There is a tradition in our town to set up a meal schedule when someone needs support. It is often when there is a new baby, or a death, or illness. www.Takethemameal is the website I used recently for my neighbor, which makes it easy for people to pick a day that works for them. The system sends out reminders, and allows the recipient to see what's coming. 

One of the things I value about it is how it slows things down. The circumstances someone is dealing with, whether it is marvelous like a birth, or tragic like a bereavement, are overwhelming. A crowd of people all at once is hard to absorb, and the interactions become diluted. 

But when one person arrives at the door with a stir fry and cookies, the connection is sustainable. She looks in their tired face, and talks about the husband's quirky habits, or the baby's sweet toes. The dish becomes the excuse for arriving, delicious as it will be, to be part of the stream of care. 

I can still recall some of the meals that arrived in the aftermath of delivery. Split pea soup after the twins. Chocolate chip cookies that were still warm. Mashed potatoes when Ben was in the hospital. Perhaps you remember some that appeared at your doorstep. 

A friend mentioned that it has been twenty five years since his daughter's death. That is a long time to be deprived of your child's laughter. How can we fill the empty space for someone living with loss? 

I guess the truth is we can't. 

Sometimes I wonder about the Lori sized hole that will remain when I am gone. Which is a certainty, I might add. In trying to imagine what is inevitable yet completely out of my experience, I come up with one hope. 

I want the people I love to have joy. Which alters the way I live today. Because some of the behaviors I choose now may actually extend into the future, when my influence has evaporated. 

So until I run out of people I adore, I have a lot of doors to knock on.