The Prayer and The Black Bear

A Note of Thanks

My wife and I just arrived at my artist residency in Nelson, British Columbia.

It's called The Narrows, a name fitting for our journey back to gladness following the loss of our daughter. The artist's haven sits on a lush, two-acre plot of woodland hills only accessible by boat. We're here for two weeks, nestled deep into the mountains among the deer, elk, wild turkeys, and robins. The black bears are still hibernating near the peaks, we are told, where enduring snow caps shelter their dark caverns.

"This is skunk cabbage," our host, Erica, says, pointing to the almost fluorescent yellow flowers that look like calla lilies protruding from the remnants of winter earth. Their green stems, bright and sturdy, emerge like mythical bean stalks from the browns of mud and anemic leaves—a sign of spring awakening. "As they grow, they'll start to stink like skunks," she continues. "And when the bears finally wake up, they'll come down and eat it all; it helps clean their system."

I'm struck by how much I have in common with the bear. I, too, am hibernating; I have buried myself in the long, dark night. Rather, I was swallowed by an avalanche and have yet to muster the strength to scratch my way out.

The past winter in Los Angeles was brutal, the longest and coldest this Midwestern boy has ever known. Not because of blizzards or black ice but the torment of an indelible season of sorrow.

Besides Courtney, I don't wish to see or speak to anybody. I'm finding it challenging to be present for my family, who long for connection with me, now more than ever. I have made a home in the cave. Even in a season of renewal—the arrival of spring blossoms and the sunlight of Eastertide—I sit quietly in my hollow, letting grief do its good work.

This is not woe for woe's sake. Hibernation serves a function: restoration and spiritual reset. It is what healing demands of me in the company of mourning. Quiet, stillness, contemplation, presence. That I might emerge anew, with the clarity, understanding, and appreciation for this life, and even for the pain my wife and I have endured. Those who have not been through the loss of a child may not understand the isolation and obligatory interiority of this moment, even in the embrace of community.

I sense my re-emergence coming, winter blockages finally melting beneath the looming sun. But when the time arrives, life will be different, more primal. All excess has been shed. I will be dependent only on survivalist instincts. I must extract sustenance where and when I can. The route to prosperity has not yet been cleared. And so I patiently await my reawakening, throwing words into the void in the mountains of British Columbia.

May the black bear know the ground misses him and promises new life when he is ready. This is my prayer.

Courtney is beside me. Neither of us feels capable of leaving the other alone. Partly because we depend on each other's warmth to make it through the long winter. But also, I sense, because we see in each other the memory of our daughter—the smirks, the random arm stretches above our heads, the curls of our lashes. We are a living memorial for each other's sorrow, as well as a harbor for glad memories. A familiar magnetism in a season of dissonance.

Courtney paints while I write, equipped with my 20-year-old art tote, filled with a handful of new acrylics and watercolors. She's finally trying her hand at art, a much-needed release valve for anger and melancholy. She's made the beautiful studio here a sacred dwelling. Creative expression is a human right, and it warms my spirit to see Courtney finding tranquility in a long-repressed outlet. We are two grieving parents tucked into the Canadian forest, seeking healing in creativity and finding a new language for expressing our hurt.

May our art grant us the gift of clarity and potentiality. This is my prayer.

I'm proud of us for getting this far. Three months ago, when our daughter first entered hospice care, we stepped into a darkness so devouring that it was difficult to see each other. Some nights, it still is. Etta's passing has been the ultimate test of capacity. How much grief can a body hold? How much gratefulness can we muster? How long can one be tested by an "impossible" loss? Some days feel unlivable; the liveable days feel unsustainable. And yet, we're still here. Ever grieving. Ever evolving. Ever finding new ways to smile. Ever healing.

May our progress never cease, however glacial its pace. This is my prayer.

And it is for this, the gift of endurance, that we want to thank our community. We are grateful that this time in nature gives us the space to reflect in earnest on the potency of months past. It grants us the opportunity, for the first time since our daughter's passing, to acknowledge our tribe. Because we have not done this alone. You, our keepers, have shown up for us when we could not show up for ourselves. You reminded us daily of the love that enveloped us, thus enveloping Etta. We would not be here without you.

Grief is best held in community, and you've held us in ways we couldn't fathom. You have helped us deepen our understanding of what living a purposeful, fervent, and loving life looks like—what it looks like to take a seat in the cave beside the grief of another and wait for the sun together.

We thank you.

For everyone who read, engaged with, or amplified our story…

For every medical professional who dedicated themselves to our daughter's health and happiness, even in her death…

For every mental health professional holding space for our grief…

For every dollar donated…

For every note of love and support…

For every neighbor checking in on us…

For every text, call, and voicemail…

For every quote and word of affirmation…

For every hug and warm embrace…

For every delivery to our doorstep—every thoughtful letter, candle, meal, book, care package, bouquet of flowers…

For every artistic expression…

For every well-being resource sent our way…

For every miscellaneous check-in on our spirit…

For every gentle reminder that we are not alone…

For every loving reflection of our baby girl…

For every tear shed on her behalf and ours…

For every moment of silence…

For every altar…

For every healing ritual…

For every prayer…

For every father and mother who has extended their empathy as they grieve a familiar loss—the fathers in Minneapolis and Australia, the mothers of Santa Rosa…

For every utterance of our baby girl's name, Etta Mae…

For every involvement in our journey through pregnancy, parenthood, and ultimately, bereavement…

Thank you. Words cannot express our gratitude.

There is almost nothing we would not do to reverse this misfortune—to once again feel the warmth of our baby girl in our arms. We long for her everywhere and always. And if there is anything our recent grief rituals with other mourning parents of infant loss have taught us, it is that the "gnawing of our daughter's absence," as I previously wrote, will never cease. It may get easier to hold in time—but only because we will have built the strength and callouses to carry it, not because it will have gotten lighter. This loss is acute, ever-expansive, and tender. It is you who reads this now who has helped us metabolize what feels paradoxical to digest.

May you be showered with the same love you have extended to us, particularly when you need it most. May you be blessed for your gifts of comfort and graciousness. This is my prayer.

In time, Courtney and I will thrive again. For now, we survive and find our daily strength in the examples you've set—small and meaningful ways to connect with and support our tribe. We continue to build the scaffolding for a life that honors the gifts of companionship. Despite our loss, there is beauty still to behold, opportunities worth reaching for. And so, with each passing day, we stretch a little further. Until, at last, we have bridged the gap between grief and joy, present and future.

For those still seeking ways to honor our girl, we ask that you celebrate life—yours and everyone else's—as fiercely as possible. Do not take this day, or any day, for granted. 

Consider buying somebody lunch today. Check-in on that friend you sense has been struggling. Reach out to somebody for no reason but to express your love or appreciation. Let go of your pride to make space for peace. Forgive yourself for the things that weigh you down. Release your tethers from that which inhibits your vitality. Take a chance on yourself. Don't delay your delight. Do the thing you have always wanted to do. Stop giving yourself excuses to live a life less than miraculous. Partake in your grief and the grief of others. Step courageously into the void. Be one with life's wild entanglements. We were born for community, creativity, and splendor.

Your life is waiting. Ours is out there, too, somewhere. May we, like the bear, dare to cease our hibernation. May we fashion the strength in a dark season to emerge from the depths of our caves and enjoy the reapings of spring together. The sun beckons us home.

This is my prayer.