter, and friendship…I cried and cried. When he asked me what was wrong, I said, “I don’t think I believed until right this minute that this day would actually come.” I explained to him that it was if I’d held my breath for the two years we dated, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But love won out over fear, and so did I.

I write this article today being able to very clearly recall saying the words, “No one will ever measure up to Phil.” The journey that has led me to the place I am today has been equal parts terrifying and amazing. I am not implying that being married again will wipe away all the pain of past loss, nor do I believe that finding a new life partner is somehow mandatory as proof of healing. I just wanted to share with you my reality, which is that I don’t have to trade in one love for another…I can have both.

The post Widows: Let Love Win Out over Fear appeared first on Open to Hope.

The day I lost my husband was the same day that theory became reality, and faith became more than just a concept to which I paid lip service. Grief is the ultimate test of faith. Faith requires trust. Death robbed me of a sense of security, making the idea of trust incomprehensible. And the whole vicious circle renewed itself daily as I attempted in vain to determine why I was living a sorrow filled nightmare. My inability to escape the reality of widowhood forced me to evaluate my beliefs and determine whether or not they could withstand the blinding glare of grief.

I imagine the following personal truths as tall pillars that I view through a cloud of dust and rubble created by a major earthquake. Though everything around these support beams has fallen, they miraculously remain. I rub my eyes to look again, because for any structure to survive an earth shattering experience of this magnitude seems impossible…and yet these columns stand tall amongst the debris of loss and grief.

I believe in everlasting love. I believe that God is not a being who resides in a structure, but a spirit who lives in the hearts, and hands, of loving people. I believe that the length of your life is not an indication of your impact on the world. I believe that time is indeed a gift. I believe that human beings have the power to heal each other. I believe that shared experience can bond individuals in a unique and life changing way. I believe that our lives are a tapestry and each experience, wonderful or terrible, adds richness to the final fabric.

I believe that tomorrow is only a dream. I believe that life is too short to hold grudges. I believe that people are inherently good. I believe that buying lemonade from my daughter at her new job is more important than spending an extra hour at my own work. I believe that the people who come into my life do so for a reason. I believe that kindness changes lives. I believe that this too shall pass. I believe that life is a gift, but like all gifts must be opened to be appreciated.

These are a few of the pillars that have survived my personal earth quake. I lean on them when I feel unable to stand. When grief occasionally stirs the dust of sorrow, I look for them to steady my course. My widowhood experience has taught me that when faith requires me to walk forward blindly; those pillars will guide the way.

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Recently I went to see the movie Brothers. I will leave out the movie review, but will tell you that I would probably not have watched this show had I not been with a friend who really wanted to see the film. Brief synopsis: An excellent family man who is in the military goes back for a second tour of duty and ends up being captured. His family thinks he is dead, and grieves his loss. He is then restored to them (this part really hurt…I wished so many times that Phil’s death was actually just a terrible mistake) but has been altered due to the horrific experience of being held captive. Not a feel-good movie by any stretch of the imagination.

There was a scene, however, that provided a glimpse into my life. At one point, the bad boy character is trying to help his brother’s widow “feel better.” He plans a birthday party for her, complete with a cake baked by her two adorable girls. There are guests, decorations, gifts, candles, and of course everyone yells surprise as she walks in the door.

Then the camera pans around the room and you see the exact same look on every face. Expectancy. Did it work? Is she happy? Will she stop wearing the look of grief on her face? Have we communicated to her how much we love her? ARE WE ENOUGH? And that last one hit me right in the stomach. Because as widowed people, we constantly carry around the weight of other’s concerns, fears, sadness, and yes, their wishes for our ultimate happiness…as we are observed, discussed, fretted over, and advised by good meaning folks of all types.

The heroine in this scene looks a little dazed. She obviously understands the reaction that is expected from all the people surrounding her with loving birthday wishes, and yet grief is clearly present in the room. Her need to acknowledge her painful loss clashes with the needs of her loved ones to know that she will one day recover from the searing pain of separation that grief inflicts.

These same people want to be reassured that they are enough to make her happy, that she will choose to live again because she wants to share her life with them too. As I watched this scene, I felt the weight of the wishes that the people in my own life hold close to their hearts for me, and for my children. My shoulders felt heavy, and my heart ached; viscerally, I experienced the feeling of being loaded down.

The most difficult part of the weighted feeling was that the load was full of good things…wishes for happiness, wishes for wholeness, wishes for the ability to laugh freely, wishes for the unspoken lines of grief that mark my face to fade away, wishes for good things in our future, wishes for life to be a little kinder to our family, and wishes for the past to not always overshadow the future.

As I watched this actress play my part, I suddenly realized that I have carried the weight of all of the good wishes of my friends and family for over four years. I dragged them around with me even when I couldn’t believe that any of them would ever come true. Each wish has been piled on top of the next, and I have been walking around like an overloaded juggler trying not to drop any one of the wonderful things that the amazing people in my life hope for me. The idea of putting them down and letting someone else carry the load for me never crossed my mind.

Viewing myself through the mirror of film struggling to honor my loss, and also to acknowledge the possibility of my future, made the weight of other people’s wishing shockingly clear. I wish I had known that my loving friends and family are free to wish as many good things for me as they can dream up, and I am free to be grateful for their kindness, and to allow them to carry the weight of all they hope for my future.

The post The Weight of Wishing appeared first on Open to Hope.

Closets are useful partly because you can shut the doors to conceal any messiness that might be found inside. I suppose that is why we use the concept of closets when describing emotional things we either don’t want to discuss openly or would rather not examine too closely ourselves. No need to look at those fears we place behind shuttered doors or to share them with the world or to force ourselves to delve into painful realities.

At least that is how my emotional closet works. I have shoved a variety of things I would rather not think about into the recesses of my mental closet in the years since my husband died. Trouble is, whenever I need a sweater (aka some emotional stamina) I have to peek inside and try to stick my arm between the doors without allowing any of the hidden feelings, fears, or insecurities burst from their hiding spot .

One thing I have stored way back behind the formal dresses, and the ridiculous high heels that kill my feet but look perfect with my dress, is my need to be in a loving partnership again. This need took me almost two years to look in the face, nearly three years to admit publicly, and close to four years to stop worrying about how loving another man would reflect on my devotion to Phil.

So let’s free a few more of the stowaways from my emotional closet. Am I betraying Phil by loving someone else? Does finding a new man give the world the false impression that I am, God forbid, “over it?” Will I ever stop feeling like the other shoe is going to drop any moment and my new partner will die too?

How do I handle the fact that I was happy in my marriage and never wanted to see it end…but here I am without a partner? Why do some people think that grief ends when a new relationship begins? Will my widow community understand that loving someone else does not make me less of a widow? Because as much as I hated that word the first time I had to own it, I have come to realize that being Phil’s widow is the only way I can still be his wife. And how in the world do I explain THAT to another man?!

Last week I told another widow that I have a boyfriend, a serious boyfriend actually. And I was shocked by her reply…..”What a relief, finally, someone to talk to about this!” While reading her response I realized that my fear of being judged for moving into a new phase of widowhood has kept me from sharing information that could be helpful to our widow community. I happily share my widow self, my mother self, my sister/daughter/friend self…but I for fear of hurting or shocking newly widowed women who aren’t ready to think about life four years from now, I have not shared my whole self.

I am a widow, I will love Phil forever, I have learned to accept that life will not be what he and I planned, and I have found a man who understands that my past, my loss, and especially my grief have made me the woman I am today…and he loves the woman I have become. As I have learned to love again I have held on with both hands to the reality that true love never dies—and that I don’t have a limited supply of love to give.

The post Cleaning the ‘Emotional Closet’ After a Loss appeared first on Open to Hope.

I am imagining you wearing a heavily laden backpack. This pack is filled with the searing pain of separation, the desperate fear of the unknown, the intense longing for the touch of someone who loves you, the emerging hope you have for the future, and a new love for today. You are surrounded by the beauty of the Arizona countryside, heading up the North side of the Grand Canyon.  The landscape is breath-taking, sometimes the beauty of your surroundings causes tears to run down your cheeks–other times it makes you draw in your breath in wonder.

As you begin to ascend the canyon, you are feeling your legs–aware of the strain the climb creates. Your muscles feel weak at first, but as you continue ascending, you realize there is strength in your legs you didn’t know you had. Each step forward requires effort.  The grade of the climb changes often, once in a while the steep angle makes you lose your footing and fall back. Yet, even with the backward steps, you move forward, pressed on by the thought that you are capable.

Following the winding path up the trail, you realize that the journey to the bottom of the canyon was fraught with pain and fear. There were days you felt you were free-falling and other days when you sat on a ledge unable to move either forward or back. No markers indicated where the bottom of the canyon was, so the descent felt as if it would last forever.

Then, without warning, you found yourself standing on the banks of the majestic Colorado River. You are out of breath and a bit dizzy, but miraculously still in one piece. Trying to get your bearings, you are shocked to discover that the descent is over. Calm surrounds you as you become aware that you have survived. You no longer need to wonder if you can live through the treacherous freefall of loss. Suddenly, you know that your goal is to climb out of the gorge you dropped into, one step at a time.

With each passing moment, the strength in your muscles gives you confidence.  The weight of your pack seems to change as you climb.  Perhaps you have grown accustomed to the added load, but whatever the reason, you feel able to bear the weight. Climbing all the way up the opposite side of the Grand Canyon suddenly seems possible. Though you have a distance to go and your destination is not in plain view, you know it is there–not by sight, but by instinct. You can envision the outer edge of the canyon, and you have no fear of disappointment.

Your journey will be whatever it is meant to be, and you are at peace. You have learned the lesson of the descent–you only have today. Today is what you live for, tomorrow is what you hope for, and yesterday is where your heart learned it’s most poignant lessons.

Onward, friend.

The post A Meditation for Those Facing the First Anniversary of a Loss appeared first on Open to Hope.

As you begin to ascend the canyon, you are feeling your legs–aware of the strain the climb creates. Your muscles feel weak at first, but as you continueascending you realize there is strength in your legs you didn’t know you had. Each step forward requires effort.  The grade of the climb changes often, once in a while the steep angle makes you lose your footing and fall back. Yet, even with the backward steps you move forward, pressed on by the thought that you are capable.

Following the winding path up the trail, you realize that the journey to the bottom of the canyon was fraught with pain and fear. There were days you felt you were free-falling and other days when you sat on a ledge unable to move either forward or back. No markers indicated where the bottom of the canyon was, so the descent felt as if it would last forever. Then, without warning, you found yourself standing on the banks of the majestic Colorado River. You are out of breath and a bit dizzy, but miraculously still in one piece. Trying to get your bearings you are shocked to discover that the descent is over.  Calm surrounds you as you become aware that you have survived. You no longer need to wonder if you can live through the treacherous free fall of loss, suddenly you know that your goal is to climb out of the gorge you dropped into–one step at a time.

With each passing moment the strength in your muscles gives you confidence.  The weight of your pack seems to change as you climb.  Perhaps you have grown accustomed to the added load, but whatever the reason, you feel able to bear the weight. Climbing all the way up the opposite side of the Grand Canyon suddenly seems possible. Though you have a distance to go and your destination is not in plain view, you know it is there–not by sight, but by instinct. You can envision the outer edge of the canyon, and you have no fear of disappointment. Your journey will be whatever it is meant to be, and you are at peace. You have learned the lesson of the descent–you only have today. Today is what you live for, tomorrow is what you hope for, and yesterday is where your heart learned it’s most poignant lessons.

Onward, friend.

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The death of someone instrumental in our lives instantly changes our view of the world. Ordinary things are suddenly fraught with meaning, and insignificant moments become unexpectedly precious.  After my husband Phil’s death I remember thinking that grief swooped in and stole my rose-colored glasses, leaving me with a pair of dark shades instead. I was quite certain that rose was no longer my color.

This darker world view made every life celebration bittersweet…or sometimes just plain bitter. Movies became minefields, attending weddings became tortuous, walking down the street beside hand-holding couples made me feel nauseous, and stopping for lunch alone during my workday often reduced me to tears.

While gray was the dominant color in my life, I generally felt either sad or numb, with not much in between. Sometimes when a bit of color would filter through the haze (a flash of genuine happiness for example), I felt almost burned. My instinct became turning away from the sun and pulling my new shades down over my eyes to keep the world in a comfortable state of darkness.

I can’t tell you exactly when my shades started allowing the penetration of light, but they did. One day, I genuinely smiled. Another day, I laughed so hard that my sides hurt. Every now and then I could walk down the street without counting the couples I passed.

I even went to a wedding and found myself caught up in the love of the moment instead of listening to the voice in my head detailing the ways that death may these two part. When I realized that I had made it through a wedding without the bitter taste of disappointment in my mouth, I knew that the gloom was finally lifting.

Death has changed the way I look at every single thing in my life. Lately, I have been thinking of life as a camera. We don’t always get to select the lens, but we can adjust the focus. I can’t change the fact that Phil died, but I can choose to focus on how lucky I was to love him. I will never sit through a film that includes losing a loved one without a pang of sorrow, but I can choose to employ that compassion in my everyday life.

When I see very old couples assisting each other out of a car, I still wonder, “Why not us?”…but I can choose to think, “Good for you.” Sometimes getting the focus right is still not easy. When a wave of grief comes from somewhere unexpected, I am often temporarily unable to adjust my focus, but I am learning that finding the right focus takes practice. And each day gives me a new opportunity to pick up my camera.

Michele Neff Hernandez is the founder, and executive director of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation.  SSLF is a non-profit organization committed to providing resources and support to people grieving the loss of a loved one. In addition to her work with the foundation, Michele inspires people as a motivational speaker and freelance writer. Through speaking to service groups, faith communities, Universities and hosting community seminars she has shared her thoughts on loss and hope with a variety of audiences. She is the creator of the Web site www.widowsbond.com and the Widow Match program. Since the death of her husband in 2005, she has made reaching out to other widows her personal mission.  Ms. Hernandez’s various projects have been featured in the Ventura County Star, the Simi Valley Acorn, and the Riverside County Record. She is a contributing author to several websites and is chronicling the interviews she has done with widows across the country in a book called, The Healing Power of the Widow’s Bond. Currently she is planning a national widowhood conference scheduled for the summer of 2009.

The post Lifting the Veil: Gloom Ends at a Wedding appeared first on Open to Hope.

Grief is a thief; it steals the breath of life and leaves devastation in its wake. What happens when grief robs a woman of not only her husband, but also her ability to cope with the world around her? How do friends and family members know when that widow is in a dangerous place??

The answers to these questions can only be discovered if we are willing to plant our own feet next to a widow, and walk a portion of the journey by her side.

A young woman lost her husband in a car accident six years ago. At the time of her husband’s death, their children were eight and two, and her full-time occupation was caring for their family. The car accident that took her husband’s life left this young woman in deep despair.

And then she got lost. As each year passed, her ability to find her way out of the forest of grief declined. She stayed in bed, stopped cleaning the house, let the yard go…and most people stood by and watched. After the first few years, these others assumed this woman was lazy, useless, and a bad mother. Yet, her friends remembered a kind person who loved her children and worked hard to make their lives full and happy. At one time she belonged to the local church, volunteered in the neighborhood, and reached out to others.

But when it was time to walk the road of loss, she walked alone.

After six years, the department of child protective services was called to this family’s home. The house was declared a fire hazard, as was the surrounding property. And then someone spoke up. A friend recognized that this young woman never functioned the same way after her husband’s death. She noticed that the light was gone from her eyes, her former level of energy never returned, and she could still see that she loved her children and wanted to be able to take care of them. Most importantly, she didn’t put a timeline on her friend’s grief journey.

This good friend searched the Internet for a group that would help this widow. She sent a message to a widow’s support site, and that message happened to land in the lap of someone who knew someone who might be able to help. After a volley of phone calls and e-mails it was discovered that this woman was given one week to get the house cleaned up, or her children would be removed from the home. When the first call for help was received, three days had already passed.

A group called Catholic Charities was contacted, and agreed to make a home visit. What they found when they arrived was a home that could be aired on a daytime talk show…and a woman so lost she couldn’t find a path out.

The very next day, Catholic Charities rounded up eight volunteers and worked twelve hours straight-sifting, sorting, removing, and caring. On the appointed day, they still needed more time. The case worker for Catholic Charities called the sheriff assigned to the case, and said they were well on their way to getting the situation under control but could they have one more day?

Granted the extension, more volunteers showed up the following day, and as they finished the last bits of work, a social worker arrived to take the children. As the social worker looked around the house, she wondered aloud what the problem could have been. The children looked healthy, the house was clean, the kids obviously wanted to stay with their mom…after a few phone calls she left, bewildered by what had taken place.

The next day, the Sheriff returned and declared the case closed.

What a gift this wonderful friend gave our sister widow! She recognized grief for the thief that it is, and reached out a hand in help instead of pointing a finger in accusation.? This led to another gift, the care and concern for others so beautifully displayed by the staff and volunteers from Catholic Charities. They do their work without judgment, and they don’t leave the person in need once the immediate dilemma is solved. This family will receive free counseling, and now has a place to turn for help, support, and hope.

The last thing this widow said to her benefactors was, “I didn’t know how to ask for help. I am so grateful.”

Thank God there was someone who didn’t need to be asked aloud in order to hear the cry.

Michele Neff Hernandez is the founder, and executive director of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation.  SSLF is a non-profit organization committed to providing resources and support to people grieving the loss of a loved one. In addition to her work with the foundation, Michele inspires people as a motivational speaker and freelance writer.  Through speaking to service groups, faith communities, universities and hosting community seminars she has shared her thoughts on loss and hope with a variety of audiences.  She is the creator of the Web site www.widowsbond.com and the Widow Match program. Since the death of her husband in 2005, she has made reaching out to other widows her personal mission.  Ms. Hernandez’s various projects have been featured in the Ventura County Star, the Simi Valley Acorn, and the Riverside County Record. She is a contributing author to several websites and is chronicling the interviews she has done with widows across the country in a book called, The Healing Power of the Widow’s Bond. Currently she is planning a national widowhood conference scheduled for the summer of 2009.

Ms. Hernandez is a resident of Simi Valley, California where she lives and laughs with her three amazing children. An avid runner and outdoor enthusiast, she actively encourages others to embrace the life we are given.

The post How Should You Help a Grieving Widow? appeared first on Open to Hope.

Motherhood brings out the lioness in me. No task is too small or sacrifice too great to ensure the well being of my three children. In my mind’s eye, I can see myself jumping in front of an on-coming train to save their lives; feeding them first from my last ration of bread; offering myself as a meal for the hungry bear that is chasing them. In every one of these imaginings I manage to save the day.

In the normal course of life, moms feed, bathe, clothe, soothe, encourage, celebrate, hold, hug, and protect their little ones through the bumps and bruises associated with living, learning and loving. Sometimes I think of my love for them as a protective cloak that serves the double purpose of reminding them of their innate value and also guarding them from the many perils that threaten to harm them as they walk this journey of life.

But when death came knocking, I could not protect them.

After delivering the devastating news to my children that my husband died in a cycling accident, I rode home in the back seat of a car with the three of them crying in my arms. They asked question after question as I felt my heart writhe repeatedly inside my chest. Why did that man hit him, Mom? Where was the bike? Wasn’t he wearing a helmet? I thought you said he probably broke some bones. How come that driver didn’t see him? Why did he die?

I remember these moments like you recall a dream, vivid and yet unfocused and out of sequence. But through the fog of emotion, one feeling from that night is piercingly clear…the terrifying sensation of being completely helpless. For the first time in their young lives, there was not one thing I could do to take away my children’s pain. My own pain was echoed in their cries of grief, and the invisible cape I naively believed could shield them from every trauma lay crumpled on the floor mats at our feet.

Being powerless to alter the course my children were about to travel, I realized all I could offer was a hand to hold as we walked the road that lay before us. And so we grieved, together. Some days were ugly. Some days I yelled more than I should have. Some days we cried, others we laughed.

They went back to school; I sat on the couch and stared into space. They did homework; I tried to pay attention. Dinner was sometimes from a box, and other times from the drive through. We went to the beach, we slept in just because, we said Phil’s name often, and celebrated the fact that we loved him every day. Life milestones were bittersweet. We held fast to some family traditions, while others were re-designed. Slowly we built a new life one day at a time.

My kids taught me many lessons in the aftermath of our family tragedy.  In those early days we discovered that tears can be shared; strong parents cry too. They taught me that time together is the foundation for the memories that hold us up in times of loss. Laughing with them reminded me that being happy was necessary, too. Their love was unconditional…which meant I didn’t have to know all the answers. My kids taught me that I could lean on them; the whole world didn’t have to rest on my shoulders alone.

Together, we have risen from the ashes of loss to do more for the world we inhabit, because death taught us to value life. Three teenage angels taught me to be a better mother, and to see the world as it can be if we parents truly believe all those things we teach our children…love much, laugh often, and live well.

Ironically, my inability to shield my children from every pain has allowed them to learn lessons that will shape their future in ways I would never have imagined.  And my lack of superhuman powers allowed their amazing courage and natural grace to shine brightly-even death couldn’t dim their beauty.

Michele Neff Hernandez is the founder, and executive director of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation.  SSLF is a non-profit organization committed to providing resources and support to people grieving the loss of a loved one. In addition to her work with the foundation, Michele inspires people as a motivational speaker and freelance writer. Through speaking to service groups, faith communities, Universities and hosting community seminars she has shared her thoughts on loss and hope with a variety of audiences. She is the creator of the Web site www.widowsbond.com and the Widow Match program. Since the death of her husband in 2005, she has made reaching out to other widows her personal mission.  Ms. Hernandez’s various projects have been featured in the Ventura County Star, the Simi Valley Acorn, and the Riverside County Record. She is a contributing author to several websites and is chronicling the interviews she has done with widows across the country in a book called, The Healing Power of the Widow’s Bond.

The post Mother’s Power Limited in the Face of Death appeared first on Open to Hope.

It is an odd and frightening sensation to wish you were dead.  After my husband died, I fervently wished I could die, too. The first time I read that grieving people sometimes fantasize about death, I was relieved. My entire life I had appreciated the gift of life; to suddenly and frequently wish it away was a disconcerting and lonely experience.

When my husband, Phil, was hit by a car, the initial shock provided a buffer to the complicated emotions that would gather to haunt me in the days and months to come. As the buffer of shock wore off, I was struck daily by the realization that Phil wasn’t coming home.  It felt like Groundhog Day-every day I woke up with the expectation that the day would somehow go differently, and I would discover that Phil wasn’t really gone. Day by day, the reality of his death ate away at my desire to live.

There is a difference between wishing to be dead and being suicidal. My death wish did not come from a desire to stop living. It didn’t even come from a desire to stop hurting, though the pain was so intense at times I hoped it would kill me. My death wish came from a desire to be with Phil again. His physical absence was like a phantom pain in a limb that was no longer attached.

My death wish became a part of my daydreams. Jogging up a street, I would mentally challenge cars to run me over. On a plane, I would imagine a fiery crash that I didn’t survive. Hiking in the mountains I looked for wild animals that might want to make a meal of me. Driving alone in the car, I visualized my car flying over any ledge I passed. Every brush with imagined death was followed by the disappointing result of still being alive; continuing to jog down the street, landing as expected at my destination, a safe return from hiking adventures, and no crash over the nearest ledge.  The longing I felt to be with him was a constant ache; the only cure I could imagine was joining him wherever he was.

As time marched on, the call to live gradually grew stronger. In the early part of my grieving, I desperately held on to two reasons to live; my kids needed me, our family and friends would be so sad if I was gone, too. All my reasons for wanting to live were about someone else; if it were up to me….beam me up Lord! There was not one personal reason that I could think of to continue living.

But healing has a way of sneaking up on you. Eventually, I recognized that my husband lived his life fully, every moment. He had an awareness of the value of life that influenced his daily choices. Reflecting on how he lived his life reminded me of the gift that life is, and he became a role model for me.

As I have begun the process of creating a life for myself without him, I have had to find reasons to live that are my own. I want to be a mother to my children. I want to make a difference in my community.  I want to weave my husband’s spirit into the fabric of the person I am becoming. I want to bask in the joy of being in love again. I want to experience the adventure that life still holds for me.

The woman my husband married died with him. Grief has changed me, but I am proud of the woman that is emerging from the ashes of loss. Life is a gift to me in a way it never was before. The nuisances of life don’t bother me as much as they once did. Age-old adages like, “Take time to smell the roses,” actually mean something to me now.

The world can’t be the same place it was two years ago, because Phil isn’t in it. Somehow, that comforts me. What I am learning is that though many things around me are radically different, I can still be a whole, happy, grateful person. Ironically, my death wish has become a steely will to truly live.  Phil would be glad to hear that.

Michele Neff Hernandez is the founder, and executive director of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. SSLF is a non-profit organization committed to providing resources and support to people grieving the loss of a loved one. In addition to her work with the foundation, Michele inspires people as a motivational speaker and freelance writer. Through speaking to service groups, faith communities, Universities and hosting community seminars she has shared her thoughts on loss and hope with a variety of audiences. She is the creator of the Web site www.widowsbond.com and the Widow Match program.

The post Young Widow Overcomes Her Death Wish appeared first on Open to Hope.

For the first few weeks after Phil’s death, anything that had touched his body was sacred. His shoes were sitting where he last left them, his lunchbox remained on top of the refrigerator, and his toothbrush was standing next to mine in the holder. One day, I found an eyelash of his and pressed it into a plastic rosary holder for safekeeping. Three days before he died, he was working in our attic and left dirty fingerprints on the top of the door in our bedroom. I was annoyed when I saw the black marks on our white door, and made a mental note to ask him to clean off the prints. Those black marks now hold a place of honor on my otherwise white door.

In those early days, I didn’t handle Phil’s things very often. I was afraid of losing his scent or masking that unique smell with my own. But after a few months, as shock wore off and reality started to press in around me, I became desperate for the comfort of Phil’s arms.

One morning, I woke up crying (again) and wrapped my own arms around myself trying to imagine that my limbs were his. Rocking back and forth in the middle of my bed, I looked up and caught sight of one of his sweatshirts. Even as I literally ached for his touch, I weighed the value of wearing his clothes against the risk of losing even a tiny part of him. But I needed him, so I pulled that sweatshirt over my head. Immediately, I felt as if he had wrapped me in a tight hug, and I lay my head on his strong chest and cried my eyes out.

That moment was a milestone for me. I stopped withholding from myself the comfort of wearing his clothes; I just reveled in the warmth of knowing I was wearing a part of him. I slept in his t-shirts, wore his slippers to get the paper, pulled on his raincoat when it poured, and adopted his favorite running shirt as my own. I was layered in Phil, and I loved every minute.

As I became more comfortable using his things, I discovered that Phil’s memory was part of my daily life in a new way. Instead of pulling out his things to torture myself with his absence, I used them to remind me of how much he loved me. The items that were a part of his everyday routine were proof that he was part of my every day world, even though his body was gone.

Our love was obvious to me in his hairbrush, even if that brush was now covered in my hair. When I pulled on his running shirt, I was reminded of sunny afternoons that we headed out the door side-by-side. Slowly, I blended what was with what is, and found that the past was paving the way for the future.

I still go out to get the paper in Phil’s slippers. Every now and then, I giggle as I pull on his favorite sweatshirt, because he would never let me wear it when he was alive. His t-shirts are often my pajamas and that eyelash is still tucked away in the rosary box. What I have learned is that his memory is held not only in the physical evidence of his existence, but in the indelible mark he left on my soul. No amount of time, space, or familiarity will rub that mark off.

Michele Neff Hernandez is the founder, and executive director of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation.  SSLF is a non-profit organization committed to providing resources and support to people grieving the loss of a loved one. In addition to her work with the foundation, Michele inspires people as a motivational speaker and freelance writer. Through speaking to service groups, faith communities, Universities and hosting community seminars she has shared her thoughts on loss and hope with a variety of audiences. She is the creator of the Web site www.widowsbond.com and the Widow Match program. Currently she is planning a national widowhood conference scheduled for the summer of 2009.

The post Wearing Husband’s Clothes Keeps His Memory Close appeared first on Open to Hope.

My husband had a shoe fetish.  Phillip owned shoes for all occasions and athletic events-some were kept only for their sentimental value.  To him, each pair either served a purpose or told a story, so there was no getting rid of them.  This caused a serious storage issue.  In addition to his side of the closet, he claimed the entire space under our bed. According to my husband, shoes could not be stacked, which meant the entire perimeter of the bed was lined with shoes.  My shoes were piled in the closet in order to make more room for his.

When Phillip died, each pair of shoes became a reminder of something about him or about us that I missed.  His favorite pair of trail shoes, still covered with dust from his last run, recalled the happy hours we shared running together on mountain trails.  I missed the time we spent exercising together, and enjoying the beauty of the outdoors.

Racing flats brought memories of him crossing one of many finish lines, sometimes with a smile of triumph, other times with a look of disbelief, always with the determination of a person who loved to run. I missed his competitive spirit, and the surprising heights of physical endurance to which he regularly pushed me.  A pair of vintage Nike’s were a particular favorite of his-causing more than one heated discussion when he pulled them out with his party attire.  The despised dress shoes always made me smile, because they required dusting before being worn.  Still, they were a necessity, and they had their place in the line up under our bed.

How could I part with all those shoes?  I knew it had to be done, but just moving them to a new location required baby steps.  Each time I picked up a pair, I relived the story they told and put them right back where they were with tears in my eyes.  This dilemma felt like an unsolvable puzzle: to not only let go of the shoes, but to do it in a way that would exemplify my husband’s love for them. How could I look into what was once our shared closet, and not see his beloved collection stored neatly in their assigned location?  The shoes became memory keepers and I feared that letting go of the shoes would also mean letting go of the memories.

As the holidays approached, the answer to my problem finally became clear.  Phillip’s parents were born in Mexico City.  A few months before he died, he took a long awaited trip to visit relatives who still live there.  He returned with a renewed sense of how fortunate we are here in the United States; speaking for weeks of the poverty and despair he witnessed in his parents’ homeland.  Yet, he also noticed that blended with the despair was a generosity of spirit and an unwavering faith that he truly admired.

As a result of his trip, we planned to join our church group in December, when they traveled to a small Mexican town to bring the people there much needed food and clothing.

After my husband’s death, my daughter and I decided to make the trip to Mexico in his memory.  As we planned for the trip, it occurred to me that the people in the village could really use his shoes.  They wouldn’t be someone’s extra pair-they might be their only pair.  His large assortment of footwear could provide the opportunity for a group of people he deeply cared about to work and travel in well-covered feet, rather than completing the necessary tasks of daily life barefoot.  This act of kindness would transform those shoes from memory-keepers back into shoes once again.

As I stood in the courtyard of the small Mexican church on a sunny afternoon, I watched people evaluate his shoes.  Each pair was measured not for sentimental value, but for their size and practicality, with the benefits of one being weighed against another.  Some shoes were left on the tables as a possibility for the next person who came along-others were scooped up right away, like found treasure.

The shoes that didn’t make the cut that day were added to the church’s store for future use. As I watched the people of that town walk away with shoes in hand, I realized that it was never the shoes that held my beloved memories.  My heart held those memories, and it always would. I felt a moment of peace as his shoes were carried away, because I knew that somewhere he was smiling.  I have to admit that there are still a few pairs I haven’t parted with, but I figure I’m entitled to hang onto some…just for sentimental reasons.

Michele Neff Hernandez is the founder, and executive director of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation.  SSLF is a non-profit organization committed to providing resources and support to people grieving the loss of a loved one. In addition to her work with the foundation, Michele inspires people as a motivational speaker and freelance writer. Through speaking to service groups, faith communities, Universities and hosting community seminars she has shared her thoughts on loss and hope with a variety of audiences. She is the creator of the Web site www.widowsbond.com and the Widow Match program. Since the death of her husband in 2005, she has made reaching out to other widows her personal mission.  Ms. Hernandez’s various projects have been featured in the Ventura County Star, the Simi Valley Acorn, and the Riverside County Record. She is a contributing author to several websites and is chronicling the interviews she has done with widows across the country in a book called, The Healing Power of the Widow’s Bond.

The post Husband’s Soul Lives on in His Shoes appeared first on Open to Hope.

My husband used to call Valentine’s Day “So What Day.'” Romantic, huh? He thought that greeting cards were a waste of trees, that buying flowers because someone told you to defeated the purpose, and that going to dinner on the big day just to eat from a limited menu and have servers anxiously awaiting your departure from the table was ridiculous.

I will admit that we fought about this on a few occasions. Who wants to be the only girl in the office who didn’t get flowers? Eventually, we settled into our own brand of celebrating our love, both on the big day, and on the other 364 days of the year.

I expected to breeze through the first Valentine’s Day without him, because he hated this holiday. But as the day approached, I found myself missing my heart day scrooge. There was no one around to balk at the increase in flower prices.  There was no need to peruse the recycled card collection looking for just the right sentiment for my grumpy Valentine, and I cried when I realized there would be no one to take me to dinner at 4:30PM to avoid the crowds. Very quickly, I found myself repeating in my head all the reasons to boycott the Hallmark holiday.

But when the day arrived, I was unable to ignore the National Day of Love. Instead of pushing the memories of our on-going struggle to find a happy middle ground for our own celebration out of my mind, I called them each front and center. And I laughed out loud.

Recalling the times he showed up in the kitchen with a flower from our garden in hand, the dinners we ‘accidentally’ went to on the 14^th of February, my efforts to get him to write me just one letter telling me how much he loved me (I was successful), and finally, the fact that he proposed to me on Valentine’s Day.

I felt loved. And I guess that is the point of the day after all. Even though Phil never contributed to the romance testaments proudly placed on desks across America, I never doubted that he loved me. That night I drifted off to sleep murmuring, “Happy So What Day, honey.”

Michele Neff Hernandez is the founder, and executive director of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation.  SSLF is a non-profit organization committed to providing resources and support to people grieving the loss of a loved one. In addition to her work with the foundation, Michele inspires people as a motivational speaker and freelance writer. She is the creator of the Web site www.widowsbond.com and the Widow Match program.

The post Affectionately Remembering a Valentine’s Day ‘Scrooge’ appeared first on Open to Hope.

There is a song on the radio at this time of year, sung by the Carpenters, called “Merry Christmas, Darling.”  The first Christmas after my husband Phil died, hearing this song sent me into fits of tears.  Not the sweet, sad, nostalgic type of tears-these were the hitting my hands on the dashboard or kicking my bed, angry, unreasonable type of tears.

Every time the song came on, I wanted to scream at the beautiful voice on the radio because the sentiment was so infuriating.  The lyrics proclaim that every day is a holiday with the one you love, so even if you aren’t together on Christmas Eve, no worries, you can be together in your dreams.  At that point, I was way beyond wanting to spend Christmas with Phil in my dreams! What I wanted was to hold him, to feel his warm breath on my cheek, and to sit on the couch, side by side, sipping coffee while the kids opened their gifts on Christmas morning.

Every holiday tradition felt like a chore.  Determined to check off each task on the holiday list, I dutifully put up outdoor lights–crying yet again when I discovered how meticulously Phil had packed away the lights the year before.  The kids and I dragged the tree into the house, but the glittering lights seemed to emphasize my gloominess.

Opening a storage box, I found old Christmas cards full of cheerful greetings and good wishes.  I sighed out loud as I read each one, thinking of how radically our lives had changed in only 365 days.

One evening I reached into the bottom of the last plastic bin, and pulled out “Frosty.” Phil was famous in our family for the dance he did when Frosty, who played “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” at the push of a button, made his holiday debut.  Phil’s dance included booty shaking, heel tapping, and all manner of silliness–unfailingly creating throughout the house gales of laughter.

No one could look at Frosty without giggling, because Phil’s dance was so outrageous. The kids would even try to get him to perform for their friends; they were always thrilled when he was successfully talked into a crowd-pleasing dance recital.

Sitting in front of the Frosty box alone, my sorrow surrounded me and filled me with self-pity.  All the things I missed most about my husband were represented by that stupid box. His love of life, his adoration of silliness, his ability to be completely in the moment, and his constant attempts to keep me laughing. My world was so empty and joyless without him.

While I sat contemplating how awful my life had become since Phil’s death, I absently reached over and pushed Frosty’s button. Even through my tears, I could not suppress the smile that Frosty’s song brought to my face.  It was as if Phil was standing right in front of me, in all his holiday glory, telling me to wipe my tears and accept the joy the holiday season still offered.

Spontaneously I recreated my husband’s holiday jig–that night, Phil and I danced together, right in the middle of the kitchen.  I could see his big smile and feel the warmth of his love with every note that the silly toy snowman warbled.  Plopping down in my seat at the end of the song–breathless and a little surprised–I felt a glimmer of joy for the first time in months.

The next time “Merry Christmas, Darling” came on the radio, I knew I needed to make peace with my inner Scrooge. As the opening chords played, I sat quietly and really listened.  This time I heard a new message:  Phil and I can no longer physically share the same couch on Christmas morning, but the memory of the many precious moments we shared over the years is mine forever.

In the years since his death, I have come to realize that I can have Christmas with Phil in my dreams for the rest of my life.  There are still days when my heart aches with the need to feel his touch, and I often find the holidays to be bittersweet. Nonetheless, whenever I feel my despair growing, I counter it with a holiday jig and the love of the man who can still make me smile.

Reach Michele Neff Hernandez at widowsbond@sbcglobal.net

The post From Sad to Silly: Christmas Memories Salve Widow’s Pain appeared first on Open to Hope.