Last Sunday, the preacher told a story of a Russian immigrant that arrived in the USA with nothing and made something of himself. He made a great something of himself. He was a man amongst men. He went to a funeral of a friend. His wife's friend was surrounded by psychiatrists, doctors and clergy trying to console her.
This man that came here with nothing, parted the wife's company...took her in his arms and cried with her in their shared grief of their loss. This was a healing moment.
A long time ago...Aunt Kay lost a beautiful daughter and I went into the room with her and held her and cried with her. We were crying in our grief....my mother stepped in and told me that was inappropriate to cry with Aunt Kay and that I was faking it. She blungeon me into submission.
At my mother's funeral, after she had been murdered by her boy friend....I didn't cry. In fact, I felt relief. She was finally dead. She would no longer torment me ever again. Isn't that horrible? I was glad she was dead. This was my mother. I am sorry to not be able to say something nicer.
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