serenity

you're not ready to use the past tense when you talk about him.

you don't know how to process the beautiful and harrowing truth that life just goes on.

time....patience....i know.

my friend - she's surviving. in so many ways, she is what she has always been. she's suffering, yes - she's also poised and beautiful - she's rock solid in her faith and her role as a mother.

she's jackie o.

then you see the kids and feel that all your crying isn't enough - that you should be bleeding. your boys are always asking you what super powers you would choose if you could - now you know - you'd make yourself a giant sponge and absorb all the pain and sadness and fear from these kids so they'd feel whole and safe and happy again. then it would just be a matter of finding a place to wring that sucker out.

you have a wonderfully surreal life moment when, in telling your patient that you'll be out for her next visit, you start crying because it's for the memorial service of your friend. she doesn't know that's why, but has never seen you cry and wraps you in an incredible embrace. you proceed to tell her the whole story because you have no professional boundaries whatsoever. you've provided her care and empathy and an ear for the last year and a half, and now it's almost as if she welcomes the opportunity to return the favor. tragedy is a leveling force, that's for sure.

you realize that there is nothing to say and nothing to do to make this better.
so you pray that god will grant her the serenity
to accept the things she cannot change
the courage to change the things she can
and the wisdom to know the difference.

and you ask the same things for yourself while your at it.