When Grief Comes

This is a week when I'm struggling to find words.  On Monday, my 49-year-old nephew, Canaan Harris, succumbed to an aggressive cancer that had only been discovered days before. 

One Christmas when the first five of the six cousins were little, I remember making clown costumes for them all. Day remembers the two oldest of my parents' grandchildren, herself and Canaan, organizing plays for the three little brothers.  I also remember Canaan wowing all the adults on Christmas as a two-year-old, reciting the entire "Night Before Christmas." 

When someone dies, clusters of memories roll in to fill the void. 

Words come when they come.  Jan sent me a poem that says it best, a poem she found in the "Contemplative Home for the Dying." 

When You Meet Someone Deep in Grief

Slip off your needs

and set them by the door.

Enter barefoot

this darkened chapel

Hollowed by loss

hallowed by sorrow

Its gray stone walls

and floor.

You, congregation 

of one

are here to listen 

not to sing.

Kneel in the back pew.

Make no sound.

Let the candles

speak.