We have to keep swallowing our rage and our trauma. I don’t think I can swallow very much more. There is no room. It isn’t in the Epstein files. And I wasn't in the House of Representatives. I was a 17-year-old girl stuck in a private school, an institution that, above all else, wanted to protect itself and its entrenched patriarchal world view. The children who attended that school, especially the girls, were of little importance.
I was lucky. I chose this word carefully because there wasn't anything I did that ensured my safety. I was just lucky. But my friend wasn't. She was systematically isolated and manipulated. She was chosen for years of verbal, physical, and sexual abuse by a teacher. The narrative I was told by the “adults” at the school: she had chosen the relationship, she hadn’t stayed away. None of the adults wanted to hear the truth: she was a victim of sexual violence. The word rape was unthinkable; that only happened in dark alleys by unknown men like Jack the Ripper. The rape would continue for years. And no adult stopped it. My friend survived and her full life amazes me. And yet still, I grieve and ache and remember. I’m sure you can guess the rest of the story. She wasn't his first victim. She was one of many. He of course was not the only teacher sexually abusing students. Sadly, many students, both boys and girls, were raped by predators protected by the elite school. No one did anything. I pleaded. I followed the rules. I broke the rules. I went through the correct channels. I shut down. That was in 1994. As a 50 year old woman I still think of ways I could have made it stop; I imagine standing in front of the school as a 17 year old with a sign in bold black letters that read “Kids are being raped at this school.” I thought things would get better after the #MeToo movement. I thought after forcing my private school through an investigation, there would be some movement by the institution toward reconciliation. I thought after years of therapy and writing I wouldn’t be so seething mad. 31 years later and the president of the United States is a convicted sex offender. Things aren’t better. As I was walking my dogs this morning, wrapping my head around the latest, that not only is our president a convicted sex offender but also a pedophile, my anger rose from a place deep inside me. I began making a timeline as if I could prove to the world that the needle hasn’t moved.
I imagined an addition to my timeline:
When will we act with any urgency to end the epidemic of sexual violence in our country? At least a quarter of the women I have served as a pastor have been victims of sexual abuse and or rape in their childhood homes. Brothers, uncles, fathers, stepfathers, cousins. These stories do not include the many stories of “date rape”, sexual harrasment, or partner rape that I have beared witness to in my 25 year career. The legacy of sexual violence has followed every survivor I know into their adult lives. These survivors have sought healing through therapy, anti-depressants, spiritual disciplines, group therapy, treatment for maladaptive behaviors such as addiction and eating disorders, and finally publicly speaking out about their abuse. And yet still they all ask, along with me, when will we outrun this trauma? One individual had a breakdown when her daughter became the age she was when she was victimized by her brother. She didn't know why she was falling apart until the connection came crashing down on her. Was her daughter safe? This is just one story articulating how trauma insidiously disrupts survivors’ adult lives. We are told again and again that it's getting better. But is it? We elected a man who is a convicted sex offender. He was elected after he was heard saying, “I don't even wait. And when you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. ... Grab 'em by the pussy. You can do anything." And now there is incredibly strong evidence that he is also a pedophile who raped young girls. I wasn’t the only one angry this morning. One friend told me she wasn’t sure she could get out of bed this morning. She did get out of bed because she began vomiting. She asked me, “How do I exist in a world in which we elect a president who is a pedophile? I am the survivor of such a man.” When will it stop? When will adult women, such as myself and my friend, stop sobbing when more news breaks out about another powerful man abusing girls and women while everyone averts their eyes? When will we stop being afraid for our daughters? When will we rather encounter an unknown man instead of a bear? Another survivor spoke truth to me today: “We have to keep swallowing our rage and our trauma. I don’t think I can swallow very much more. There is no room.” When the president himself is unsafe, how can we feel safe in the world? I am tired. I am defeated. I want it to stop.
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 It doesn’t seem that complicated. As a follower of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, who called us to radical reconciliation and forgiveness, who rejected retributive justice and instead taught his followers to turn the other cheek (Matthew 5: 38), guns have no place in the church. It would seem like American Christians would reject the proliferation of guns in America. This is not the case. White Evangelicals own more guns than any other group in America, including active military and veterans.
Before you start trolling this blog with 2nd Amendment memes, let me remind you the founders were talking about muskets and militias. Not about semi auto-matic weapons. Also, no one is trying to take away your hunting gun. I have known quite a few people who have stopped going to church because fellow church members brought guns with them every Sunday. Pretty normal, right? Gun in one hand, bible in the other. These church-leavers know it is perfectly legal for their fellow church goers to carry guns into worship along with their bibles, but that’s not the point. Instead, the point is two fold: #1 Church is supposed to feel safe. Guns do not make anyone safe. The good guys with guns maxim is false. (read this article by John Hopkins University.) #2 Jesus preached against violence. This seems like the most obvious argument against guns in church. Throughout Christian history, leaders have argued for non-violence. In response, there are many treatises on just war theory to balance Jesus’ call to non violence and our nation’s call to war. And still, no respected biblical scholar or theologian, who may ultimately reject pacifism, has ever proposed that Jesus embraced violence as an effective tool for justice. The Biblical witness is clear on this one: love is the only weapon to defeat violence. Guns have no place in church. This why-would-you-follow-Jesus-and-carry-a-gun-to-church question led my friend Bill Kole out of church. The good news is that Bill is a journalist and a committed follower of Jesus. Bill spent the last two years investigating what he refers to as the “unholy” alliance between white evangelicals, guns, and politics. During his investigation, Bill came across the web site I started with a few other Christian leaders, Christians United Against Gun Violence. Bill’s book, In Guns We Trust: The Unholy Trinity of White Evangelicals, Politics, and Firearms hits the bookstores today. Every church should be reading this book together. Every church should hang banners that read Ban Assault Weapons. Or Common Sense Gun Laws NOW! Because the only way white evangelical gun worshippers will stop propping up guns laws is if other Christians are louder. Buy the book. Read it with others. Talk loudly as a follower of Jesus about the unholy union of guns and church.  If you are like me you feel pretty conflicted about Mother’s Day.
I am the mother of three. Just having them was complicated. Before they were born, I spent several Mother’s Days in tears, wishing I too was a mother receiving handmade gifts. You see, I am also the mother of three children I carried in my womb who never made it into my arms. My three beloved children who made it into the world are the greatest gifts I have ever received. I love them with every fiber of my being. They also undo me with joy, anger, and worry. Occasionally they leave me breathless, wondering how they became such exceptional humans. Then, the day after I am filled with admiration, I wonder if they are ever going to stop being so self-centered. Such is motherhood. As a pastor, I have witnessed firsthand how complicated Mother’s Day can be for many. There are those who are motherless, those whose mothers should not be celebrated, and those mothers who find themselves grieving what they thought motherhood would be but is not. Just this week, I listened to one woman ask, choking back tears, “When will my mother ever listen to me?” Another individual was terrified that their mother would show up at their door. Terrified, because this mother only causes distress and anxiety. Mother’s Day is complicated. Recently a friend shared the following quote with me from Nicole Graev Lipson’s memoir, Mothers and Other Fictional Characters, “I've loved and given and toiled and grieved as a mother. I've run marathons that ended in new marathons, and then I've run onward until I've collapsed. I've tapped into reserves of energy I never knew existed, and I've siphoned away these reserves, drilling down deeper for more. I know I should rise above the challenges that come my way, for this is what mothers—the world's anointed absorbers of pain—must do. But I cannot rise above my son's fuck you.” When I read Nicole Graev Lipson’s description of motherhood, I felt in my bones what she was describing. Motherhood has revealed my very best and worst self. I am also the daughter of a mother who ran many marathons and will keep running them for me if it would help. I have witnessed many moments where my mother’s best self was not present. Shocker! She wasn’t perfect. And yet there are so many mothers and children who could never share the heights and depths of motherhood so freely because there are only depths. So many who have no idea that there are actually mothers who will do anything and everything it takes for their children. I know these adult children. Their scars are deep. Mother’s Day is complicated. However you feel this Mother’s Day, please know: You are not alone. If you are a mother who finds herself at the end of their rope or an adult who wonders why their mother never loved them, you are not alone. We all deserve to be loved deeply and truly. In fact, we all need to be loved deeply and truly. PS: If you are struggling, maybe you need to ask someone to help you with laundry. Or maybe it’s bigger. Maybe you need to find someone you trust and speak all your pain. Take care of yourself. It’s bad. It’s really bad. What are we to do when we are watching our democracy erode around us? First, you ask your dog walking buddies. Second, you share the list we created walking the dogs. If you read further on, each suggestion is explained at length. 
CRASH COURSE IN CITIZEN RIGHTS American Citizen’s Fundamental Freedoms: Freedom of Religion: The right to practice or not practice any religion, or to have no religious beliefs at all. Freedom of Speech: The right to express oneself freely without government interference, including the right to speak, write, and publish.
Non Citizens have the following Rights in our country:
 The following is a story about serving at Rose’s Bounty this past Friday, March 21, 2025.
We had enough volunteers Friday. This freed me to walk up and down the registration line handing out “know your rights” red cards asking, “Are you or anyone in your community concerned about immigration.” I received three notable responses:
There were two responses that did not fit into the above categories. One woman did not respond with the usual “thank you” nor did she remain silent, instead she looked at me with utter innocent confusion, “Why are they doing this? We are not all criminals. Do they really think we are criminals? I have been in this country for X years and I have never done anything but work. I pay my taxes. I don’t understand. Why do they hate us?” I had no response. I had only tears rolling down my face as I responded, “I don’t know. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” This woman’s disbelief confirmed for me that our current administration’s treatment of immigrants has to do with only one thing: hate. Racism too, but hate feeds racism. Another woman exploded. The raw emotional anguish I witnessed haunts me still. I tried to calm her, but I realized quickly that not only was calming her fruitless, it also wasn’t a helpful response. This woman’s suffering needed to be expressed and she needed someone to listen. Through tearful shouts she declared, “I have been wiping their parents’ butts for 25 years. They do not want to take care of their parents. They do not do the things for their parents that I do. Why do they hate me?” As I left this woman, Jesus words on the cross wove with her words, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why do you hate me?” The weight of the federal administration's attack on our communities was evident on Friday. The immigrants I spoke to, waiting in line for fresh produce and meat and dependable food staples, are simply humans. They are members of our community. They work. They raise their families. They laugh. They snuggle in bed on cold winter days and rejoice when spring arrives. And they cry. They rage. They wonder: how can this be happening in a country that claims to be a democracy? How can this happen in a country that declares it is Christian? READ this BLOG if you don't have the patience to read my blog!  I’ve been trying to remain silent and prayerful about the violence unfolding in Israel and Gaza. These are not my people. I cannot possibly understand the generational pain on both sides. I am overwhelmed by the cycle of oppression and violence that is the story of both Palestinians and Israelis.  And yet these are my people. Why? Because they are God’s beloved people. I cannot turn away from hearing the news that regular folks were stolen from their homes and held captive. I cannot turn away from the images of entire neighborhoods destroyed. So much death and violence and destruction and more generational trauma. I find myself silent and prayerful and hopeless. Yesterday I hesitantly reached out to my Jewish spirit-sister. Her ministry is one of healing, mine leading a church. Her particular Jewish faith infuses her being in a fundamental and natural way. I can only aspire to a particular Christian faith that runs through my being as naturally as her Jewish faith does. She is also a progressive Jew (my words, not hers). She, like me, is very willing to laugh at her tradition, speak about its shortcomings, learn from other traditions, and examine her blind spots. She is particularly Jewish, but not limited by her tradition. I am particularly Christian, because as I say often, I was born into a northern european family. I have more in common with my Jewish spirit-sister than I do with most Christians.
And yet I did not call her, text her, ask her how she was when I learned about the attacks on Saturday night. She has beloved friends in Israel. I know this. I remained silent. I didn’t know what to say. ME!? The person who always says too much. I was angry at this cycle of violence. I wanted to affix blame somewhere, but where? And I did not reach out to my dear friend. Yesterday I wrote to my friend something earnest, but still reserved, not filled with my usual head-on-love. I felt sure I had no right to “weigh in” on the violence. I simply told her I was praying. I concluded my message to her, “praying for the individual souls who are connected in a web of history too painful for me to understand. In particular I am praying for those you love there. And I am praying for you.” My silence was short sighted. I didn’t need to explain for whom and how I was praying. She only needs me to help carry the burden of praying for an entire part of the world marred in violence. She needed to know I cared. She needed to know I hurt for her. She needed to know she was not alone. She needed to know I loved her and therefore I loved those she loved. I share her response because it was the splash of cold water I needed and perhaps you need too. “Thanks for reaching out, sharing your prayers. It is a hard time on so many levels and yet it helps when our non-Jewish friends reach out in support. Here is a link to a blog that goes into this more.” Read this blog. READ IT! And reach out to your Jewish friends. Reach out to your Palestinian friends. Reach out. Do not remain silent. Also do not assume you understand the depths of this conflict. Hold on to hope for peace. Above all right now, care for those who are hurting right in your backyard--for the many Jewish and Palestinian American friends who do not need more political rhetoric or petitions or statements. They simply need our prayers and love.  Shannon and I became friends our first year at Colgate. We were roommates for the following three years. After Colgate, Shannon moved to San Francisco. I stayed on the East Coast. For 25 years we have called each other and talked while driving children to school or from our offices or while folding laundry. We have visited every opportunity we’ve had. We have stood up for each other at weddings, shared our children’s baptismal dress, sent Christmas packages, taken our families camping, and even helped each other through knee buckling crises. We are family. Colgate is our home. I grew up in Buffalo, just four hours away from Colgate University. All four of my grandparents had earned college degrees. My college fund was begun in my first year of life. Before my senior year, even as a fourth child in my family, my parents took me on an endless six day road trip to see a variety of schools. You can go anywhere you get in was what I heard often on that trip. Shannon grew up across the country in Southern California. She was the first in her family to head off to college. There was no college fund. Shannon was the high school super star. Many of her fellow classmates never dreamed of college. Her high school sent one student--Shannon--east to pursue a college degree. She packed her bags and flew across the country with no idea of what awaited: long, dark winters, demanding classes, lots of classmates who were also high school superstars, and most overwhelming, tuition payments. College is a blessedly awkward and liberating time of transition from childhood to semi-adulthood. My first year at Colgate was filled with beautiful challenges. There were days I felt overwhelmed and homesick for sure, but I discovered how ready I was for the next chapter of my life. Colgate helped me become. And my parents happily footed the bill. Shannon’s adjustment practically (how do you dress for winter?), socially (these east coasters are different), academically (I’ve never written a research paper in my life) and emotionally (how do I manage a relationship with recently divorced parents), were monumental to say the least. And amazingly, still, Shannon thrived. She faced these adjustments with fierce determination and confidence. Colgate helped Shannon become her best self. But there was one thing out of Shannon’s control: tuition payments. Every semester would begin with Shannon at the registrar's office discovering once again why she was not registered for class. Her tuition bill was yet again unpaid. What would follow was a painful phone call asking a parent to pay the small remainder of her account. Shannon took a great deal of responsibility for her own tuition through scholarships, work-study, and loans. The registrar would assure Shannon she could begin her classes, even though she was not “officially registered.” She would usually find her way to the financial aid office in tears. Every year, Shannon doggedly took on more financial responsibility for her own future.  Just this week, Shannon honored me at our 25th Colgate Reunion in front of our entire class. She has personally endowed a scholarship in my name. The Abigail A. Henrich Scholarship is to be used entirely for students with demonstrated financial need.
The irony and beauty of this scholarship is not lost on me. I have been unable to think of little else these past few days as I have processed this monumental honor. Shannon’s scholarship celebrates everything about our friendship. The very presentation of this scholarship at our class dinner celebrated the story of our becoming at Colgate, where our lives permanently wove together. Yet how am I, the one whose tuition was fully funded by my family, to have my name on this scholarship? I never paid a student loan in my life. I never worried about how much money I would make as a pastor because I had no debt to speak of. It seems the scholarship should be named The Abby and Shannon Friendship Scholarship, or the Registrar's Office Scholarship since they always lovingly found a way to help Shannon each semester, or the Thank God for Savvy Financial Aid Officers scholarship. Why should it be named for me? I have no answer to this question. Shannon would answer it is because my friendship set her forth on her path, but I am certain that our friendship existed because of the environment--Colgate--in which it was rooted. Colgate is a powerfully transformative place. My Colgate liberal arts education is my most prized possession. My friendship with Shannon is forever life-giving. For now, I will set aside my question and my shock that there is a scholarship in my name, and instead rest in deep thanksgiving. Thank you Colgate. Thank you Shannon.  I wrote the below blog 10 years ago for Mother's Day. On this complicated holiday, that I vehemently despise since I find it to be exclusionary, heteronormative, and sneakily misogynistic, I wanted to honor my own journey to motherhood. I also wanted to honor the reality that rarely is the road to parenthood simple. In fact, I have discovered over these past ten years that NOTHING about parenthood is simple. 10 years later I find myself struggling with new complications: How do you raises teenagers who want less emotional connection, but still need it? (If you have a answer, please let me know.) How do you honor your children's autonomy? Why do I enjoy loving my two year old goddaughter more than teenagers? Should I feel guilty about this? I have no insightful blog about these latest questions, but beow in my honest story.
JOURNEY TO MOTHERHOOD, written May 2012 The vast majority of my sexual education focused on how to keep from getting pregnant, so much so that I naively assumed that to get pregnant you need only to have unprotected sex once. Without revealing any embarrassing details, my husband and I truly thought I would be pregnant in a month’s time the summer after I received my graduate degree. We calculated on our hands more than once that our baby would be arriving sometime in March. But my period came after that first month of trying; I cried and immediately alleged that there was something wrong in our technique. Then the next period came; I sobbed and assured my husband with my typical dramatic flair that I was ready to adopt. After two missed attempts, getting pregnant became something to accomplish. The process was not to be enjoyed. I peed on sticks, prayed, raised my feet over my head, talked to every recently pregnant woman I could find, and waited in fear. So it was with great joy and relief that after six months of trying I discovered I was pregnant the second week of my very first pastorate. We glowed with anticipation and again naively assumed that everything would be smooth sailing—we were pregnant now. All we had to do was wait nine months for the arrival of our baby. A week before my ordination, while being questioned on the floor of presbytery, I knew I was miscarrying at ten weeks. The sight of blood before the presbytery meeting lead to a call to my midwives, yet I knew I could not miss that night’s meeting. My ordination depended on it. I stood before a group of elders and pastors who asked me highly controversial theological questions about my position on atonement and salvation, but I remember only thinking about where I could find a bathroom after so I could check if there was more blood spotting my underwear. The next day an ultrasound stole the promise of that sweet child from us. Our final innocence, as those who deeply yearned for children of our own, was over. Fear laced our life as parents from then on. I have never forgotten our first baby, long forgotten by the world, nor the sheer uncomplicated joy accompanying the promise of that first positive pregnancy test. Almost eleven years later, I cannot bring myself to throw away the medical records that document my miscarriage; they are my only physical reminder of our first child. Our first remains unnamed. I am not sure why we have been unable to name our child. Perhaps because it still feels like a dream, the medical records the only thing confirming that it did really happen. Or perhaps because we never had a strong sense whether our promised child was a boy or girl. Yet still, this child’s brief life has embedded itself deep into the fabric of our life together as parents. **** Silent waiting ruled our lives in our four bedroom parsonage. We couldn’t bear to wait, yet we had no other alternative. Again we found ourselves consumed by the process of getting pregnant. Each month our waiting was laced with hope, but every period plunged us back into sorrow and mourning and despair. After dinner, with no children to tend to, with only work awaiting us, we would fill up the empty waiting with an ongoing game of gin rummy. We kept our grief and loneliness at bay by staying in constant motion. Then we got a dog. We needed something to love. And then the testing began—painful dyes injected into tubes, brown paper bags and dirty magazines, and results. At twenty-six years of age I began IVF—in vitro fertilization. There were waiting rooms filled with silent women, waiting for blood work, waiting for consults with specialists in white coats, and waiting for the defining test result. Occasionally a stricken partner waited alongside us. There were needles and vials upon vials of hormones, delivered efficiently by Federal Express. There were the evenings my husband’s face, gripped with steely resolution, stuck a needle deep into my hip, I would sob in pain, only to run off to a deacons’ meeting after a band-aid was applied. We waited in silence, hoping, fearing the worst, and preparing for the unthinkable, another round of shots and harvesting and waiting. But it worked. At five weeks gestation we saw the fluttering heart of our baby. Still we were forced to wait. We could not embrace the promise of that undulating muscle until the crucial marker of thirteen weeks. We had been deceived before. Thankfully, with time that tiny beating heart grew into the strong heart of a screaming ten pound baby boy. I wish my painful story of conception and gestation ended here, but the joy of pregnancy has eluded me. My third pregnancy ended in miscarriage at thirteen weeks on Ash Wednesday, after announcing to my entire congregation the Sunday prior that I was pregnant. This time we named our baby—Kasia. On a warm Spring day we planted summer bulbs in her memory, our young son wading in the water nearby. I spent my fourth pregnancy reeling in terror, holding my breath between each revealing gesture of my baby’s limbs within the womb, sure that the baby, even at twenty weeks, would die before I had a chance to hold it. This pregnancy, which produced another ten pound baby boy, is mostly lost to me. I can only remember the terror. I am not sure if I ever experienced any joy until my second son was six weeks old, nursing calmly and happily at my breast. **** No one ever told me how difficult it would be. No one—not my mother, or my aunts, or my grandmothers, or the women whose children I cared for, no one. After I lost my third child, I awoke in the middle of the night, unable to breathe, a crushing weight on my chest, and the clear resolution that I could never have another child. I was certain in that still dark room that the pain of pregnancy would keep me—the teenager who watched a family of five and did their dishes without breaking a sweat, the college student who babysat every Friday night instead of going out, the young bride who had decided with her beloved mate that they would raise four children together—from ever having more than one child. The fear of conception and gestation suffocated all my confidence and all my hope. I remember one evening in particular, after our first child was born: I hid away in our bedroom and wept. I was utterly exhausted by my dashed hopes and terrified by the chance of more loss. I thought if I wept alone I could ironically protect myself, as if in hiding my fear, no one, including myself would know how really bad it was. I understand now, that I was in essence rejecting the very vulnerability that parenthood entails. Yet I did not grieve alone; I grieved in the presence of loving community. Grace encircled me with the stories of many gentle people, mostly women, but also men, who had lost children as well. Their stories were ones of pain and grief, but also of hope, survival, and sometimes children. They were the stories of twelve-week-old twin girls, a twenty-five- week old baby girl still referred to as an angel by her parents, a still birth boy, a still birth first, another set of twins, five miscarriages in a row before a healthy baby was born. These stories I laid beside mine. As I entangled my own grief, I came to understand that these stories were the unavoidable stories of conception, gestation, and birth. They are the stories of parenthood. ***** Sadly, my story continues. After my second son was two I miscarried for a third time. I was placed in the high-risk pregnancy category. They even performed an autopsy of sorts on our sweet 13 week in utero baby girl who we named Elise. I began a regiment of antidepressants and weekly therapy because I could no longer fight the grief and fear on my own. The good news is that somehow, my call to motherhood was so undeniable, I found enough courage to try again. The trying was fraught with waiting and wondering if we would ever get pregnant again. And when finally I did get pregnant, my anxiety spiked and my antidepressant prescription increased from 50 grams to 100 grams. At the end of that successful nine month gestation, I had a perfectly healthy baby girl. And three days later I was greeted with debilitating postpartum depression. I do not want to make light of postpartum depression; it was horrible. Yet I was fortunate that I received medical help immediately and responded positively to medication. For me, more than anything, postpartum seemed like a slap in the face after the exhausting effort I had put forward to have a third child. I remember very little of my daughter’s first six months of life. Now that she is three this seems to bother me less. Who remembers the blur of sleepless nursing anyhow? **** My children are older now; their bodies stretch out, filling their beds, relaxed in sleep. Some days I barely remember how painfully I yearned for their presence. Some days I even desire a break from all the work that they generate —lunch boxes, laundry, speech therapy appointments, lacrosse games, snit fits, dishes. Every mother’s day, I remember with clarity what it was like to yearn desperately to be a mother. Every mother’s day I relish the homemade gifts and earnest attempts at breakfast in bed. And every mother’s day I remember there are many women who feel locked out of the “club” as I smell my children’s hair as they climb into bed with me. **** I have not one profound thing to say—not one thing that will make sense of any of this pain or longing or unfairness. Some of us end up as mothers, others wait, others mothers more children than ever desired, and still others long for someone with whom to share motherhood. I pray for all and carry each woman in my heart. Recently our community lost a beloved member. It was traumatic in nature and unexpected. As a community, and individually as a pastor, we have learned much about grief and trauma. I want to offer a101 basic this-is-what-you-do-if-you-find-yourself-in-a-similiar-situation. I pray you don’t need it. BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE: If the body is in the home, call the police asap if you are there or not. The police are equipped to deal with these situations. #1 Alert all the Professionals connected to the family/loved ones of the deceased: Who might those be: -General Practitioners, Pediatricians, Psychologists, etc You do not need for them to tell you anything, you are simply passing along information, so if anyone complains about HIPPA, ignore them. -Guidance Counselors for school aged children and youth -Police if appropriate -Social Worker if there is one With each and everyone of these professionals use the word traumatic death. #2 Help the family make immediate arrangements. What does this entail? -Hire a trusted funeral director. If you don’t know who that might be in the area, call a local church. All churches have relationships with their local funeral directors. -Use the words traumatic death with the funeral director. The funeral director is a professional and will understand the care needed. -Enlist community support to pay for the funeral expenses. -If any family member asks to see the body, strongly encourage them to wait, until they have spoken to a mental health professional. Often, in these times, seeing the deceased body is of little or no comfort. -When speaking with the family, acknowledge the horrible loss, weep with the weeping, remember with them, laugh when appropriate. Be helpful. Don’t be avoidant, but don’t be afraid to make small talk--you can’t talk about the tragedy all the time, sometimes you just end up talking about the weather. All the conversation is comforting. #3 Call family and friends of the deceased for the survivors. Often this is too difficult for those who have survived. Make it simple and brief: I am very sorry to tell you that x has died. When questions are asked, only offer what the family is comfortable sharing. No matter what, gorey details are NOT needed or appropriate. Yet also be honest and frank. Secrets are not helpful. You can also send texts to preferal people because it is too much too call more than 20 people. The text again can be brief and to the point. Explain why you are texting simply by saying there are too many people to contact. #4 Call a Mental Health Professional Don’t know where to start, ask any mental health professional or medical doctor. What you need from the Mental Health Professional:
#5 Practical Care Practical Care makes a difference. For example, does the family have a dog? Can different people sign up to walk the dog for the first few weeks? Can folks come and help with dishes? Set up a meal train? These basic needs met is a reminder to those in shock and grief that life continues and that people will help them continue. Every meal received is a palpable reminder of God’s love. #6 The Actual Funeral Service -Ask professionals, such as social workers, clergy, and others who do not know the deceased, to come and observe. Why? Because people with fresh eyes who are not overwhelmed with grief need to observe the gathered community for those who might be in crisis. You will know best who these folks are. -Create a table with all the stuff: tissues, water, life savers, mints, fidgets. -Make sure someone is welcoming everyone at the door. -If you are the religious leader and you were close to the deceased, ask your closest clergy friends to help you lead the service. This is imperative even if you think you don’t need help. Trust me. -Ask people in the community who are on the fringe and might not know the deceased as well just to come and bear witness, to help hold the pain for those grieving. This makes more of a difference than you can imagine. -Make space for joy through a remembrance of pictures and or stories. If possible, gather with food. These “normal” moments are healing for many. Don’t be afraid to laugh. Trauma does not eclipse joy.  #6 Love & Care in, Grief (Dump) Out.
*See Image* Imagine those who knew the deceased (or as the picture labels below the “sad or sick person”) creating concentric circles around them. Those closest emotionally, or whose lives were the most intertwined with the deceased, are in the inner circle, whereas others are further out, depending on their relationship. The idea is simple: as much love and comfort should move into the center of the circle helping to spread (or dump)the grief out. This does not mean that those who are grieving will all of a sudden be “grief free.” Instead the idea is that others help them hold the unbearable amount of grief they must process. As a community we found this concept very helpful to us as we envisioned just what it was we were doing.  I have a few thoughts to share about education during this time of COVID-19 homeschooling isolation hell (um… did I say hell? yes!). I’ve decided to share these thoughts with you (that would be any of you who happen across this blog). My youngest child is now 10. I’ve lived through preschool years and almost completed the elementary school years. This does not make me wise. It simply means I might have a bit more experience than some. I’m a mom who has lived through the complicated educational needs of three very different children. That said, I still parent most of the time with a “let’s see what sticks'' approach, especially now in quarantine. Second, as a progressive christian minister, I am responsible for the spiritual education of children. Between my experiences covid-churchschooling and covid-homeschooling, I realized I had some things to say that might be helpful. The following is the Abby maybe-helpful, maybe-not list, to guide you through and maybe beyond quarantine as your children’s educators:
The struggle is real! This is so hard. Balancing work and teaching and parenting. Balancing our own emotions in this uncertain time while being present to our children. Oy vey! (This is an excellent yiddish alternative to my favorite F word since we aren't suppose to be using that word so much now that the kids are around). So please be grace-filled toward yourself, your children, your community, and again and again to yourself. Pandemics are difficult. Spending a day on the couch watching movies is okay too.
MANY thanks to @mombrain.therapist for these super helpful info-graphics.
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