It was a lazy afternoon. I was relaxing on the couch with my dog and cats, wearing my favorite T-shirt that reads, “Jesus Took Naps.”

It had been a great morning. I had just heard the good news that a publisher had accepted my book submission, “Navigating the Rippling Hills of Grief: Reflections for the Journey.” The manuscript had emerged from a journal I kept after my youngest child, Meg, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer at 20 years old.

When I found myself at a loss for words in the journal, I sketched rough pencil drawings to transcend language to express my thoughts and feelings. 

These drawings began to speak to me, calling me to expand the book beyond just another poignant autobiography of grief and recovery. They led me to use the images and questions they evoked to think about using this book not as just an expression of my own grief but as a path for others to reflect upon their own journey through grief.

As a nation, we have handed over the task of dying to professionals. We no longer wear black armbands to signify we are grieving. We don’t plan and execute our own memorial or funeral services or prepare bodies for burial.

We hand on all this to total strangers as we sit back silently and passively.

I did not allow myself, my daughter, or the rest of our family to let go of these sacred obligations. We faced them head-on.

Meg decided on her memorial service, which included a community celebration, good meals, a beautiful garden, and a spiraling wall of pictures she chose herself. The pictures included photos from her birth to her waving goodbye in her wheelchair on our trip to Hawaii.

It was good grief, lived fully, and I wanted others to have the tools to take their own journey through grief.

As I was about to rise to lead my procession of animals to our nap, someone I didn’t initially recognize came to the front door. I quickly put on my hearing instrument and grabbed the barking dog to put her in her kennel.

She had to reintroduce herself. It was our new neighbor, whom I had met only briefly a few days ago.

She almost pushed her way in, as I gestured for her to take a seat. As she sat, she blurted out, “My mother just died today.” 

Instinctively I moved closer to her, so our legs were almost touching. Immediately her hands reached out to grab mine, then she rested her head on them. 

Throughout our tearful exchange, she kept apologizing. Finally, I stopped her to say that she had great bravery to walk to the door of an almost-perfect stranger to seek help she had no idea she would find. 

As the talking died down, I rose to walk outside with her. Our outside cats rushed toward me, but hesitated, contemplating who this new person was. We sat down together on the front porch as slowly the bravest one, Mother Thomas, approached cautiously to let me, then my neighbor, pet him.

As we helped each other up, we hugged. I told her I was usually at home and my door would always be open to her.

As I reflected on the amazing “non-coincidence” of first finding that my book was being published and then hours later, a grief-stricken new neighbor knocking on my door for support, it reminded me of the story of the good Samaritan.

There was a badly injured man on the side of the road. The Pharisee pretended not to see him. Then a scribe did the same. 

Finally, the good Samaritan, an outsider, stopped to help him to an inn and bandage his wounds. He paid for his care, only then going away on his interrupted journey. 

I was set for my carefully planned and much-anticipated daily nap until my hurting neighbor knocked on my door. Spirit had spoken to me to open the door, and I listened.

May we all be open to the soft voice of Spirit when she breaks into our daily routine. It will be worth it!