We lost another beautiful child last week: Another shooting star, who could light up the sky with his smile and laughter. Another child who, no matter how far he traveled, loved his hometown of Duxbury and always cheered for his favorite Boston teams.

And another brave dad stood up and spoke, so eloquently, about his child, how he “thanked God the day his son was born.” We ask, “What happened? Was it an accident, a long illness?” It doesn’t matter: we grieve, no matter what. They are all our children, struggling, failing, succeeding, crying, laughing. A son, a brother, a sister, a daughter, a child. Your child, my child, our child.

And where does the grief take us?  On a lifelong journey of sadness, maybe madness, a search for understanding, for faith in the midst of loss. It’s like floating on a raft in the Atlantic hoping other people will hold you up. Many do; a few row by, not knowing what to say or do. Elizabeth Edwards, who lost her son Wade in a car accident when he was only 17, offered some insight: “If you know someone who has lost a child...  and you’re afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, they didn’t forget they died. You’re not reminding them. What you’re reminding them of is that you remember that they lived, and that’s a great, great gift.”

As I approach the second year of losing my child, I know that the only reason I can still feel that sun is because of the love of my family, friends and co-workers who have kept me afloat. And because of the enduring strength of the many amazing people I’ve met who have also lost children. 

And how does this grief feel? Sometimes you can feel the storm approaching, and sometimes you can hear the thunder, and sometimes you’re lost in a blinding snowstorm. But once in a while you can feel the warmth of the sun again, as when a child says, “Mom, wake up, the sun is out, it’s time to play.”

– Debbie Neal