In the English language, we have words to describe a person who has experienced loss at the death of another. Someone whose spouse has died is called a widow or widower. A child who has been left parentless is an orphan. But nowhere in our common tongue is there a word for a person who has lost their child.
In Sanskrit, there is a word ‘Vilomah,’ which means “out-of-order.” It is the closest thing I’ve found to describing the condition of a bereaved parent such as I.
During the early morning hours of June 21, 2019 I received a phone call from my daughter’s half-brother. His voice was calm, but somber. “Mark, there’s no easy way to say this.” Instantly, I knew. My 25-yr-old daughter Makenna had died. In the time it took him to speak those eight words, I became a vilomah, a person whose life would, from that moment on, be permanently out-of-order.
My daughter’s life struggle was at an end, but my journey of grief was just beginning.
Only a few weeks after her death, I joined a closed Facebook group dedicated to bereaved parents. In the months that followed, it proved to be a godsend. I have learned much from reading the stories of others who’ve lost their children and taken to heart the insights they have gained along the way. It has been a safe place for me to share my own experience and in so doing provide a measure of comfort to those who, in becoming new members as I once was, are thankful for a group that nobody ever wanted to be a part of.
One morning, I visited the group page to find a new post which read, “What have you done to get your life back in order?” Immediately, my mind went to that word, ‘vilomah’ and I responded by saying that my life would forever be out-of-order. In a moment, grief became a permanent fixture in the landscape of my life and I had accepted that. Many others shared the same sentiment.
It is important to understand that a life which has been shattered to pieces can never be put back in order. The real challenge, as I see it, is to embrace this new reality and to try and find some beauty in the brokenness. But this level of awareness did not come to me early or easily.
As it has turned out, it was a simple piece of jewelry that helped show me the way.
Among my daughter’s personal possessions was a heart-shaped pendant made of porcelain, dark brown in color and highly polished. But what made it unique among all others was a clearly visible and slightly jagged vein of bright gold running through its center. It was an example of kintsugi, a Japanese art form in which a broken piece of ceramic is repaired with lacquer and where the cracks are highlighted with the application of gold dust, rendering the piece even more beautiful than before. Kintsugi is often viewed as a metaphor for restoration and transformation.
My daughter struggled with alcoholism. The last few years of her life were a continuous cycle of sobriety, relapse, hospitalization, rehab and recovery. I gave her the pendant when she had completed her first 30-day rehab at the age of 22. She cherished it and wore it often, sharing with others at AA meetings its message of hope and healing.
A few weeks following the Life Celebration we held at her mother’s house, I asked family members if anyone had found the pendant among her belongings. I was crestfallen to learn nobody had seen it and that in all likelihood it was gone forever. But a few days later, I received a call that Makenna’s half-sister had found it and I could pick it up at any time. I was tearful with joy!
I have always had a respect for the wisdom imparted by certain Japanese arts and traditions. What is different about Kintsugi in contrast to other types of ‘broken pot’ metaphors is the deep philosophical and aesthetic practice that underlies the art form. Especially, the concept of creating beauty out of brokenness.
The process does not attempt to disguise the damage, but rather renders the cracks as beautiful and strong. The precious veins of gold are there to emphasize that fault lines have a merit all of their own. I now view these fault lines as my faith lines and I have learned to see my heart as broken open rather than broken apart. As a result, I am stronger, wiser, kinder, and able to love deeper.
For me, the gold dust added to the adhesive mix has come to represent acts of gratitude and love – gratitude for the things that remain in my life, and also the love I continue to feel for my daughter.
Makenna’s pendant now hangs above my drawing table in the studio at my house. I see it every time I pull up my chair and am reminded of something Ernest Hemmingway once wrote, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.” The places where I have known brokenness and experienced healing are the places where I have empathy and compassion for others who are broken. They are the places where I have a story to tell and where I have credibility to minister to the needs of others. They are the places where I can speak hope and shine light into the darkness . . . and find beauty in the brokenness.
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