You don't see me, but I am here

My heart is filled with peace. This morning I received a lovely message from a newly bereaved mom who bought a copy of Grief Diaries: Surviving Loss of a Child. 

"I am so thankful for it. I'm only half way through but love so very much how every part of the process is broke down with each family." She goes on to say, "I feel like I'm going crazy so much of the time. Just existing, trying to get through the day by staying busy. The nights are the worst." 

It brings me peace to know our books help others, and this mother's words nail it for many of us. When I lost Aly, I felt like I was going certifiably crazy. The nights were the worst because bedtime meant there was nothing left to distract me from pain, allowing sorrow to engulf me like the flames of hell.

But if I can offer one thing to anyone with a hurting heart, it is this: eventually your heart will be able to hold joy at the same time it holds sorrow. True story. Joy doesn't replace the sorrow, but it does help to balance the sadness. Hell doesn't last forever—hard to believe now, I know. But until sanity returns to your world, hold on to the idea that hope can be healed and restored. 

At the back of many of the Grief Diaries books is my chapter on Finding the Sunrise, a how-to of the very steps I took to restore sanity to my world. I didn't want to do them and had to fight hard to find strength, energy, and the courage. But like any exercise routine, practicing those steps will get easier with time. Until then, don't give up! Baby steps will eventually make all the difference. 

In the meantime, please know that although you feel broken and isolated from the rest of the world, you aren't truly alone. You might not see me, but I am here, and so is the rest of the Grief Diaries village. XOXO

From fire lighter to physics major

Giving a big shout out to our youngest, Shaun Fell. As a physics student at UW, he elected to stay on campus this summer to continue his coursework and research. Finals finished last week and grades were posted last night—he earned a 4.0 across the board in Mathematical Physics and Experimental Physics.

Earning a degree in physics at age 21, Shaun recently decided to apply for a triple major by adding math and astronomy, and the other night he asked me to read over his essay application for the math major. Intrigued to see what he wrote, I agreed. I mean, how much can someone say about math? It's all numbers, letters, and weird symbols you'll never need. Who uses this stuff anyway?

But what I read took my breath away:

"Physics by itself is, of course, a beautiful and elegant window that allows us to glimpse into our very existence. When we intertwine it with the powerful answers that arise from math, we harness a powerful language with which to understand the very nature of reality."

Okay. Maybe moms don't always know best. 

For my Facebook friends who have a child who prefers playing in the neighborhood and balks to open a book between September and June, take heart. Shaun was one of those. 

Really. He was. Until age 13.

First, his 15-year-old sister died in an accident. Less than 3 years later, his dad—his best friend—suffered a life-changing stroke. 

Our world had collapsed and my brain was too clouded by grief to watch what my young teenage son was doing at a critical time in his life. The kid who my neighbor and I once caught trying to light a light an aerosol can on fire "to see what would happen" was left to fend for himself, or so it felt to me.

How, then, did he turn out so well? Did he build his resiliency muscle like Sheryl Sandberg writes in Option B? 

No. I don't believe so. Three key components happened that brought beauty back into Shaun's life. 

First is that our family was surrounded by a circle of love, compassion and prayers. People built a tribe of support around us. They didn't understand, but loved us anyway. That love permeated through the fog, and became the foundation for my work. As a member of our family, Shaun was a recipient of that love, compassion and support.

Second is that Shaun found music. He played the piano and drummed nonstop for 6 solid years. Instead of studying, he drummed. Instead of playing with the neighbor boys, he drummed. While dad learned to walk again and mom fought for sanity, he drummed. Instinctively, I knew that as long as he was drumming, our teenager was safe at home venting his pain in a healthy—albeit noisy—way. What's the musical tattoo on Shaun's left arm? The notes to his sister's favorite song, Mr. Blue Sky.

Third is that when Shaun was 17, our family was gifted with a little furball we named Beethoven. The power of pet therapy has long been proven but is now gaining more credibility, and rightfully so. Beethoven became Shaun's best friend, and they remain inseparable to this day. When Shaun comes home from college, Beethoven gets the first hug. 

While Shaun is doing extraordinarily well today, we don't hold our breath that life will be smooth sailing from here on out. Life doesn't work that way. 

But we believe that while not every day is beautiful, there is beauty in every day. And today's beauty is that our kid who never cracked open a book in high school just earned a 4.0 and made the UW Dean's List for the fourth time.

It's safe to say I no longer have to hide the aerosol cans. 

XOXO

I love this article published in Little Things about how a nursing student who died visited her sister in a dream to tell her about a missing cell phone.

When Aly's accident happened, I so badly wanted to find her phone, too. It's such an intimate part of a teenager's life, and was a connection to her I couldn't bear to live without. Kind friends and even strangers searched the crash site a few times without luck. I hung on to every bit and piece of debris they found, but still no phone.

Losing a loved one leaves us scrambling to collect every scribble, crumb, bandage and thread they ever touched, wore, held, or was in someway connected to. But a phone holds so much more.

It holds snapshots of our loved one's life . . . every text message, silly game, or funny photo. Even the screen, buttons, and phone case leave behind fingerprints of energy that weave into an invisible string of love our heart feels deeply.

After the crash, as family, friends, and teammates surrounded our family and held vigil on our patio, every new person who came down our driveway represented hope that maybe Aly's phone had finally been found.

And then against the odds, on day 10, it had. By then both cars had been removed from the crash site and towed to be investigated, and that's when they found Aly's phone....in the engine under the hood.

I've often wondered how a phone can go from the hand of a 15-year-old girl sitting in the backseat to the car's engine, and be discovered 10 days later after it had been towed 10 miles away. What are the chances?

Some might find nothing strange about that. But I know my girl.

Aly knew how badly her mama wanted her cellphone to hold, hug, and cry over. To read and reread every text message, silly game, and funny photo. And I did . . . for years.

We still have Aly's phone, and every so often I still look at it, hold it, and cry over the fingerprints and energy she left behind. In those moments is when I feel the familiar tug of the invisible string of love that is now anchored permanently in my heart.

Aly's phone was found 10 days later in the engine of the car after it had been towed from the crash site in a rural field 10 miles away.

I now believe t was her final gift to me.

Thank you, Lovey. I love you. XOXO

Dear Grieving Gracie

Dear Grieving Gracie,

As I read through yesterday's comments, I heard a lot about feeling shunned by someone's behavior toward them. Is it possible that awkwardness, sadness and not knowing what to say to someone who has lost a loved one, silence even, may be mistaken as shunning? -Betty

Dear Betty,

You bring up an excellent thought. I do believe that many people feel deep sadness for our loss, and don't know what to say or do, causing them to stay silent or hold back. This is easily mistaken for shunning. The problem lies in that bereaved people can't tell the difference. The wound of an emotional heartbreak isn't visible and has nowhere to go, so it just stays there as an indescribable rawness with no mobility.

As an analogy, a broken leg is a visible wound. Although immobilized by a cast, when it hurts the patient can move about in an effort to find a comfortable position. With a broken heart, there are no muscles or surrounding joints to flex that will bring relief.

Further, visible wounds trigger instant compassion, but invisible wounds do not. We don't know what we don't know, right? If I can't see your pain, how do I know you're not just seeking sympathy (says Pastor Osteen)?

Some people in society play the victim card because it's a manipulation tactic they were taught as a child. But that victim card has nothing to do with grief. It isn't a light switch we use to manipulate those around us. We have no control over our profound sadness, nor do we have a date to look forward to when the cast is removed and life returns to normal.

Going back to the bereaved's inability to tell the difference between shunning or someone who shares our deep sadness but doesn't know what to say, my recommendation is to hug. Give a hug. Receive a hug. No words are necessary. If the recipient recoils from the hug, shrug it off and find a hug somewhere else. Hugs are a sign of true friendship. 

Warm regards and big hugs,

Grieving Gracie XOXO

The Fear of Rejection

One of the joys of my day is walking alongside people who are either writing for the first time in our books series or writing their own. Like any first-time parent, nerves can easily poke holes in our courage and we drive ourselves batty with questions. Will anybody read it? Will they like it? Criticize it? Laugh at it? When we put ourselves out there in such a public way, it can be very scary.

It suddenly feels like we're the new kid on the playground wondering if anyone will play with us. We feel vulnerable to rejection.

Whether it’s your first or tenth book, treat yourself with respect and remember why you’re writing it in the first place. Some writers merely want to preserve their hard work, and what better way than to publish it in a book? Some enjoy the credibility it brings (even if nobody buys it). Others hope to make the New York Times Bestseller’s list. It’s really important to give yourself grace and remember that writing is very personal, as is your reason for writing, and your goal for authoring. You don’t need to meet someone else’s approval to author a book. Do it for the love of it.

First and foremost, do it for yourself because not everyone will love your book. Taste is wide and varied in the literary world. Some love sci-fi while others indulge in romance. Some prefer self-help and seek comfort while others seek to escape inside someone else’s fantasy.

In short, if it is meaningful to you, then it's worthy. But listen to your heart. If you aren’t sure about moving forward, why pressure yourself? Unlike a pregnancy, there is no timeline. Some books take years before they’re finally in print. If you never move forward, that's okay too. Just don't let nerves about how your book will be perceived stand in your way. Do it for the love of it. In your time.

Lead with your heart, and all will be well. XOXO

Happy birthday, my child

Dear Lovey,

It's hard to believe that 23 years ago today you birthed from my womb into our waiting arms. I can't help but wonder what you would look like now, what you would have accomplished, and what goals would be in your cross hairs next.

Would you have reached your dream of the Olympics? Would you be graduating from Stanford?

One thing is for certain—in the short time you spent here, you taught us to use compassion to make a difference. I've tried to model myself after you, and like to think you would be proud of the person I've become, even though my heart is heavy on days like today. 

More than ever I yearn to wrap both arms around you, steal a kiss from the top of your head while secretly taking in the smell of your hair. I want to feel the softness of your teenage skin. I want to make jewelry with piles of pearls, crystals, and elements spread across the table between us. I want to rock out to music together on the way home from the pool.

These are the things I think of every day, but they're especially tender on days like today.

Most days I want to spare the world my pain. But in moments like this I want the world to know that grief is okay.

I want them to know it is okay for me to be sad, that my heart hurts years later and I will cry, but they should not be frightened of that. 

I know there will always be some who lack compassion and cast judgement against my sorrow, but they do so only out of fear for their own grief not yet experienced.

One day they too will learn that great sorrow stems only from great love.

So Lovey, on your birthday today I make you two promises. First, I will never be angry at those who tell us to get over it. Their judgement is cast out of fear, and I cannot be angry at fear. Second, I vow to cover the brokenhearted who are stung by such words with love and compassion so they don't feel alone. 

Because loneliness on this journey surely turns a tender heart bitter.

And a bitter heart in a living person is more tragic than a tender heart in a dead person.

Lovey, you had a premonition that we would soon be separated. I don't think you were afraid to die. I think you feared for the grief I would face.

But there is no need for you or anyone to fear my grief.

It is the worst journey imaginable, yes. But I am a better person because of it. 

It has taught me to see outside my own world.

It has opened a vein of compassion that never runs dry.

It has taught me patience and grace in the face of judgement.

My world, blessed with loving family and friends, has grown even richer with new friends who are old souls of the very best kind.

It's your birthday today, and yet I feel like it is I who has been given gifts—gifts of purpose amid pain, gifts of kindness amid judgment, gifts of helping others to help my own heart to heal.

I am not afraid of the grief I now bear. For without grief there would be no need for hope. 

And hope is the best gift of all.

Happy birthday, Lovey. I love you.

Love,

Mom  XOXO

The Power of Kindness, Endorphins & One Judgmental Judy

Yesterday a woman said she would only donate to Project Kindness if it benefited Americans, not the orphanage we're delivering supplies to in Costa Rica. Although her judgement hurt, she wasn't wrong. I get it. There are plenty right here in our own back yard who could use these supplies. 

Yet her words stung. 

But I forgive her, because she just didn't know.

She didn't know that I've spent the last 30 years tending to those in our own backyard. I've prayed with addicts on dark streets at night. I've given socks to homeless people with bare-footed babies in December. I've fed hot meals to lines of hungry people. I ran supplies down the hospital corridor when I was a teen. And fought fires and saved lives out in the field in my thirties.

Yes, I started volunteering that young. I'm now 51, and it's never gotten old. 

After we lost Aly, my volunteering shifted from helping others to helping myself. Spreading kindness became the balm that soothes my broken heart. Just like a runner needs to hit the open pavement for a daily dose of endorphins, I need to give. Spreading kindness is my endorphins.

Also just like a runner, I don't always take the same route. When giving to others, a change of scenery is good once in a while. 

Judgmental Judy also didn't know that Aly's birthday is just on the horizon. I feel the sorrow deep in my bones. To handle the added layer of sadness that comes with certain days of the year, I need to up the ante to find my endorphins. Delivering supplies to the poor around Aly's birthday is the perfect way to spread kindness and help my own heart to heal.

But why Costa Rica and not East St. Louis? 

Because Aly was mesmerized by Latin America. She studied the Mayans, the Incas, and Easter Island every chance she got and it was on her bucket list to visit those places. But she died before she understood what fueled her fascination. 

Maybe, just maybe, when we deliver donations to Costa Rica, we'll find out. And if not, there is always next year. And the year after. Just like in America, there are plenty of people who need kindness in Peru, Brazile, Chile, and Honduras.

That's why Judgmental Judy's words sting my soul. She would only help Americans. My dear sweet hubby is Australian. Should he help only Australians? I'm a female. Should I spread kindness only to other females?

Of course not.

In between trips seeking to understand Aly's fascination, I'll continue to deliver kindness right here in my homeland. I'll hold babies born to addicts on American streets, soothing their wail as their wee body goes through painful withdrawals. And continue my work alongside our Grief Diaries village helping to bring comfort and hope to others through sharing our own stories of survival.

Maybe one day I'll run into Judgmental Judy and have a chance to explain the power behind spreading kindness both near and far. But I won't explain to her why we do this in February, near Aly's birthday. Or why we chose Costa Rica, a region Aly loved. 

There's a proverb that says to be careful with words, because once they are said they can only be forgiven, not forgotten. I may never forget the sting of Judgmental Judy's words, but I do forgive her absence of empathy and understanding—she has never walked in my shoes.

She doesn't know that spreading kindness is my endorphins. 

She doesn't know that helping others helps my own heart to heal.

She didn't know Aly, nor her fascination with Latin America. 

She doesn't know the lifetime of sorrow I now carry in my heart.

When we deliver donations to the poor in Costa Rica, I'll think of Judgmental Judy. 

And be glad for her that she just doesn't know. And hope she'll be spared from ever finding out.

A Christmas Poem

A poem for all my friends and family with heavy hearts.

T’was the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Lost in deep slumber, tucked warm in our beds,
our hearts were heavy as memories danced in our heads.

What are loved ones doing in heaven on this night?
Are they sending us kisses by the moon’s magical light?
Or do they dance among the gifts sitting under the tree
waiting for family to open with laughter and glee?

I tossed and I turned, caught up in my sorrow
And finally got up before the clock struck tomorrow.
What was I searching for in this quiet hour?
I didn’t know; I just felt lost in sad dour.

As I sat in the dark watching the tree all aglow
I pondered a small glass of top-shelf merlot.
Would it ease my sorrow, bring joy to my heart?
Oh, how I wish I could find some kind of jumpstart.

And that’s when I spied it, a book on the shelf;

it sat right next to my grandson’s red-suited elf.
The book beckoned me, and I knew in my heart
that the comfort it offered would sweetened my tart.

I opened the book and made some new friends
and followed their journey through bumps and the bends.
I read about their tears, fears, and feeling insane
and learned how they survive through the terrible pain.

Inspired by their determination to go on in spite of their loss,
I marveled that my heart now felt less cross.
How could it be that such stories, so broken,
could soothe my own heart from words written, not spoken?

I realized then why the stories touch me so deep inside.
It’s a gift from each writer to readers who’ve cried.
The stories, as hard as they are, offer little gifts of hope.
They say “We’re with you; you aren’t alone as you cope.”

I finished the book, and the top-shelf merlot.
My heart felt lighter than it did hours ago.
I made my way back to my cozy-warm bed,
laid down and pulled the covers up to my head.

As my family continued in deep slumber,
I marveled that angels in heaven must be a large number.
No longer was my heart heavy with sorrow
because I now knew I could face another tomorrow.

If my friends in the book could cope and survive
I reasoned that perhaps I could at least try.
As slumber overtook me, I drifted off to sleep.
Feeling less lonely now, I had no need to count sheep.

One final thought drifted through my sleepy head
as I laid there tucked in my cozy-warm bed.
What are loved ones doing in heaven on this night?
Are they sending us kisses by the moon’s magical light?
Or do they dance among the gifts sitting under the tree
waiting for family to open with laughter and glee?

Yes, I believe they are.
Merry Christmas to me.

By Lynda Cheldelin Fell
12/24/2016

The 12 Nights of Christmas

T’was the first night of Christmas

And all through your house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Except suddenly one little soul did appear

It’s your Little Elf, and he brings holiday cheer!

Tonight it’s a partridge for your pear tree

And tomorrow, who knows, You must wait and see

So turn on your porch light each evening with care

And know that your gift soon will be there

But don't try to catch him or he'll disappear!

Have you heard of The 12 Nights of Christmas? Also known as Secret Santa, I came across this concept years ago while reading "In Search of the Real Spirit of Christmas" by Dan Schaeffer. In the back was a chapter describing his family tradition modeled after the 12 days of Christmas. Beginning on December 13 and ending on Christmas Eve, the family left a treat along with a cute poem on a neighbor's porch every evening. The whole idea was to teach kids that giving was just as fun as receiving.

Twelve nights sneaking around the neighborhood playing ding dong ditch? How fun! I especially loved the idea of helping my kids learn the joys of giving at such an impressionable age. And so that December gave birth to a new family tradition for the Fells.

Now our oldest daughter was away at college and our teenage son was busy with high school activities, so that left our two youngest as santas. As I explained what we were embarking on and why, they were thrilled with the idea of sneaking around the neighborhood for any reason. At age 10, our daughter much preferred to be an elf as she was female and Santa was, well, male. But with her 8-year-old brother as Santa, an elf's superior, that wouldn't do either. To keep the village peace, we became elves instead of Santas.

Now as a family of six, we were on a budget. Armed with a shopping list, my first stop was our local dollar store. Thankfully, this was our only stop—everything we needed was there. Taking home our supplies, we got to work printing the poems and preparing the bags while the kids giggled at the notion of 12 nights of mischief over Christmas vacation.

It was already December, and the first night was fast approaching. Fairly new to the neighborhood, we discussed who should be the lucky neighbor. A couple months earlier, I heard that Neighbor Tom had lost his wife to cancer. She was well loved by all who knew her, and I couldn’t imagine what the holidays must be like for Tom and their two children. To my mind, it was clear that Tom’s home could use small doses of nightly cheer. The kids quickly agreed, and the matter was settled.

On the evening of December 13, my two elves giggled nervously as we bundled up and headed out into the night. Sneaking through the quiet snow-filled streets of our neighborhood with a flashlight was as magical for the kids as it was for me; I treasured our memories in the making. Also, I had never realized just how quiet—and beautiful—the cold, deserted streets were at night. It was like another world waited for us each evening, a peaceful, enchanting winter wonderland that could only be experienced on foot. The magic was heightened when the kids giggled over my clumsiness in the dark. Note to self: Get more flashlights. 

Upon returning home from our adventure each evening, we warmed our hands around a mug of hot cocoa, and warmed our hearts around the whim that our nightly surprises might bring cheer to Tom's family.

The next eleven nights flew by and soon it was Christmas Eve, the 12th day when we had to reveal our identity. I suddenly became nervous. I had never actually met Tom, and worried that maybe our nightly gifts had been a bit too much for the family's fragile emotions. But there was no backing down now; we had to finish. That afternoon we arranged a dozen homemade treats on a small holiday plate, covered it with red plastic wrap, taped the final poem to the top and—not trusting my children to walk two blocks with a plate of goodies—we drove to Tom’s house. We climbed out of the car, gathered on his front porch, and I rang the doorbell.

When Tom opened the door, we nervously started singing: 

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas,

and a happy new year!

Well, I ended up singing that cheery first verse by myself because my elves stood glued to the porch with mouths frozen shut. Realizing I was on my own and because my children say I’m tone deaf, I quickly decided that one verse was more than enough for this poor family.

As soon as I stopped singing I realized that Tom and his two children had tears in their eyes! Oh, dear. Was my voice that bad, or was our entire mission just one big flop?

Quickly, I decided the best way to handle this was to explain that we were the Little Elves responsible for the nightly treats, and then leave the poor family alone. After all, it was Christmas Eve and here we were intruding on their fragile emotions. 

But I soon discovered that I had nothing to fear at all: they were crying because of how much they loved the little gifts, and now it was coming to an end! It turns out that Tom and his children not only enjoyed the element of surprise, but the nightly anticipation was a wonderful respite from the constant sadness, and lifted their spirits. Mission accomplished!

That first year proved a wonderful experience and we continued the tradition, choosing a different neighbor each year, until tragedy struck our own family. In 2009, my 15-year-old elf, Aly, died in a car accident while coming home from a swim meet. Caught in my own fog of grief, I had no reserve left in my tank to carry on our family fun with our youngest. With a broken heart, our once beloved tradition came to an unexpected end.

In the years since losing Aly, in fits and starts our family has learned to laugh and feel joy again but I’ve never forgotten how bleak those first holidays felt.

I’ve also learned that helping others helps my own heart to heal.

Now that our grandson is 9—the perfect age to become an elf—reinstating the old family tradition will offer both giver and receiver a nightly dose of good cheer, and enrich our holidays in magical ways just as it did in years past. I already know who this year's lucky neighbor will be, and our gift bags are assembled and ready for delivery starting December 13.

Project Little Elf was inspired by that first year with Tom and his children. Having faced loss since then, I now fully understand how the holidays can feel less than cheery, and how a little kindness can go a long way. And nobody needs it more than the bereaved facing their first holidays.

If you too would like to teach your children how to be givers of kindness and learn the joys of giving, all the instructions and printables to begin your own family tradition can be found at www.GriefDiaries.com.

Above all, the nightly trips to a neighbor’s porch is more than just a little fun. It holds the promise of magical memories for children of all ages, and gives the bereaved the priceless gift of a heart full of cheer they’ll treasure all year.

Happy holidays!

How I Found the Sun and a Stronger Umbrella

The story behind Grief Diaries

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor. A brain surgeon to be exact. But life has a way of throwing us curve balls that force us down a different path. Sometimes those paths are most welcome, like mothering four wonderful children. My least favorite path? Losing a child. That path is a long and torturous one, and took me straight through the belly of hell.

My story began one night in 2007, when I had a vivid dream. I was the front seat passenger in a car and my daughter Aly was sitting behind the driver. Suddenly, the car missed a curve in the road and sailed into a lake. The driver and I escaped the sinking car, but Aly did not. My beloved daughter was gone. The only evidence left behind was a book floating on the water where she disappeared.

Two years later, on August 5, 2009, that horrible nightmare became reality when Aly died as a back seat passenger in a car accident. Returning home from a swim meet, the car carrying Aly and two of her teammates was T-boned by a father coming home from work. My beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter took the brunt of the impact, and died instantly. She was the only fatality.

Life couldn’t get any worse, right? Wrong. Hell wasn’t done with me yet. My dear sweet hubby buried his head (and grief) in the sand. He escaped into 80-hour work weeks, more wine, more food, and less talking. His blood pressure shot up, his cholesterol went off the chart, and the perfect storm arrived on June 4, 2012. In an instant, my husband felt a strange warmth spread inside his head. He began drooling, and couldn’t speak. My 46-years-young soulmate was having a major stroke.

He lived, but couldn’t speak, read, or write, and his right side was paralyzed. He needed assistance just to sit up in bed. He needed full-time care. Still reeling from the loss of our daughter, I found myself again thrust into a fog of grief so thick, I couldn’t see through the storm. Adrenaline and autopilot resumed their familiar place at the helm.

But I needed reassurance that the sun was on the other side of hell. As I fought my way through the storm, I discovered that helping others was a powerful way to heal my own heart. I began reaching out to individuals who were adrift and in need of a life raft. And a warm hug.

In 2013, I formed AlyBlue Media to house my mission. Comforting people who spoke my language, and listening to their stories, my mission took on a life of its own and came in many forms: a radio show, film, webinars, and writing. 

Oh, and a national convention. I wanted to bring broken souls together under one roof, regardless of their journey. I had many wonderful speakers, but the one I was most excited about was a woman who had faced seven losses in a few short years: Martin Luther King’s youngest daughter, Dr. Bernice King. I didn’t bring her to the convention to tell us about her famous father. We already knew that story. I wanted to know how she survived.

Over the course of that weekend, I was deeply moved by watching strangers swap stories and become newfound friends. These were stories born from hardship, yet were remarkable on many levels. Touched to the core, I set out to capture them into a book series aptly named Grief Diaries.

Over a hundred people in six countries registered, and the first 8 titles were launched in December 2015. Now home to more than 400 writers spanning the globe, Grief Diaries has 14 titles in print with 16 more due by the end of 2016. Another 20 titles are set to be added in 2017.

At the heart of it all is a beautiful village. I might be the engine, but they are the force that provides the fuel for our little engine that could.

Where am I today? 

Once a bereaved mother, always a bereaved mother. My heart is a bit like a broken teacup that has been glued back together. All the pieces are there, but they might not fit as seamlessly as they once did. Some days the glue is strong and unyielding. Other days that glue is wet, and threatens to spring a leak. Nonetheless, that teacup still holds water. Well, mostly coffee. Strong coffee. 

Life can sometimes throw a really mean curveball that blindsides even the strongest. It’s important to hold out hope that the sun can be found at the end of the path. But until you find it, it’s comforting to know you aren’t alone. And that is what Grief Diaries all about.

For the record, I have found the sun. Some days I marvel at its beauty. Other days it hides behind clouds. But I now know those days don’t last forever. And my umbrella is much stronger than it used to be.

Helen Keller once said, “Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.” If you too are looking for the sun, visit our village for a hug and stay for the friendship. And share our page with others who need the same. That’s what were here for: to offer you a spot in the life raft until the storm passes, and the sun begins to shine once again. 

I'll even let you borrow my umbrella.

Warm regards,

Lynda Cheldelin Fell 

www.lyndafell.com

www.griefdiaries.com

What I Learned From Jack Canfield's Rejections

I recently read something interesting about Jack Canfield, coauthor of Chicken Soup for the Soul series. I was intrigued and wanted to learn more about his backstory. In doing so, I uncovered a gem of wisdom worth of repeating.

THE BACKSTORY

The idea for Chicken Soup was born in 1993. Jack and his coauthor Mark routinely used short inspirational stories in their speaking gigs. People loved the stories and began asking Jack to compile the stories into a book that could be shared with family and friends. So Jack and Mark did. But their book was rejected by 123 publishers because (1) it was a stupid title, (2) nobody bought collections of short stories, and (3) the book lacked sex and violence.

But Jack and Mark believed in perseverance. They went to a book convention hosting over 4,000 vendors, and walked from booth to booth until they found a small health publisher out of Florida who agreed to publish their book. Jack and Mark didn't receive an advance, and they were told to just wait and see what happens.

In the meantime, Jack and Mark began living by the Rules of Five. Every day they did 5 things to promote the book. It could mean signing 5 books and giving them away for free. Or sending out free copies to reviewers. But every day they accomplished 5 actions.
The first Chicken Soup for the Soul book came out in July 1993. It didn't hit the bestseller list until September 1994.

THE LESSON

It is easy to get caught up in the rejections of life rather than staying true to one's mission. Regardless of how one is making a difference, it takes time for that difference to be visible. In the meantime, try practicing Jack's Rule of Five. 

THE GEM

I leave you with Jack's words of wisdom, a gem borrowed from a quote by the late author Joseph Campbell: If you have a vision and a life purpose, and you believe in it, then do not let external events tell you what is so. Follow your internal guidance, and follow your bliss. 

Above all, don't give up.

One laugh can scatter a hundred griefs. So can one dance.

This past weekend, my niece got married. I'm from a large family who has weathered some terrible heartaches over the years, some of which are still unfolding. Yet, in the days leading up to and the day of the wedding, our hearts were filled with nothing but joy. And when the music started, we danced the evening away, seemingly without a care in the world.

Did we forget the terrible life events we've weathered? Are we calloused to our struggles? Of course not. One never forgets ongoing hardships. But truth be told, although our hearts always carry the sadness of those hardships, my family embraces those moments of joy for all they're worth. I didn’t suddenly forget all my heartache. But the heart is capable of holding joy at the same time it holds sorrow. True story.

It's also an unspoken rule in our family that we refuse to be victims. Of anything. When people see me, do I want them to see the bereaved mother, wife of a stroke patient, sister of a cancer patient, so I can revel in the pity bestowed upon me? No. I want them to see me as an example of light, love and laughter. Because it gives them hope that no matter their own hardship, they too might laugh again one day. And they will.

Our family is just like any other family. Okay, so it’s filled with more than a little craziness, but otherwise we're just the family next door, with ups and downs like anyone else. But when we take a moment to look around, we're surrounded by blessings. And those blessings are what we choose to see.

So this past weekend, I danced with my family and enjoyed every second. Some of my family was missing. And my dear sweet hubby's stroke prevents him from enjoying the dance floor, which makes me sad. My heart hurts knowing that we'll never dance again unless it’s in the privacy of our bedroom. Being in his arms is the best feeling in the world for me. But one laugh can scatter a hundred griefs. And when you boogie with my family, you can bet there will be more than a little laughter, because most of us dance like an octopus with 24 arms. Another true story.

As news broke yesterday of yet another bombing, my heart was heavy knowing the untold number of people who now begin a journey our family knows well. It is an unspeakable journey, unlike any other. But try as we might, we can't fix it for them. And that hurts, too, knowing that there are no words that can make their fresh loss any less devastating. But I can pray for them, and wrap them in an invisible blanket of love and comfort.

And I can dance. So that one day, maybe they'll see that their hearts too will hold joy at the same time it holds sorrow. It will take a very long time for them to reach that point, but until then, I will be the best example of hope I can possibly be, by emanating light, love and laughter.

And a little bit of dancing. With my family. Because that makes me laugh. And one laugh can scatter a hundred griefs. True story.

God Handed Me a Script, But I Tore It Up and Handed it Back

On the night of the accident, I sat next to my daughter's body at the scene of the two-car collision. As I sought to find her hand under the white sheet, God handed me a new script. I handed it back. 

I wanted my old life, not a new one. 

I wanted my daughter to open her eyes, to say "Hi, mom." Surveying the blood spattered interior of the back seat, instinctively I knew that wasn't going to happen. Nonetheless, in the moment of shock and horror, and seeing my daughter's bare toes peeking out from underneath the edge of the stark white sheet, the mind is capable of grasping for straws. And I was going for the very last one. 

God again handed me the new script. I tore it up and handed it back. "I don't want your new script!" I yelled. I had a wonderful life as a mother of one college graduate, one college student, and two teenagers. My husband and I were even blessed with our first grandchild. Life was wonderful! So no need for God to go changing it. 

But I didn't win. God did. I had no choice but to take the new script. I ignored it for three years. Heck, I ignored life for three years. But when my dear sweet hubby's grief consumed him at age 46, and he suffered a life threatening stroke that left him disabled, I gave in and waved the white flag. There was nothing left of me. I was done. Exhausted. Here I was facing a new kind of grief, and I had hardly begun to process the first. 

God's script laid there for months and months. My heart broken in so many places, I had no energy to read it. The lines blurred together, the words indistinguishable. 

And then one day, out of rebelliousness, I picked it up. The first line said "When you help others, you help your own heart to heal." Seriously, God? I felt like a regressed teenager challenging a parent. I could hardly put one foot in front of the other, so how was I supposed to help someone else? But God failed to give instructions. I wasn't amused.

But I needed God, desperately. So I gave in. I waved the white flag. I was standing squarely in the belly of hell; I had nothing more to lose. 

I wasn't entirely sure how to go about this new script, but herein lies the answer: I didn't have to figure it out all on my own. One door opened, then two doors, then four. And so on and so forth. And now, six years after the loss of our daughter, and three years after my husband's life-changing stroke, I haven't figured it all out yet but God's script isn't steering me wrong.

Where am I now? Today, I help others. Because this helps my own heart to heal. 

There. I said it. Script accepted. God was right. 

For me, helping others comes in many forms today. One of my most joyous endeavors is Grief Diaries. When I set out last summer to compile stories of real life experiences, some questioned whether I had lost my final marble. Who would want to read tales of life's most challenging moments? Yet I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the collection was going to change lives around the world. 

I trusted God's script. And strangers I've never met handed me the most precious of gift of all: their own life experiences. They entrusted me to handle each with kid gloves, package them oh-so-carefully, and present them to the world for the sole purpose of helping others not feel alone.

And each stranger became my friend who enriched my own world with their story. So I no longer questioned the script. I just followed it, never once forgetting that every story I now held in the palm of my hand is sacred. Not just to the writer, but to the world. To me. Their stories are sacred to me. And to God.

Suddenly, this crazy book series about sharing true stories has given a platform to more than 650 writers. It feels good to share our real life experiences with others. Why? Because it helps both readers and writers feel less alone.

So it's true: When we help others, we help our own heart to heal. And that is what each writer is doing: baring and sharing to comfort strangers around the world.

Healing hearts by sharing journeys. 

Script accepted.

My conversation with Martin Luther King's daughter about loss, hope

This past April I invited Martin Luther King's youngest daughter, Dr. Bernice King, to speak at the National Grief & Hope Convention.  The conversation we had far surpassed my expectations from a speaker, and I was honored and humbled to have an opportunity to sit down with Dr. King for an intimate discussion about her life.

Weathering seven family tragedies between the age of 5 and 25, Dr. King was charming yet candid about the lifelong effects of her loss and sorrow.  She also shared what brought her comfort and hope. 

I wrote about the conversation in Glen Beck's national network TheBlaze.  Here are the links to both parts.  "Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light."  - Helen Keller

PART I

PART II 

Am I Cheating on My Grief When I Dance with Joy?

Dear friends,

As producer of the Grief Diaries Radio show, I was inspired to launch a second radio show that would allow us to unabashedly discuss the authentic side of womanhood. My first guest was a well established Passion Party consultant and our topic was how to bring fun back into our intimate lives.  

The hour flew by quickly, and the broadcast was over before we knew it. Afterwards, I reflected on how many times I had to mute my microphone so I could giggle like a schoolgirl at the

delicate discussion in which I was a willing participant.  But truth be told, as a grieving mother, I felt like I was "cheating" on my grief by allowing myself to have fun. After all, some of my endeavors focus on raising grief awareness. So was I doing us all a disservice by spending the hour enjoying myself?  Would others think I'm "healed" or I've "moved on" when they hear a hearty laugh coming from the same woman who is a member of The Wailing Tent?  Shame on me for having fun after losing my beloved child!  Or not....    

The truth is, we are not "cheating" on our grief when we feel something other than sorrow.  Allowing ourselves to feel joy helps to balance the sadness and recharge our batteries.  And my broadcast featuring….ahem….passion enhancement products, was absolutely divine and it felt GOOD to laugh again.  And it gave me hope for the future.  Yes, I "cheated" on my grief and had a one-night stand with joy.  And I plan to do it again.  

May the new year bring you moments of peace, comfort and yes, even joy.