Why We Come

      The mind does strange things.
      As I sat at the opening ceremony, enthralled by the Love in Motion signing choir’s moving rendition of the National Anthem, I was transported back in time. It was 1967, shortly before our deployment to Vietnam. I stood at attention with 500 Marines as the National Anthem introduced a film, Why We Fight. Some version of this has been shown to four generations of young men about to be sent into harm’s way. Its purpose was to explain to us why we were there and what we were fighting for.
      The crowd’s applause snapped me back into the present. I looked around at the throng of people—many with small red hearts, butterflies or various ribbons on their nametags—and I wondered, “Why are we here?” I spent the better part of the next two-and-a-half days trying to discover Why We Come.

      Although they cannot be neatly boxed and sorted, it appeared to me that there were five major groups of people at the conference. While there is much overlap, each group came for a specific purpose.




      The newly bereaved comprise the largest group. They are identified by their haunted expressions and the red hearts on their nametags.
      “It’s been eight months, and I feel as if I’m sinking deeper and deeper into despair.” “Will it ever get any better?” “When?” “My future is gone.” “I can’t talk to anyone without crying.” These were typical comments on Friday of the conference.
      By Saturday afternoon there was a perceptible change in many.
      “The workshops, the speakers, the music and sharing sessions have given me a small glimmer of hope.” “At the Capitol Steps performance I laughed for the first time since Robbie died.” “If all these other people can survive, so can I.”
      And on the Walk to Remember Sunday morning, many with the little red hearts strode with a fresh spring in their steps and a new gleam in their eyes.



     Another large contingent has moved beyond the red heart nametags but are still struggling. They smile spontaneously, but they still tear up easily.
      “My husband doesn’t understand why I’m still grieving.” “My parents are still so depressed. I don’t want to add to their burdens.” “I turned a corner at last year’s conference, but the justice system still sets me back.” “I’ve come a long way, but it’s still so hard at times.”
      This group is plowing through the necessary grief work one difficult step at a time. They know they have made progress, but the future remains daunting. Learning how others with the same problems are coping gives them insight and hope. Their choice of workshops and sharing sessions is now focused on specific problems they are struggling with. One small nugget of wisdom can open new vistas of healing.
      Mary told me of just such an epiphany. The workshop presenter had said, “Someday I fully expect Jenny to come up to me and ask, ‘Dad, what did you do with the rest of your life after I died?’ ’’ “And,” he continued, “what am I going to say?” Mary choked up a bit. “When I get home, I’m going to try to live the life Jack would want me to live. I’m going to make him proud.”



      “Jim, what workshop are you going to?” Jim and I had met at our first national conference when we both were wearing the little red hearts. We had renewed our acquaintance every July for the next seven years.
      “I don’t do workshops anymore. I’ve been to them all,” he replied.
      “What do you do?”
      “I pick up strays.”
      “What do you mean?” I asked.
      “I just walk around until I see someone with that deer-in-the headlights look in their eyes and I sit down and talk with them.”
      Jim is not alone. I know many who do just as he does. They see someone having a hard time in a workshop or sharing session. Afterwards they share a cup of coffee, some stories about their children, and perhaps a tidbit that they found useful during a particularly hard time.
      I know of no one who gives a workshop for any reason other than to help.
      Do these people just need to be needed? I think not. They do this to honor their children. And they remember a time when they were struggling and without hope, and someone took the time to listen. Now, they pass it on.



      A significant number of attendees come primarily to learn. This is where newsletter editors swap ideas and learn their trade. A lady approached me after my homicide workshop. “I’m a chapter leader,” she said. “I had never talked with a parent whose child was murdered. Two families have started attending our chapter in the last six months. Could I buy you a cup of coffee and pick your brain for a few minutes?” Many like her attend workshops totally unrelated to their child’s death just to learn how to better help those with whom they come in contact. Others come to learn better how to educate church, lay, and professional groups about the grief process following the death of a child.



      The Crystal City conference was a stunning success. It’s easy to forget how this came about. It didn’t just happen, but was accomplished by probably the smallest group numerically. It was the result of a year’s work of the conference committee and the local chapters. They stuffed the bags, raised the funds, checked us in, operated the gift shop, served the coffee and did the myriad behind the scenes jobs, large and small, which we who attend little notice but take full advantage of.
      There are grizzled veterans of ten, fifteen, twenty conferences who ask only one question—“How can I help?”
      The Executive Director and staff of the national office are just a blur as they dash from one job to another.
      The Centering bookstore staff arrives early and leaves late.
      By Sunday afternoon they are spent and exhausted, but it has been a labor of love.

      There are as many reasons for coming as there were attendees. But ultimately the overarching reason is stated in our credo: Our love for our children unites us. And in the end, this is Why We Come.
 

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Richard Dew's youngest son, Bradley, was 21 when he was murdered. Richard is currently a chapter leader and has served on the National Board of The Compassionate Friends. He is often a workshop presenter at TCF national conferences. He has authored two books, Rachel's Cry and Tunnel of Light.

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 We Need Not Walk Alone, the national magazine of The Compassionate Friends.
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