My friend and colleague and gifted writer Na’ama Yehuda blogged this sweet interaction with a young client. It touched heart and may well touch yours.
She asked me if I knew about dying.
I said I knew it hurt when someone we love died.
She nodded and fiddled with the pencil, poked the tip against her finger, poked again. Again.
I wondered if she was trying to make the hurting take a form she understood through the pinprick of a just-sharpened pencil. I gently put my hand on hers.
She looked up at me, thankfully without embarrassment or worry of judgment. Feelings weren’t easy for this child, whose very early years were filled with much that couldn’t be expressed and had no wording. Her grandfather passed away right before her birth and a hue of grief lingered many months, adding to her mother’s post-partum depression. Her mother has recovered since, and the home was generally caring, but unspoken early patterns of if-you-are-quiet-you-won’t-overwhelm-mom and waiting for another’s space to open so you can have your needs met still played out often. The girl, not yet ten, was more likely to…
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