Six years ago, I found a Safe Place for Bereaved Parents retreat, offered by FaithandGrief.org, the grief support organization I have been involved with since my mother died in 2012. Though I was barely functioning in 2019, a year after my son Elliot’s motorcycle death, I was desperate. I needed a ray of light. I needed something. Part of the appeal of this retreat was its location at Mo-Ranch, my once-happy place, a secluded oasis nestled in the lap of the lush Texas Hill Country on the Guadalupe River. When I think about my experience back then, I can remember very little. Still in fresh grief, the trauma and fog absorbed so many specific memories; however, I do recall a general sense of peace, well-being, and belonging there. I felt supported, seen, and connected to members of a club no one wants to join. Grief is ruthlessly isolating, but serenity is equally elusive. Indeed, Mo-Ranch is a sacred sanctuary, a thin place—where the thin veil between Earth and Heaven almost evaporates. This year, I was honored to co-facilitate with veteran retreat leaders, Mike and Laurie Shaw. I played a hybrid role, presenting and also serving as an example of living with child loss, six years out. I was relieved to see the grounds at Mo were returning to their pre-flood beauty. Tragically, we were convening just steps away from the site of this year’s deadly floods. I felt for the families who lost so much so suddenly. Still, Mo is deeply embedded in my heart. It’s where Elliot, Ian (when amenable), and I attended summer family camps with First Presbyterian Church of Dallas for nearly a decade. I often say Mo is part of my tiny family’s spiritual DNA, and my dear friend Carol was a core member of that posse. As a loving and entertaining “Auntie Carol” for my boys, she rallied our Mo caravan every summer and never forgot the “water noodles” for the river. I can’t believe she left us last year. The world is not the same without her, but I know she and Elliot are cooking up some heavenly mischief. So, returning to Mo is an emotional expedition regardless of the agenda. I will always be a different person compared to the one I was before Elliot died, yet I am finding I am better able to function most days—until the mousetrap snap of a memory hijacks me. In a way, these snatches of memory are a gift. They define a new kind of relationship with Elliot and all those I have lost. Thankfully, the discomfort has lessened, but it’s never gone, much like the arm I broke last year. It has technically healed, according to the surgeon, but the pain still shoots through the bone like a fracture when I move in specific ways, and the range of motion is limited. They say it will never be the same. A freakishly apt metaphor, I’d say. The gravity of the collective this year continues to weigh on me, days later. So many broken hearts, devastated parents treading water in the untenable space between disbelief and acceptance, between yesterday and forever. It had been just three months for two shattered sets of parents. My heart crumbled. They were still in complete shock, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and asking, ‘Why?’ My topic was infinitely appropriate—the importance of cultivating self-compassion. I referenced my friend and mentor, Pastor Fran Shelton, on self-compassion. In her book The Spirituality of Grief, she recommends adopting “The Platinum Rule.” A step above the Golden Rule, which we would never dismiss, is the “Platinum” version, which says “do unto yourself first so that you can do unto others.” That is, “love yourself as God loves you,” so critical to remember in grief. Be gentle with yourself. In Hebrew, the word for compassion is rachamim, rooted in rechem, meaning womb. How appropriate. Compassion is not pity. It is an active, womb-like expression that contains and nurtures. It’s about protecting, sheltering, being kind, and, where warranted, forgiving. We all had different griefs because we were all different people. We came from diverse walks of life, environments, and circumstances—from small towns, suburbs, and cities—but we shared one gutting reality. We all lost a child too soon, grappling with the anguish that will never leave us. Sometimes, sitting in silence was the most profound activity. We just knew. Together. We recognized intuitively the chasm of darkness inside all of us, sharing the pain of so much love with nowhere to go. However, I am grateful that this year, I was better able to hold the sweet and the bitter together. The pain was not quite as sharp. Lighting a candle for Elliot in the elegantly rustic chapel on our last day, I felt his presence practicing his saxophone incessantly in the echoing acoustics. “It sounds like the bathroom,” he’d say, and I chuckled, remembering. And I smiled as I shared the story of Elliot’s insistence that the stained-glass window of St. Francis Xavier in the back of the chapel looked “just like Christopher Walken.” And it did. Quintessential Elliot. He was with me.
Over the three days, swaddled in November’s rare 80-degree warmth, our tears welled as our hearts swelled on the edge of our new normal. Together, we all prayed, laughed, and hugged in a sacred space where grief took center stage, but that was OK. I was overwhelmed and sometimes flooded by the depth of emotion and the vulnerability of our mourning at Mo. Mike, who lost his son two decades ago and has facilitated the retreat for six years, reminded us, “In the journey of grief, we have a choice—to embrace faith and community. They are all we have. We cannot do this alone.” Profound truth. This is what we discovered in this gorgeous, poignant, agonizing place—together. We will learn to carry the joy of their lives along with the agony of their losses. And we will embrace what Laurie calls the “sweet torture” of their memories and the precious glimpses of their eternal grace. You're currently a free subscriber to Grief Matters. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Tuesday, 18 November 2025
A Beautiful Mourning at Mo
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