I’m writing this newsletter while sitting in a hospital cafeteria. The cafeteria I visited countless times in my decade working as a hospital chaplain. The overhead paging system just went off. I stopped writing, my adrenaline surged, I listened closely. Earlier today, I was visiting a friend in the same hospital. Some of my chaplain friends stopped by. Their phones rang. I reached for my pockets.

Though I’ve been gone for eight months, the habits are deep. If I hung around here, I’d learn to respond rather than reacting. But it would take time.

When people wonder why they suddenly break into tears months and years after their person died, I try to explain that in our lives together with people, we form habits. Some of them are daily (coffee every morning). Some of them are seasonal (decorating the Christmas tree). Some of them formed decades ago when we were children, only surfacing when we remember all the words to a song we haven’t heard since 1980.

If I slap my pockets when I hear a particular ringing for the first time in months, you are allowed to be sad when something reminds you of your person. It’s not a mark of “not being over that yet”, it’s an affirmation that you are deeply human.

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Grief Awareness

Tomorrow, August 30, is Grief Awareness day.

You, of course, as readers here, are very aware of grief. Many of you have told me your stories. I’ve been part of some of those stories. But there are always people who say, “I’ve never done this before” or “This is harder than I could have imagined.”

This is why grief literacy matters so much, as a way to help us all be more helpful and less hurried and way less sure that we can fix the pain of ourselves or friends.

Resources and reflections

125 - Working on what matters most. A year ago, I told you that I was retiring. I’m doing fine. And who gets to write to friends and help a rescue mission with life transformation and rebuild a deck and put dish soap in a wading pool and make bubbles with a leaf blower (battery powered)? It was exactly the right time to leave.

How trees respond to loss (video). My friend, Jason Kissel, is a tree guy and has a remarkable exploration of how trees respond to loss.

Grief the Shadow - by Thomas Allbaugh - Thomas’s Substack - Thomas is a writing teacher, experienced in loss. In this essay, he reflects on the death of his son and his wife and on the ways we grieve differently and the reality that a death isn’t something we get over.

Courage. – 300 words a day. A thought on courage from by daily blog.

Here’s a “resource guide for healthcare professionals in an interfaith world.” I shared it over at 300 words, but it may be helpful to you, too.

031 - Bearing withness – This is one of my stories of loss, a death we’ll remember this week as we have every September 1 since 1989. Some of you remember it, too.

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Thanks as always for reading and responding and sharing and supporting.

See you next time.

Jon

Here in Fort Wayne, sunrise is coming fifty minutes later than it was two months ago. For years I would have had no clue. Now that I’m walking most mornings, and taking a photo on the walk, I’m acutely aware of the changing light and changing time. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking about seasons.

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On seasons.

In January, I talked about answering the question, “How can churches be as helpful as possible to grieving people?” I invited you to respond if you were interested in a project like that, and about 25 of you did.

And then I forgot about the project and the list.

There were good reasons for my lack of activity in grief research. The main reason is that I realized that it wasn’t the season for pursuing that work. I needed to stop pushing myself, to leave space to adjust to not being at the hospital after a decade of that work.

I talked about that kind of a season over at 300wordsaday.com in June.

It’s not that I stopped thinking about how to be helpful. We’ve talked about it here most weeks this year. But I couldn’t go back to the research work.

And then.

As I wrote last week, I talked with a group of grieving older people. During the next week, I read about friends who were grieving the loss of dads, forty years ago and two years ago. This week I talked with a friend about research and life and next projects. And then another friend about chaplaincy and life and next projects. And then a group from a church where I’ll be talking about grief and the holidays in November.

I realized that grief is still around. That we still lack understanding of ways it lasts for a lifetime. That we still don’t know what to say. And that a season has changed for me. I’m ready to think about things like “How can churches be as helpful as possible to grieving people.”

I’ll keep you posted.

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Singing in the bathroom.

It turns out, my friend Ron is everyone’s friend. His paid job is to clean hospital spaces. But his calling is to care for people. Not is a medical way. In a human way. He sings while cleaning bathrooms. He says “hi” to everyone, coworker, patient, or hospital visitor. He listens behind the responses, behind the eyes. He came to our Sunday chapel service every weekend that he worked and recruited other coworkers. And from time to time, we sat and talked about a challenging life.

This story tells about a recent affirmation Ron received. It’s pretty cool.

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Caring as a response to being cared for

Another of Ron’s friends is my friend and former chaplaincy coworker, Matt Beck. Like many of us in chaplaincy, he has his own story which informs his work. Here’s “Why I became a chaplain: Part 1”.

Though I was working at the hospital when Matt’s dad was in 2127, I didn’t know Matt. As far as I know, I never stopped by that room.

I can’t regret what I didn’t know. But I’m really grateful for knowing Matt now.

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An invitation to think about goals and all

Over at 300wordsaday.com, I posted this on Monday. A couple of you who read both of my blogs took advantage of the opportunity to reflect. I realized that as you are trying to find words in hard times, you may benefit from this invitation as well.

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Last week we asked some questions.

• I wondered whether we are focused on the right goal.

• I wondered whether we needed to tend to some branches.

• Rich wondered whether interruptions are actually appointments for us to do what we’re called to do.

• I wondered what we could be learning for the sake of other people.

• And then I offered a blessing of sorts.

As I started looking ahead to this week, I realized is that we often ask questions, or offer thoughtful thoughts, and then we never go back to consider them again. We simply move on to the next thought. And the next thought. And the next question.

I decided to go back. Now that we’ve had some time to think,

• What are a couple goals that you are working toward?

• What are some of the branches that may need to be trimmed, or some of the trees that have rot that need to be cleaned out?

• Who or what are we avoiding that may have conversations God’s inviting us into?

• What could we be learning about that would be helpful to someone? And what’s the name that came to mind?

• What’s are the tiny things you see that may be God interacting with you?

If you’d like, you may reply. Or you may simply want to make a note somewhere. It’s up to you.

Leave a comment

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Thanks

Thanks for reading, for responding, for sharing, and for the coffee that comes in various ways.

And thanks to my friend Brian who, when someone struggled with what to say to a recently grieving friend, bought yet another copy of This is Hard. What I say when loved ones die.

See you next time.
Jon

This week, I was invited to a retirement community to talk about grief. I prepared an outline rather than a script. I wasn’t sure how many people would be present. And I wasn’t sure exactly where people would be in their grief journeys.

The questions I had put on a flyer were these:

• · Why does a death hurt so much?

• · Why can’t I think clearly?

• · Why won’t anyone talk with me about my loved one?

• · Is it okay to be sad for longer than people expect?

• · Is it okay to be happy sooner than people expect?

• · How can I help my kids understand that this is really hard and isn’t something for them to fix?

• · How can I help my kids who are having a harder time than I am?

When I arrived, I discovered that they hadn’t seen the questions. They came because it was a conversation about grief and hope. And because the activities director, a friend, had invited them.

Eight people showed up. One was a friend. I led the funeral for his wife a couple years ago. The rest were people I didn’t know.

They had different stories and were different ages and had different amounts of teaching about grief before and after the death of their person. The three men were all veterans. I’m not sure about the five women. The most recent death was 7 months ago. Another was a couple decades ago.

We talked together for about an hour. I talked some and then they talked with me and each other.

I wanted to offer you some notes as I reflect on the time.

1. People sometimes talk about their own “now” in ways that sound like it should be true for everyone, forgetting that what’s true at seven months may be different at 18 months, may be different at 15 years.

2. People sometimes talk about their own response in ways that sound like everyone should respond this way, regardless of personality or age (and the associated generational culture) or life experiences.

3. Trying to be helpful without knowing the stories and the situations, and with a group that isn’t a group therapy is hard.

4. We tend to sound like grief authorities when we are actually authorities about our own grief.

5. While the research shows that friends and family can be really helpful, people often think they need a therapist. That can help, of course, but grief is more normal than we let it be and less clinical than we try to make it.

6. Giving people permission to be sad can be really helpful, but some people don’t need that permission.

7. People who were grieving weren’t interested, when asked, about coming to talk about it.

As we work to be helpful to those who are grieving, it’s helpful to ourselves to remember that we don’t have recipes or formulas. We can listen, and offer permission, and help people discover ideas and resources and ways of living they hadn’t considered.

I’m grateful to have had the opportunity. And I’m grateful for the people who buy me coffee, because it also buys books for me to give away in those kinds of gatherings.

Until next time,

I remain,

Your fan.

Jon

In our area, some school districts started back to school this week. Others will begin next week. Our grandson starts pre-K in two weeks. Colleges are starting before long.

All those people are going mostly because they have to learn. It’s some kind of requirement. They can choose to be excited and motivated and self-directed in the process, but that’s not a requirement. (At least it wasn’t for me until I got into my second degree program.)

You and I, though, are reading (and writing) this newsletter because we want to learn. We want to understand being helpful to people.

Sometimes, though, being helpful isn’t just learning about grieving.

Years ago, I wanted to talk to my dad about his involvement in the Korean Conflict.1 He was seriously wounded, but he seldom talked about it and only in very select ways. He received a purple heart, which I saw once in passing when I was in middle school. Later I saw the cigar box it had been in. The box now held other stuff.

The direct way wasn’t going to work. So as an adult, I found a couple books about the war. I got a picture of the challenges, the frustration, the ebb and flow of the battles.

A year later we had a family picnic at Cantigny, a public park with picnic areas, gardens, tanks to climb on–and a museum about the 1st Division, U. S. Army. Dad and I walked into the museum. And stopped at the floor-to-ceiling map of Korea. I started talking about the battles, asking questions about his service, his feelings, the challenges there must have been for the soldiers. In one 10-minute conversation, I heard more than I had ever heard. And it allowed for another conversation a year later, with a few more details.

I didn’t read the books because I had to. I wanted to know more about what had shaped my dad. Because I was a prepared listener, I was ready to hear his stories. And I could listen well without having to constantly ask questions.

I offer you that story as an invitation to consider learning more about the context of the people we are supporting.

Share

1. What could you learn about the theological framework of someone who you can’t currently understand? (Here’s a “resource guide for healthcare professionals in an interfaith world.”)

2. What could you learn about your own theological framework? (I’m working on this myself at the moment.)2

3. What could you learn about building stuff so when your neighbor needs a dog bed about the size of a toddler bed, you have the scrap lumber, tools, and random skills from watching Maine Cabin Masters to get something built in a few hours? (see the photo).

4. What can you learn about fixing a really good mac and cheese to take to grieving friends (or to neighbors who need a meal)?

5. What could you learn about caring for house plants so when your friend who is struggling with some plant issue (and grieving her husband), you can offer help with the plants.

In short, what can you learn about something a friend cares about in order to be helpful?

Thanks for your support and your help for people who need help.

See you next time.

Jon

P.S. My friend, Brian Spahr, is a songwriter and pastor. I met him, and then we ended up being hospital chaplains for a few years. This week he released the video for “The Waiting Room.” I started crying when I started watching, having sat with families in rooms like that. You may not cry. But the song captures the hard work of waiting very well.

But the last couple weeks I’ve been living that storytelling rather than finding resources.

I spent some time with a friend who is preaching about a text often associated with grief and God. He’s avoidant of platitudes. He’s a scholar who can bring his understanding of the Bible in the original language and pastoral experience together. I deeply appreciate his rare desire is a pastor to understand both the pain of loss and the hope of the resurrection.

I’ve spent some time starting a process I’m calling “putting our affairs in order.” Not because I’m anticipating anything in particular. Not because we’re sick. Simply because I spent a decade watching families trying to figure out the next steps after a death. One way to be helpful for my loved ones, one way to love them, is to have things in order.

I spent time going through pictures and stuff with my 97-year-old aunt. There are letters and documents and old family photos. And then there are the pictures.

Back in the day, it was easy to take a roll of pictures while traveling or while at some event. And then you stick the envelope with 36 prints in a drawer with another 20 envelopes. And store them at your son’s apartment until he dies.

We talked and sorted through the things that matter. And she’ll go through the envelopes. When I see her again, there will be a much smaller collection.

We’ve also had the activities of daily life. Birthday celebrations (80 and 35). A cemetery visit remembering a birth and death 37 years ago. Incidental conversations about grief and specifically not about grief. Naps and walks. Conversations for each of us (Nancy and Jon) with former colleagues, some now friends.

I know that I’m not offering you tools to when trying to find words in hard times. And yet, I think I am.

First, I’m offering you examples of preventive care. Conversations and coaching and cleaning up can be as helpful as a casserole after a death.

Second, I’m suggesting that talking about processes is as important as arriving at conclusions. Particularly when I can talk with you.

Until next time,

with affection,

Jon

Leave a comment

It’s been hot here this week. I’m still walking (early in the morning) and we went to the farm to watch the wheat being harvested (the combine cab is air-conditioned).

I started to write about people dying. Because that’s what we do here. And then I thought, “What if I wrote something encouraging?”

I’m not as good at that. And I’m working on it.

I’ve made a change in the way I end some of the emails I send. I used to end with just my name. Slowly, I started to write “peace”. Because I thought we needed it.

(A couple of my chaplain friends say “grace and peace to you” at the end of conversations with people on the phone. That took too long for me. But I never told them. Until now.)

Recently, I stopped saying peace and started saying courage. I’m not sure why.

It could be that I was remembering something that I wrote six years ago, a few weeks into the COVID shutdowns:

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And then the dragons arrived

The challenge made me laugh on Saturday night.

On Twitter, a person wrote, “After the first line of a book, add ‘and then the dragons arrived.’”

Suggestions included The Hobbit, One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, The Gospel of John, Jane Austin books, Madeleine, Paddington, and books I don’t know.

“One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. And then the dragons arrived.”1

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And then the dragons came.”2

The point of story is disruption. Things are going along as always, and then something happens. Bilbo Baggins is living comfortably and then an adventure arrives. In the great green room, there is a red balloon, and then a parent arrives to make the child go to sleep.

The story is how a character responds to the disruption. The dragon challenge is funny because almost none of the stories (except The Hobbit) actually feature the arrival of dragons. (And The Voyage of the Dawn Treader). And yet we imagine the characters or our favorite books dealing with the arrival of dragons.

I think that we are waiting for God like we are waiting for dragons.

Gideon is cleaning the wheat in preparation for grinding it into flour, and then the angel arrives. Mary is going about her household choirs and then the angel arrives.3 Moses is managing a flock of sheep and then a bush is alight but not consumed. A group of uncertain disciples is gathered in an upper room and then Jesus appears.

Those are amazing stories. Those are cool stories. Sometimes we wait, I think, in our daily lives for dragons or angels or fires.

We can find the dragons if we wait for the algorithm or watch the evening news. Every newscast starts with “breaking news”, a flood of stories from national to international to someone’s neighborhood.

But what our story is less about dragons and doing battle, angels and proclamations? What if our story is about quiet faithfulness? What if the dragons are distractions?

What if in the great green room with the red balloon, when the dragons showed up, mom says, “good night dragons” and keeps reading?

What if the sheep stuck in the wilderness looks up and, instead of a dragon, there is a shepherd? What if after the adventurous angel and shepherd year, Mary spent the next thirty years being a mom?

What if we already know what we have to do and we do it?

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I wrote that in late April 2020. It feels like the dragons have kept coming since then.

And yet. We still have moments of conversation and hours of rest and cups of coffee and opportunities to care and build and love.

We can laugh, sometimes ironically, at the dragon phrase. And then, whether or not dragons arrive, we could use courage to take daily breaths. We can offer encouragement to people, to strengthen their hearts and hope, not by denying dragons, but by offering them our hearts and hope.

Leave a comment

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See you sometime.

Courage.

Jon

P.S. A few years ago, I wrote a book to help people lead funerals and memorial services. It’s called, Giving a Life Meaning: How to Lead Funerals, Memorial Services, and Celebrations of Life. I’m mentioning it because this week, two friends messaged me and said, “I just did my first funeral. This book was so helpful. Thanks.” If you know someone who may have to lead a service and hasn’t, this would be a great (and oddly practical) gift. At least that’s what my friends say.

Do I build a frame for the green beans so they don’t overtake the tomatoes or do I write a newsletter or do I fix the toybox cover or do I mow or do I make notebooks?

You will have wisdom for me, I’m sure. I have wisdom for me. Questions about which is most important. Advice about just starting somewhere. And an occasional thought (that you would never share) about it being nice to be retired.

What’s clear on this Saturday morning after my birthday is that I’m old enough to decide. And I’m old enough to know that they can’t all be done at the same time, but all those things could be done in comparatively little time. And I’m old enough to know that none of those may be the most important thing to do next. And I’m certain that scrolling isn’t anywhere on the list.

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Lives being formed.

I talked with a couple friends this week whose grief event is far in the past. I’m not sure whether to say the three of us are still grieving though we all live lives that are formed by those deaths.

Twenty and thirty years on, we remember clearly the deaths of our infants. Our careers as carers have been shaped by what we experienced. We bring compassion and listening to our work with others who are in really difficult situations. We haven’t “gotten over” our grieving or our grief, as if it is an illness. And yet, we are not the same as we were in the first weeks and months and years.

We have understood that our lives have been changed.

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The “and” of loss.

I was preparing a talk a couple weeks ago and wanted to focus on the word “and”. Often, when people attempt to be helpful, they say things like, “This is hard, but you are strong.” As if being strong makes death less hard.

I think that saying “and” might leave more room. “This is hard and you are strong.” The word “and” allows both things to be true.

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Since I started writing this morning, I have mowed, I have built the frame for the beans, I have talked with a friend and with family, I have taken a nap. I haven’t fixed the toybox, though I may this evening.

Andrew, our son, suggested we could relax for the rest of the day. That’s not an easy thing for us. It is, however, a worthy pursuit.

As I’ve done in the past, I’m giving us permission to have some gaps in the weekly flow of these newsletters during the next couple months.

I’ll write when I have some words.

Jon

It’s been six months since I talked with someone next to the bed of a loved one who just died.

That’s after nearly 10 years of having those conversations at least once or twice a week, working three shifts a week as a hospital chaplain.

While in the middle of that kind of caring, I was doing my work. You learn how to have conversations, how to complete paperwork, how to care and not be overwhelmed (for long).

I talked to you once about calluses:

When I talk to helpers who are facing death in their own families, I acknowledge the challenge of turned tables. I remind them that there are nurses and physicians and chaplains who can care for them, so they can be the grieving son or spouse or parent.

The daughter said, “I was afraid I was getting callused.”

“You’ve got calluses from all the conversations,” I said. “You’ve built some toughness around watching the effects of trauma. But there’s a difference between calluses and being callused. When the defenses are down, you still feel.”

She agreed. Through the tears. As she looked at her mom.

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What’s been clear to me recently, as I’ve seen reminders of my past life as a hospital chaplain, is that the calluses are softening.

For example, the other morning on my walk, I realized that there was a full moon. For those of us in hospitals (and education as a friend reminded me), there’s something a little more wacky in critical care areas during a full moon.

I had forgotten.

In my morning photo that day, I mentioned that I was praying for my former emergency room coworkers. And heard that it had been a tough week in parts of the hospital.

I felt for them.

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We all carry grief with us, whether the death is someone we loved or was a person someone else loved.

I’m getting less foggy these days. And feeling a little bit more.

Preparing for a death coming soon

This week, a friend emailed about a young relative who is moving to hospice as part of a sudden decline. I’m talking to God about their situation. I also said, “And I’m going to share a couple things I’ve written. I always hate to be the “Here’s THE answer.” But there isn’t an answer other than the acknowledgement that this is hard. Very very hard.”

And then I sent her these resources you may have missed:

016 - A working list for life after a difficult diagnosis.

Anticipatory grief

I wrote this for when someone is older. But as I read it, it may be helpful to you, too. When we’re anticipating a death

Share

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Seven etiquette “rules” for grieving.

I came across a new newsletter on Substack last month. The second issue came out this week. In an essay called “The Unspoken Etiquette of Mourning,” Liz Morrow identifies seven “rules” that are more real than we wish. It’s a helpful exploration about expectations.

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Grieving safely

A couple weeks ago, I talked with you about my discomfort with hearing the phrase “grieving well.” I thought, “I know you mean well, but that phrase suggests that there are standards to meet in our grieving.” As I was talking with Hope, our daughter, she said, “the thing that’s important is grieving safely rather than worrying about grieving well.” She’s right.

You can fill in what safety may involve.

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Question to consider:

“Is there something you could do this week that would make life easier for the person caring for your matters after you die?”

Leave a comment

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Thanks for the support and emails and questions. And thanks for the way you are caring for people.

See you next week.

Jon

Friday night I had the privilege to speak at a local church to parents whose children have died.

The event was created by Alyssa Ivanson. You and I talked about Alyssa’s work in making our community aware of infant loss back in October. (Small steps, “Tiny Footprints”. And here’s the resource page she created to go with the TV special she created.)

After meeting as a larger group, there were two breakout groups, one for infant death, one for the death of children older than that. Nancy and I went to the infant death group. (I wrote about our story in “Bearing Withness”).

In that group, more than a dozen stories of the deaths of infants were told, from early in pregnancy to a few weeks old. Women and men, all ages.

I’m still thinking through the evening. But I have some notes for right now.

• What was clear is that the intersections between the medical community and families are brief and often not helpful for the grieving that starts with infant death. As a chaplain, I interacted with the moms that came into the hospital, while at the hospital. But there is much more time in each of those lives than the few minutes of support we provided. I know that, of course, but being part of a room of that knowledge was significant.

• Even people who have been through the death of an infant don’t know much of what happened. The chaos and pain of the moment mean that medical terms fly by and follow-up instructions are clouded by the death. Everyone would benefit from simple explanations.

• Whatever support you can provide to acknowledge the lives of infants who have died, whatever leverage in business you can offer to bridge the gap between weeks of maternity leave and hours of bereavement leave, whatever sharing of grieving resources you can do, thank you.

• The earliest death was in 1984. The most recent was in 2026. Regardless of how long it’s been since the death, telling your story matters. And I’m guessing that it’s helpful to hear that grief continues and so does life.

• When people say, “I can’t imagine going through that,” these are people who don’t have to imagine.

I’ll probably come back for more reflection. And thanks for the prayer from some of you.

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Thanks for reading and for helping people. See you next week.

Jon

The big news from last week is that 6% of you responded to last week’s poll about what kind of notebook paper you prefer.

Of those responses:

• 38% prefer blank pages

• 34% prefer lines

• 16% don’t like small notebooks

• 9% prefer dots

• 3% prefer grid

• 94% prefer to not respond to a poll about what kind of paper you prefer in a small notebook.

And one of you wrote and talked about how journalling has changed in the time since the sudden death of a spouse. That person used to journal all the time using lined pages. After a break, the person switched to a particular handmade notebook with blank pages and only for a season.

I was grateful for the response. It was a perfect illustration of my point in the post that offering a set script for grief is like offering everyone the same kind of notebook paper. Not everyone journals even in average times. And in times of trauma, even journalers prefer not to process life that way. Except for the people who never write until suddenly they need it in their trauma.

Do what you need to do in the moment with whatever paper and notebook is helpful. (And if you’d like to try a small notebook with blank pages and a quote from some of my work on the cover, let me know.)

Leave a comment

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This week I heard someone wanting to help people grieve well and I thought, “I know you mean well, but that phrase suggests that there are standards to meet in our grieving.”

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Tomorrow in the US (and maybe elsewhere) is Father’s Day. It’s complicated for many people, and even more for people whose father or dad or pop or whatever name you used has died.

And that probably includes some of you.

I spent the week rebuilding our deck from the remnants of our old one. Some of the tools and some of the values came from my dad. Some of you know that feeling.

Here are some observations:

• It’s not wrong that your feelings are complicated and don’t match Hallmark cards.

• It’s not wrong that it hurts that you can’t say what you wish you had said. Or that you did say that you wish you hadn’t.

• It’s not wrong that you feel sad for who you miss.

• It’s not wrong that you apparently don’t feel as bereft as some other people feel.

And for dads who have children who have died, this is hard.

I wanted to acknowledge all of us in all those groups.

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I’m speaking on Friday this week to parents who have experienced the death of a child. It’s been nearly six months since I was with someone right after a death, and I’m feeling a bit out of practice. So if you think of me this week, ask God for wisdom for me.

Thanks for stopping by.

See you next week.

We were at adjacent booths at a conference. She was representing a fundraising company; I was representing Arbor Research Group. On her table were free notebooks for attendees, about five by eight inches, with an elastic band.

“Take one,” she said. Her tone of voice was clear. Anything you take, I don’t have to carry on the plane.

“I just want to look,” I said. And having looked I closed it up and laid it back on the table. “It has lines,” I said. “They all do.”

There were many booths at this conference, with almost as many notebooks. Or pens or things to squish or tumblers. And the pages in all of the notebooks had lines on them.

“I don’t like lines, either,” she said. “I’ll pass that message along. What do you prefer?”

“Plain,” I said. “Or dots or squares.”

“A little bit of guidance, but lots of flexibility?” she said.

“Exactly,” I said.

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When I have lines in a notebook, I’m limited to how far apart my thoughts have to be, how straight across on a page. My thinking works more in multiple lists in blocks on a page. Or circles of ideas that connect to other ideas. Or however I’m responding to a speaker at the moment.

I know that some people need lines, though I don’t know how many. Across a couple decades, every time I’ve had a notebook with lines, I’ve stopped using it almost immediately.

As I’ve been listening to people talking about their grieving recently, I’ve realized that they keep being handed “notebooks” with lines of how they should think, how they should feel. And they can’t fit their feelings onto those preprinted lines.

I don’t mean actual notebooks, of course. Our comments, our conversations, our expectations for them have lines. We don’t leave spaces in our conversations, in our silences, for the chaos that is grief for many people. We don’t give them room to write their grief the way that works for them.

“I’ll pass on your suggestion for something other than lines in our free notebooks,” she said. “That could make us distinctive at the conference.”

And offering people something other than set lines in our grief support could make us distinctive, too.

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I’m experimenting with making small notebooks with good but thrifted paper (old letterhead, large format that no one can use). I found a machine that uses the double loop binding at a thrift shop. I get to make notebooks I like.

But I’m curious. What pattern do you prefer?

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Thanks for reading. Thanks for giving people the space they need.

See you next week.

Jon

If you follow me on Facebook or Instagram, you may have guessed that I’m walking in the morning again. I say, “again” because I used to run in the morning and I would share a photo of a coffee cup after every run. It was a way to let a couple friends know that I was staying active, a kind of accountability.

A couple weeks ago, the mornings finally reached “dry and sweatshirt-and-shorts weather” and I started my morning walks and photos of coffee cups again. (No running yet.) I’m out for 35-45 minutes, using the sidewalk that’s still being finished outside our subdivision.

I’d love to say that I feel healthier, or that it’s a perfect time for prayer and reflection, or some other thing that the people-who-walk say. But I can’t. I will say it’s nice, and I’m glad for the sidewalk.

I never really liked running, either. I ran for several years, completed a marathon, ran every day for more than a year at one point. It was good for me, I think, and I never regretted a run (except for a couple times when I messed up my knee). But I endured running more than loving it.

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We think we know what’s happening inside people. They walk. They must like walking. They had a death. They must be devastated and want us to visit them and tell them platitudes.

Sometimes they will tell us what’s going on, like I just told you. Sometimes we have to ask gentle, open questions and then listen.

And sometimes, we just have to watch for photos of coffee cups and think, “Jon’s okay.”

Leave a comment

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There’s value in informal conversation.

A guy in England is leading a project called Empty Chairs (emptychairs.org.uk). Dean’s best friend died, and Dean realized that having a chance to show up and chat with people matters.

“Empty Chairs exists to create low-pressure spaces where real human connection can happen.” There’s a host at a table at a pub, wearing an orange shirt and being present for an hour. On June 3, there were 18 around the UK, listed on the Instagram site.

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How to lead a funeral.

Years ago, I started leading funerals and memorial services. It’s a tough time. Eventually, I gathered some notes together and turned it into a book. Giving a Life Meaning: How to Lead Funerals, Memorial Services, and Celebrations of Life. (There’s also a page of related resources.) It came out three weeks before we stopped doing public funerals because of COVID, but we’ve still sold more than 500 copies. It’s helpful for people who don’t do this very often. And I use it every time I lead a funeral.

“How to write a eulogy” is an excerpt from that book.

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Bereavement at work: A research report

The Center for Creative Leadership recently released a report on work and bereavement and leaders: “The Humanity Gap: What Most Leaders Miss About Bereavement at Work”

They write:

Our research found that while 60% of bereaved employees said their manager treated them with compassion to a great extent, 20% said they received little or no support. That’s 1 in 5 people who went through one of the hardest experiences of their lives and felt their leader wasn’t there.

Before we get to what the research shows about effective support for grieving employees, let’s clarify what leaders are not being asked to do when it comes to bereavement at work: You don’t need the perfect words. You’re not expected to fix the grief (an impossible task) or accelerate someone’s healing (an unreasonable ask). You’re not a therapist.

What the research shows about bereavement in the workplace is much simpler than any of that: Leaders just need to show up, pay attention, offer options, and follow the employee’s lead.

The research is thorough and the report is thoughtful. As you are helping managers figure out how to be helpful, this is a great resource.

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Thanks for reading and for caring for other people.

See you next week. I’ll be out walking.

Jon

It’s Memorial Day weekend in the US. It’s been called other things, and it carries different kinds of weight for different people. And it’s a weekend to talk about remembering those who we’ve cared about and who have died.

The cemetery tour

I remember as a kid going to the cemetery just north of Webster (WI) for a Memorial Day service. It was the early 1960s and the people in attendance would have been about 20 years past the deaths of World War 2. I don’t remember anything of the service. I do remember my mom talking about memorizing things in school to say at services like that.

Some people still make cemetery tours around Memorial Day, visiting the graves of family members from many generations. They bring a flower or a flag or an object. They tell a story or two to the spouse or offspring who have accompanied them. They stand or sit quietly, and then look up and smile and say, “okay.”

Yesterday, a friend sent me a picture of a bouquet of wheat, cattails, prairie grass, and baler twine she left on family graves this week. She said, “Meemaw would probably asked where the flowers are.” My friend didn’t really care. This bouquet reflected deep values for remembering. And we talked a bit about how expectations can be so hard and frustrating when we are grieving.

Some people don’t go to cemeteries at all. We go to our daughter Kathryn’s grave on her birthday, but usually not Memorial Day.

That’s because …

There are ways other than cemetery visits to honor a life and death.

Most of us have ways of remembering our people. Most of us have our own variations.

For three years after the death of our daughter Kathryn, we sponsored a small scholarship at the College where we were working at the time. It was given to a student in pastoral ministry, perhaps an attempt to help them understand the importance of caring for grieving parents.

Two women who were part of a music sorority died in early 2026. Their friends had a musicale the other evening. A time to hear music and tell small stories about the musical impact of these two friends.

Several years ago, a family was in and out of the hospital with their daughter. She was two when she died. Because she enjoyed picture books during her long hospitalizations, her parents started providing books for other hospital kids. There are now Kate’s Karts in 25 hospitals in Indiana and Ohio, and half a million books have been given away. Kate’s Kart.

“Which post-funeral remembrance activities are most significant and important to bereaved people living with loss?”

This issue was going to unpack a research study from several years ago where Vale-Taylor asked that question.1

And then I realized that I need to ask you to reflect on this question (and I didn’t want to spend a couple more hours this weekend writing.)

So as you are thinking about your loved one this weekend, consider answering a couple questions:

What do you do to honor the memory of your person?

Who do you know who has responded with remembrance in a way that you want to make note of?

It may be here’s what we do as a family. Or here’s what I do privately. Or here’s a public step we took.

Please share with us your stories.

Leave a comment

I wrote about how one model talks about figuring out ways of remembrance: 148 - What does grieving look like?

And I’ll see you next week. Thanks for your support and encouragement.

Jon

This isn’t a very practical issue. If you want something practical, I wrote a form letter for being encouraging. “You can be of encouragement” gives you a template for a note to a friend.

Or you can read the rest of this.

In 1978 (or so), I was working at our college radio station and got recruited to be part of the broadcast team for the Wheaton College soccer team. At least for one game. Having never seen a game, I found a book on “association football”, did my best to understand it, and headed from Wheaton (IL) to Crawfordville (IN). My colleague and I found the field (pitch) and the phone line for our remote broadcast equipment. And realized that the stands were empty and the Wheaton team was nowhere around.

We called back to the studio, who called the athletic department, and learned that the game was scheduled for the next day.

We chose not to stay.

There was a home game the next week. I showed up and was grateful that there were two other people who were willing to announce the game. I walked away, relieved.

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In 1995 (or so), our son Andrew started playing soccer in an afterschool program in Middlebury (IN). We called it swarm ball. Andrew liked it. He played on travel teams there and in Fort Wayne, off and on into college. And then played in local leagues.

I’ve been watching soccer for three decades now and wouldn’t dream of volunteering to be part of a broadcast team. But last week, I was very grateful to be part of a father-son team watching the Fort Wayne Football Club in their new stadium. Andrew was in town from Germany for a few days and took me to the game and provided the commentary that I needed.

He went back home, and tonight Nancy and I will listen to our daughter Hope sing in German. She’s part of the Fort Wayne Philharmonic Chorus and they are singing in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. (Here’s Hope talking about it.) She’s been singing in choral groups for more than twenty years. Beethoven is different than the folk songs that middle school choirs sing, but I’m so grateful we still get to go to our daughter’s concerts.

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This week I wrote the following over at 300wordsaday.com:

I read the other day about monotasking as opposed to multitasking. It’s the idea of doing one thing at a time.

But when I think about that, or the idea of making a list of the three things I need to get done in a day, I always think about things that need to get done. Projects that need to be completed. Work to be finished before being able to rest.

I think that’s a problem. Or maybe it’s that I have a problem.

What if our one task for a day is spending time with someone? And not worrying about it needing to be a spectacular time?

These seven days started with a soccer game and end with a concert. And have been full of conversations and naps and tree trimming and eating and walking. Our grandson Ben has gotten time with his uncle Andrew. Our kids came in third at trivia.

I’m looking for a last paragraph that will have a lesson, that will say something profound about grief or about three or five steps to making the most of life. And I’m realizing that not everything has to be a lesson. Sometimes it’s okay to be grateful for ordinary.

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Thanks for reading and for your support. I’ll see you next week.

Jon

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photo credit: Ben (age 4)

My commitment for “Finding Words in Hard Times” is to send you a newsletter with stories and tools to help you be more comfortable as you help others in hard times.

Last year, I wrote a couple stories to fit with this weekend. I decided that they were worth sharing again.

Acknowledging that some seasons are hard.

A few weeks back, Kroger sent a note: “Mother’s Day and Father’s Day can be sensitive times for some of us. If you’d like to opt out of our emails and push notifications for these holidays, please tap below. You’ll still receive all of our other communications.”

As our daughter Hope wrote when she shared this on Facebook,

“If you are in charge of marketing for an organization or company of any size, please consider joining Kroger in this kind of compassion over the next few months.

It’s difficult to totally opt out of uncomfortable situations, but people will take note when you give them the opportunity”

Share

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Holding babies, holding on.

I stood in a room holding a baby. This baby had been delivered at 32-weeks without ever taking a breath. As chaplains, we offer support and talk about funeral home selection. Sometimes in those moments, I get to hold the baby, say the name, and talk to God.

In those moments, I’m mindful that this may be the only time that someone representing God says the name of this baby, this person, out loud.

There’s usually not a funeral. Sometimes there’s a quiet, tearful, ceremony at graveside. Sometimes there is a container of ashes. And “church” isn’t always great at knowing what to do about grief in general, let alone knowing what to do and say when there is death before breath.

But God’s aware, I am confident, and God’s here.

And I get to be here, too.

On this day, in this room, I said, “God, you know this baby. And as I’m holding this baby, you are holding this life.” And I stopped to catch my breath. Because I hadn’t ever thought about it quite that way.

I don’t know what the interactions of God and people after bodies die looks like. And it is beyond the scope of this writing to explain and explore the options.

But as I think about this room, I think about this:

When Jesus taught his disciples to pray, he said, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” And then, as he lived out the coming of the kingdom on earth, he held children.

Keep this mom in mind. And moms like her. Maybe moms like you.

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Thanks for being here. And there.

I’ll see you soon.

Jon

As I mentioned two weeks ago, I led a memorial service for a cousin last Saturday. We met in dining room of the nursing home where my aunt lives. About 30 of us, whose primary connection was Lowell. It was a good time.

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Conversation matters.

Nancy and I were out walking the other evening. We’ve done this off and on for decades. As we got close to home, we literally moved to the other side of the road. For Nancy, it was moving to the simpler path. For me, it was avoiding a conversation. Fortunately, Nancy moved us back to talk to a neighbor one street over.

It was a perfect living out of a book I was finishing: Digital Minimalism: Choosing a Focused Life in a Noisy World. Written in 2019, Cal Newport talks about the effects of our constant connections to the world, particularly with social media. And then he talks about practices that can help us move away from that addiction toward a more focused, more healthy, life. He encourages us to move from connection to conversation, from clicking “like” to interacting with as much richness as possible. Which is what we did the other night.

Interestingly, Newport also talks about doing things: learning new skills, fixing things around the house, using our hands and attention in a tangible way. Part of our conversation the other night included looking at our neighbor’s woodshop. Which meant that I built a carpenter bee trap with our grandson Ben later in the week.

Conversation, construction, sawdust. It’s all on my list for May.

(And, because this is a newsletter about helping people in hard times, our neighbor and I also talked about his being part of a grief group, twice a month, years after his wife died.)

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Working toward a survey project.

We think we know what grieving people think. And there is research that looks at some populations. (Like people whose loved one died in the hospital, the project I did last year.)

But I’m thinking about helping particular communities or groups or churches.

Would answers to these questions from a few hundred people in your community, the people who are around all the time, the people you care for, shape how you help others? (These would be the “5 = true of me, 1= not true of me” kind of responses.)

1. I wish the death of my person had been acknowledged by family, by friends, by work.

2. I miss my person every day.

3. I have found value (support or meaning) in memorial gatherings.

4. With all my family and work responsibilities, I don’t have time to think about grieving.

5. I feel overwhelmed sometimes about the death of my child.

6. I have a few close friends who have been helpful.

7. I have people of faith who have been helpful.

8. I know there are supposed to be stages of grieving, but they don’t fit me.

9. The first year is supposed to be the hardest, but it wasn’t.

10. I felt supported by at least one person in the healthcare system.

11. Books about other people’s grief stories have been helpful.

Leave a comment

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Resource for Infant and Child Loss - an update

Last October, I talked about “Tiny Footprints”, a TV special and resource page for parents navigating grief after infant death. Alyssa Ivanson produced that special, which was nominated for an Emmy this week.

Alyssa and her husband Jon are leading an event in Fort Wayne on June 26 for grieving parents. I’ll be talking at that event and will keep you posted on details.

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Thanks for reading

I was going to talk about another book I’ve been reading, What to Make of a Life: Cliffs, Fog, Fire and the Self-Knowledge Imperative, by Jim Collins. But I’ll give it another week.

Thanks for questions and comments and the coffee you provide. (Here’s today’s thank you for those who provide financial support.)

And most importantly, thanks for caring about and for people.

Jon

This week I was at Grief Connect.1 It’s an informal gathering, once a month, for people who need to talk with other people who can listen without saying, “Aren’t you better yet.” And who have credibility to say, “What if you tried this?”

As people talked about the grief in their lives, many talked about a series of deaths in their lives, often in a few years.

As I was thinking about this later, I remembered writing about it a few years back. It’s worth revisiting.

Excessive death

I’ve had several conversations at bedside in the last few months (in mid-2023) that were something like this: “A year ago, his mom died after being sick for a long time. And then my sister died. And then my mom died. And then there was a fire. And now this.”

There are variations, of course. “My dad and then my husband. And in between, my dog.”

But the common thread is several traumatic events, including multiple deaths, in the last year or two.

This may be nothing new. As we think through eras in history, and we think through times of war and famine, individuals facing multiple losses happens.

On the other hand, although there isn’t a war in the US at the moment, during the last three years, the death rate, which is the number of deaths per thousand has gone from 8.6 (2018) to 10.25 (2020) and 10.14 (2022). In numbers of people, the recorded deaths is 3,389,088 people who died in 2022.

This increase isn’t just about COVID, though that is a significant cause of death. Regardless of the reason, the numbers of people dying has gone up, and the number of families facing multiple losses feels like it is going up. Further, when many people die in a single event, the national statistics don’t matter. The local trauma does.

For these individuals and these families, the accumulating grief and disruption is significant.

Any one of those deaths creates confusion. All of them together shakes routines and habits and stories and foundations. For example, when the person you always turn to for strength dies, and then another family member dies, you don’t have your person that helps you survive.

So how can we be helpful?

1. We can listen for clues or stories of multiple deaths. If we only interact with these people about ONE of these events, and we don’t listen to hear about ALL the events, we will miss the burden they are carrying. (And, when I hear information like this, I let the other hospital staff know, to give them context.)

2. We can leave more time than usual for answers to simple questions. This isn’t just about the usual thinking challenges that follow a death. When there have been multiple losses, the person may have to figure out layers of decisions they didn’t before. “My husband knew that, my mom knew that other thing, my sister handled those things, and now all of them are gone and I have to figure out ALL the answers.” What seems simple, isn’t.

3. We can feel free to NOT answer for God. Sometimes these conversations include questions around this one: “Why is God doing this to us?” I understand the question. And most of the time, there isn’t a helpful or clarifying answer to this question at the time it’s being asked. And often, it’s a declaration more than a question. “I don’t know” and “It’s a lot” and a hug are some of the most helpful responses in the moment.

4. We can put things in writing as well as saying them out loud. Resources, words of affection, phone numbers for contractors and counselors and cotton candy suppliers, directions for using the battery-powered mower.

5. In case you missed this handout, here are Thirty-one things to say and do to help someone when their loved one has died (other than sending flowers.)

6. We can answer with, “That’s a lot.”

7. We can be more kind than usual.

8. We can be aware that whole family networks are shaken, and will have all the painful parts of grief bouncing through them. (There’s not an answer for this, of course. But it’s worth being aware of when we think, “Why is everyone so cranky?”

When we wonder why everyone is on edge around us, and we are tempted to blame weather and social media and religion, it’s worth including grief as well. As I often say, “some things get easier with practice. Not the deaths of loved ones.”

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Next week, among other things, I’ll be leading a memorial service for my cousin Lowell, who died in January. I just decided that there won’t be a newsletter next week.

See you in May.

Jon

I’m now a civilian, like you. I was wondering what I have to say now that I don’t see death every shift anymore. And since I haven’t had energy to be researching during the last month.

But grief reverberates in corners of our relationships.

Just this week,

• A pastor friend with three deaths in a week or so, two of them who never took a breath. He’s reading a story for little kids on Easter Sunday morning and aware of the weight people in the room feel.

• A couple at supper told about the death of a parent, wondering what might have been done differently, knowing that the answer is “nothing.”

• Friends on Facebook remembered the death of a mother four years ago. Or three months ago. Or a decade ago.

• I got an order for 20 copies of This is Hard for a group of widowers who meet monthly.

• We started the process of translating that book into Spanish.

I know your week has been just as full of interactions with people who need support and encouragement and presence. I know you are some of those people who are having hard days this spring.

This is why, friends, being grief literate matters. We don’t have time to say, “I need to learn more about grief sometime.”

But this is why, friends, you are here and reading. This is why you are listening to friends. This is why you are sharing resources with your friends.

Thank you.

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Last year I wrote this:

This is hard. Grief, death, being sad, being alone, figuring out what to say, figuring out what to hear, the rest of our lives. There is no right thing to say that will stop the pain, that will instantly fix everything.

That’s why acknowledging that it’s hard before we try to offer “five quick steps” or “three sure cures” is helpful.

It was in a newsletter about a sign a family put up in the funeral home, at the beginning of the receiving line.

It was my way to help them avoid the conversations we attempt in those lines.

You know the conversation.

• “I’m sorry.” “Me too.”

• “How are you?” “Mostly numb.”

• “I can’t imagine how hard this must be” “Yes, you can. But you don’t want to.”

• “At least he’s in a better place.” “You mean not talking to you? Sorry. That was mean. But I’m not in that place. I’m here. And I’m the one having to navigate this without him.”

• “If there’s anything I can do.” “Can you take some of these flowers after the funeral? Can you bring me coffee in the morning about 530 after I haven’t slept all night and just leave it on the front porch without having to be affirmed for your thoughtfulness?”

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Thanks for caring for people. And yourself. And me.

And thanks for the coffee.

See you next week.

Jon

There are no celebrations for the Easter Saturday. No gatherings, no rituals. There are gatherings on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. There are gatherings on Sunday. And there are gatherings, called Easter vigils, that start sometime Saturday night.

That Saturday is often reserved for decorating the church for Sunday, final rehearsals for the Sunday services, Easter egg hunts, and NCAA basketball.

I remember the anxiety and chaos of Saturday back when I worked for a church. We had to make sure everything was ready for “the biggest event of the year”. I’m grateful that’s not part of my current responsibilities.

I realized as I write this that I know nothing about what the people who knew Jesus did on that first day of mourning. The friends of Jesus who had just watched him murdered. The mother of Jesus, who stood and watched as he died. Peter, who had wept because of his denial. The women who were ready to go to the tomb to complete the body preparations that had been rushed on Friday night. The people who had thought he was the King or the Messiah.

There were the sabbath practices that had guided them all their lives. And the grieving practices that had supported them. It’s likely that somehow, these were part of their lives that Saturday.

But we don’t know what that day was like for them. And in all the writing about that Friday and about Sunday, no one wrote anything about Saturday.

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Six days ago, on Palm Sunday, we sang the lyrics, “See Him there upon the cross now no longer breathing.” I stood and thought about all the people in the last ten years that I saw “now no longer breathing.” None of them crucified, each of them dead.

Some families were mostly prepared, at least logistically. Sometimes there were no families, barely any friends. And sometimes, families and friends were completely and utterly surprised. “We just talked yesterday,” they say. Or they say, “I thought I had plenty of time.”

Though Jesus had told his friends that he was going to be arrested and killed, they didn’t want to listen. They told him he shouldn’t talk that way. On Friday, they learned that the arrested and killed part was true. On Saturday, they realized that the dead part was true, too. Even on Sunday and for weeks following, after his resurrection, he talked with people who were sure that he had been no longer breathing.

On that Saturday, the people who loved him woke up and could see him, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t talk to him. They had no idea what would be next for them. And there was no fast-forward. There were plans underway for their Sunday that would change everything, but they didn’t know about them, or understand what they’d heard. They had to live that day.

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Some of you know the feeling of that Saturday morning very well. “I know I should have faith,” some of you say, “But this is hard. Excruciating.”

You are in good company. The people who loved Jesus and watched him die and had to wait. We wait, too. We’ll celebrate on Easter Sunday, some of us, with a sense of yearning. We’ll remember, some of us, the voice of our mom, the smell of our grandmother, the small smile of a grandfather. The whisper of a Mother who pondered all the things in her heart.

And the nod of a God who says to our pain, “I literally understand.”

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Thanks for your time and support.

See you next week.

Jon

I keep seeing articles and posts that start with “Three things.” Three things to help you survive. Three things you need to know. 3 things every grieving person should remember.

Research shows that we can’t remember much more than three things at a time. And that powerful newsletters always offer three steps.

Sometimes we struggle to remember one thing at a time.

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“What’s your name?” the nurse said.

Jon Swanson

“Date of birth?”

I told her.

“What brings you here today?”

It’s what the nurse at the triage desk is supposed to do.

I answered the questions. She took notes, conferred with the nurse sitting next to her.

And then that other nurse smiled at me and asked how it felt to be back. She talked about the tough day for the chaplain the day before.

Eleven weeks after walking through this triage space after my last shift as a chaplain at this hospital, I was back because I was having a hard time breathing.

I laid in the ED bed, coughing, talking with people I had stood next to for most of a decade. After “fighting a cold” for several days, the doc told me that I had pneumonia. It explained why I couldn’t think clearly, why I had no energy, why doing all the things had been harder than usual.

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A week after the diagnosis, after naps and antibiotics and breathing treatments, Nancy and I went to Michigan to lead a funeral. I was doing much better physically. I was able to find the words for this family. We’ve known one branch of the family for nearly forty years. I met the rest of the family a dozen years ago when I led the funeral for their mom. Now it was their dad.

We did the things we do for funerals, with the usual adjustments and accommodations and adaptations. Family members talked about dad and mom. I talked about grieving.

Somewhere in all the conversations, my friend said, “There’s so much you don’t think about.”

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We know what’s true on average, in aggregate, for most people. I’ve seen pneumonia as I’ve walked through rooms. My friends have supported people through the deaths of loved ones.

But then, suddenly, it’s “my dad” and there is so much to figure out. Suddenly I’m sick, and all that I know in aggregate doesn’t matter.

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I retired from my hospital chaplaincy role at the end of 2025. But, as I said then, I’m not retiring. Nancy and I avoided scheduling much during the first couple months of the year. But some things have come up. And I had a couple courses scheduled to start March 8. We’re starting on a big project with Arbor Research Group. In early March, I started to have coffee with people.

It turns out my reserves were lower than I thought.

Between naps, as I’ve slowly caught up. I also realized that 2025 was a year full of activity. Not bad, most of it. But lots of interaction, lots of change.

As I have been saying to other people for years, “Of course you are sick. Of course you are tired. Of course it’s hard to think.” We are built to need breaks, to grieve, to get tired.

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I wish I had 3 steps for you. Because this style of writing always offers the answers the writer has found in the latest struggle. I don’t. To compare my mild illness with what people experience chronically would be hubris.

I do have some words, though.

“Of course.” Not in a demeaning tone: “Of course you can’t make it to the party. If you would plan better.” But a tone that acknowledges that exhaustion makes sense. “Of course you are tired today. You were responding to student projects all day yesterday.”

“The people who actually care about you, care more about you than about your production.” Even if you choose to not believe that, it’s true.

“All the news and speculation and dread in the background is draining us.” It is.

“Naps are not failure. Especially when we’re the age our grandparent were when they took naps so they could put up with us.”

“You expect more of yourself than anyone can accomplish.”

“I’m catching up on what matters, I’m giving up on what doesn’t.”

“I love you.”

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Thanks for your support. Thanks even more to Nancy for her support this month. And to students and colleagues.

See you soon.

Jon