some mother somewhere…
April 17, 2007
updated on 12/14/12 to add photo by Tisha McCuiston – Josiah today at 12 years of age
I held a boy almost too big for my arms this morning. Josiah buried his face in my chest and let out a long cry. I assured him it’s good to cry, that feelings like to be free. The ones that are bottled up hate it and find other ways to sneak out.
Today the tears are a result of being scared, afraid that he’ll never remember the 7 facts about squid. It’s been all about squid here- squid art, squid books, even pin-the-tentacle on the squid game. This is just too much for a 7 year old, a 30 minute presentation pretending to be the teacher. The burden weighs on josiah’s mind and heart.
I suggest squid power pancakes as they are magic. If you eat them you will remember all that you need to know about squid and be able to tell anyone and everyone about their amazingness. I kiss these tears and an agreement is made that it is indeed time for the power pancakes can bring.
My puffy eyed boy runs to take a bath and I start my day of 1 million tasks.
I have a hard time focusing. I imagine there is some other mother somewhere not far from me that is starting her day. Only this mother is wishing that yesterday was simply a nightmare and surely her sweet boy is anxious about a presentation he must make for his professor. Instead she attends convocations, picks out a casket, in shock and numb. How will she face today without that boy, how can he be gone?
Even further away yet another mother faces a deeper dark. Her son’s pain and action changed people’s lives forever. The weight is too great for anyone to bear and I can not pretend to know what will keep her soul from drowning.
I can only imagine that these women wish today was the day they were holding little boys almost too big for their arms. The day where pancakes heal the aches of the soul, the day where fears can be conquered with kisses and tears.
The candle on my kitchen altar still glows from yesterday. The holy mother stares at me while I do the dishes. Her face knows great pain and sadness. May she hold these mothers close to her bosom, may she come to them in their deepest dark, may she grant them comfort and peace. amen
for jarrett’s mom
Kindnessgirl 
April 18, 2007 at 3:05 am
patience,
i am jarrett’s sister. my mom & i just read your post. thank you.
April 18, 2007 at 6:35 am
Thanks for sharing these words.
Sophie
April 18, 2007 at 7:32 am
alicia and loved ones, please know we hold you all deep in our thoughts and prayers…i am so very sorry this is happening…
patience
April 18, 2007 at 2:46 pm
What beautiful words for such a horrible time.
April 19, 2007 at 12:54 am
Patience, I’ve said it before. I will say it again. You are an angel in our midst. I am so glad you are embodied to bring such sweetness to such troubled times. Like my dear friends Suzanne and Jenna and Carolyn and Sadie and Pam, I am so thankful you are in the world guiding the spirits of the children who will inherit our legacies. Blessings to you and your little ones. Much love, Julie
April 19, 2007 at 8:23 pm
Patience,
i am so utterly convinced that their is some sort of divine guidance in the fiber optic cables operating my computer. i have been visiting your blog today…and i have just sunk into the comfort of feeling like i have come home or something. your honesty amazes me…your searching heart encourages me…and i see such promise and “truth” in your words. thank you for sharing yourself. thank you for being so “real”. i am loving the fact that i can find some souls that i deeply relate to on-line. i feel like my life is a little more great after visiting here today.
this post spoke so clearly to me and i am so thankful that you took the time and reflection to write it. thank you.
April 19, 2007 at 8:39 pm
Thank you for your words Patience. Your compassion and love are an inspiration.
April 20, 2007 at 3:21 am
As I riffled through the one zillion tiny pieces of my life, each represented by a small post-it note on my office desk, I remembered to read your post. I wept as I read it again and again. My face, wet with the deep, stinging tears of motherlove brought me to the bedside of my own sleeping boy. I wept for those mothers and bent in prayer asking for peace, comfort and healing for these women and their families. Thank you for helping me remember in a very profound way.
beckey
April 20, 2007 at 4:36 am
What a beautiful expression of compassion. Glad to be here via JenLem.
April 23, 2007 at 9:17 pm
Pache,
Thank you for leading me to your blog. Your writing has helped me find peace.
Amy
May 5, 2007 at 11:03 pm
What I Learned From My Mother
by Julia Kasdorf
I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand in case you have to rush to the hospital with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole grieving household, to cube home-canned pears and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewing even if I didn’t know the deceased, to press the moist hands of the living, to look in their eyes and offer sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing, what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself, the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.
I do not want a response. I just meant to share this with you a long time ago.
December 14, 2012 at 4:42 pm
[…] this from April 2007. Feeling so heavy and deeply sad for the families of the Sandy Hook Elementary […]