As I was leaving our local Out of the Darkness walk in September, my first walk, I thanked the organizer for her work. Her response? “My heart is full.” She’s a fellow survivor mom; she organized the first walk shortly after her son’s death by suicide. I didn’t really understand how she could be content (happy?) that day, a day that had to be emotional for her.
That survivor mom and I have gotten to know each other since September and I consider her a friend. Her support is gentle; her example is giant. Tuesday night after our first Compassionate Friends meeting, I messaged her and told her maybe I finally understood her full heart comment.
I never knew a heart could be broken and full at the same time.
I think our first Compassionate Friends meeting went well. Thirteen of us attended, including one who joined via video call, and we began to know each other. I’ve found the getting-to-know-you process is accelerated among bereaved parents. The relationship—the eventual friendship—is stripped down to the barest essentials. We connect over our common sorrow, regardless of our different occupations, ages, and personalities. That one thing—that one massive, gaping wound we all bear—creates an immediate and indelible bond.
To say our group is well-supported would be an understatement. As soon as our chapter formed, the offers came in. Prayers, for sure. Snacks? Books? Setting up? Money? Kleenex? Cleaning up? More prayers. As one church friend said, “Anything. AN-Y-THING!” A few minutes before our meeting started, a friend and her daughter (also a friend by now) delivered a bottomless snack basket and case of water. The card in the basket had a cardinal in a redbud tree on the front and the assurance that we are not alone on the back.
The kindnesses have been many and varied.
Forming this chapter has been both humbling and moving, and we are only getting started. In the next week, I’ll drop off information with local churches and funeral homes. I’ll continue to reach out to other families, either on my own or through friends. Was the first meeting perfect? No, but I’ll get better at leading and I’m neither on my own nor alone.
It sounds daunting, this business of baring your damaged soul to strangers, but it was okay. It will be okay. There’s relief in knowing you’re surrounded by people who truly understand—Moms Who Know, Dads Who Know. The acceptance is immediate. Each broken heart has something to offer; together, our meetings can be a safe and sacred space.
As for my own heart? Well, I was exhausted when I got home—body, mind, soul. Wrung out. Yes, my heart. Maybe it’ll be broken the rest of my life—I don’t see how it can ever truly, fully mend—but it’s learning to fill, one splotch of spiritual spackle, one strip of emotional duct tape, at a time.
For a while this week, it was full.
Woods Writes 