One was a woman who was saturated with my ramblings about my kids. She had none and apparently I had not slowed down enough to notice that this might be ouchy for her. I apologized but more importantly I learned. 

Another time it was not a face to face but an article about what it is like to be single when you would prefer to be married. She quoted a few of the more blatantly obtuse comments she was on the receiving end of. Blush. I was guilty of this ignorance as well.

One time I was putting on my coat after a tea party and another woman was saying goodbye too. As a friendly gesture I asked how many grandchildren she had. She burst into tears right there in the foyer and spilled the pain of always trying to hide the painful truth that one had died by skimping on the number, but really she loved that grandson too. I just stood there, one arm in a sleeve and one out, and listened. When she was finished I held her and said I was so sorry. When I see her now I smile a more knowing and compassionate smile. 

This is an article about the experience of a woman whose baby died after only seventeen days. She writes it in the hopes that she might educate a few people about how not to cause further pain and alienation to grieving parents. I honor her for it. I pray that I will remember it when I need to. 

The lessons apply to widows as well. The other day I was with two otherwise chatty women and asked each how many years it had been since their husbands passed away. They somberly told me as if the number was permanently perched on the tip of their tongue, which perhaps it is. Every day it hangs like a forty watt blue lightbulb, coloring or rather dimming every interaction, leaving her to face the joys and sorrows of later life alone. 

Once at a high school reunion I may have gotten it right. I saw an old friend whose son had committed suicide. I asked how he was doing. She paused awkwardly, and inquired whether I meant her other son. 

"No, I meant your older one. How do you think he is?" Her shoulders released and she let herself give voice to the hopeful imaginings that are usually kept under lock and key. I listened and when she finished we hugged. It felt more genuine than if we had tip toed around the loss like a sleeping snake.

There was an article in the Caring for Marriage newsletter, in May of 2009 by a couple whose daughter died in a car accident. They too offer their experience in the hopes that others may learn how to be gentle with the enormous cavern that death can create. May we all figure out ways to reach our hands across the gap.