The letter below sent to me by David's Samamtha so touched me that i wrote
to the father and received permission from him to use it on this page. In my mind I know this
is what my son would want and would say to us.

A Letter From A Son.

I know this is a rough time for you.
So I will be as gentle as I can be.
First of all, thank you for so many tears,
particularly those shared with another that you love.
They are a gift to me, a precious tribute to your investment in me.
As you do your mourning, do it at your pace only.
Don't let anybody suggest that you do
your grief work on their timetable.

Do whatever it takes to face directly the reality of what has happened,
even though you may need to pause frequently
and yearn for my return.

Do this with courage and my blessing.
Know that sometimes inertia is the only movement possible.
Give your best to keeping a balance
between remembering me
and renewing your commitments to life.

It's okay with me if you go through minutes, hours
and even days not thinking about me.

I know that you'll never forget.
Loosening me and grabbing hold of a new meaning
is a delicate art.
I am not sure if one comes before the other or not,
maybe it's a combination.

Be with people who accept you as you are.
Mention my name out loud,
and if they don't make a hasty retreat,
they're probably excellent candidates for friendship.

If, by a remote possibility, you think that there is anything
that you could have done for me and didn't.
I forgive you.
Resentment does not abide here, only love.

You know how people sometimes ask you
how many children you have?
Well, I am still yours and you are still my parent.
Always acknowledge that with tenderness, unless to do so
would fall on insensitive ears or would be painful to you.

I know how you feel inside.
Read, even though your tears annoint the page.
There is an immense library here and I have a card.
In Henri Nowens' "Out of Solitude", he writes,
"The friend who can be silent with us
in a moment of despair and confusion,
who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement,
who can tolerate not healing,
and face with us the reality of our powerlessness,
that is a friend who cares."

Dad, I don't know where you are spiritually now,
but rest assured that our God is not gone.
The still small voice you hear in your heart is His voice.
The warmth that sometimes enfolds you is Him.
The tears that tremble just beneath your heartbeat is Him.
He is in you, as I am.

I want you both to know that I am okay
and I have sent you messages to ease your pain,
they come in the form of flowers that bloom out of season,
birds singing, voices and visions and sometimes through your
friends and even strangers who volunteer as angels.

Stay open but don't expect the overly dramatic.
You will get what you need and it may be simply an internal peace.
You are not crazy, you have been comforted.
Please seek out people bereaved longer than you.
They are tellers of truth, and if they have done their work,
are an inspiration and a beacon of hope
whose pain lessened dramatically
and one more wisdom before we close.

There are still funny happenings in our world.
It delights me to no end when I hear
your spontaneous, uncontrolled laughter.
That, too, will come in due time.
Today, I light a candle for you.
Joined with your candle, let their light shine
above the darkness.

Silent Scream

I reach into the grayness searching,
And I find absence and emptiness.
I search for quiet peace of heart,
And find myself in the midst of strife.
I cry silent tears unnoticed by others
That dry feeling stiff on my cheeks.
I hide silent sobs till my body aches.
Can no one hears my silent scream?

© Candace 1/17/06

The following was also sent to me by the father who also lost his son Robert
he told me to keep it and read it over and over and it should be of some help as it was to him.
one can but try, and one can but hope.

“Tears Are the Proof of Life”

“How long will the pain last?” a broken-hearted mourner asked me.
“All the rest of your life.” I had to answer truthfully. We never quite forget. No matter how
many years pass, we remember. The loss of a loved one is like a major operation; part of
us is removed, and we have a scar for the rest of our lives. This does not mean that the
pain continues at the same intensity. There is a short while, at first, when we hardly believe
it; it is rather like when we cut our hand. We see the blood flowing, but the pain has not set in yet.
So when we are bereaved, there is a short while before the pain hits us. But when it does, it is
massive in its effect. Grief is shattering.

Then the wound begins to heal. It is like going through a dark tunnel. Occasionally we glimpse a bit
of light up ahead, then we lose sight of it awhile, then see it again, and one day we merge into the light.
We are able to laugh, to care, to live. The wound is healed so to speak. The stitches are taken out,
and we are whole again.
But not quite. The scar is still there, and the scar tissue, too. As the years go by, we manage.
There are things to do, people to care for, and tasks that call for full attention. But the pain is still
there, not far below the surface. We see a face that looks familiar, hear a voice that has echoes,
see a photograph in someone’s album, see a landscape that once we saw together, and it as though
the knife were in the wound again.
But not so painfully, and mixed with joy, too. Because remembering a happy time is not all sorrow;
it brings back happiness with it. As a matter of fact, we even seek such moments in bittersweet
remembrance. We have our religious memories and our memorial days, and our visits to the cemetery.
And though these bring back the pain, they bring back memories of joy as well.
How long will the pain last?
All the rest of your life. But the thing to remember is that not only the pain will last, but the blessed
memories as well.
Tears are the proof of life. The more love, the more tears. If this were true, then how could we ever
ask that the pain cease altogether? For then the memory of love would go with it. The pain of grief is
the price we pay for love.
(Author unknown)