Loss and the Power of a Chocolate Chip

Last night my husband's grandmother died.

What is even more sad is that this is the third grandparent in the last five months that has passed away. Which means that my mother-in-law has no parents left. Stephen, my husband, said that he heard that death in older generations happens in 3's. I am not sure where that statistic comes from, but it seems to be true.

I made chocolate chip cookies last night before I heard the news, and somehow burnt every single one of them by the time the news had gotten to me. So much for trying to feed my husband's soul with some comfort sweets.

There is nothing comforting about carcinogens.

Loss and death is such an unfortunate part of life. Even last week, a receptionist that works next door lost her dad. She came over to my office to ask if I would get any mail that may be delivered since she would be heading to the funeral. I said of course, and just tried to say whatever words of encouragement that I could. She teared up.

The pain was so fresh.

This morning as I got into work to fill out bereavement paperwork so that I could attend the funeral in St. Louis, the woman from the next office over, came by with an entire box of unburnt, gooey looking, delectable chocolate chip cookies.

She just nodded her head, letting me know with her eyes that this was about her dad. And she thickly whispered "thank you so much". It was one of the most sincere thank you's I had heard in a long time. It choked me up.

I am not sure what I had said to her that would motivate her to give me the cookies, I just remember telling her I was sorry and asked if it was unexpected, and she said that he had been sick for a long time. She even mentioned that is was almost a relief now that he was no longer in pain, but the absence of him was just as hard to deal with. Perhaps I was just a stranger to talk to when she really needed an ear. Maybe I said something that really helped her, or most likely, I just cared enough to listen.

I am not tooting my own, "I am so hospitable that every time I perform an act of kindness it warrants baked goods from people I don't know" horn, but this is more of a sincere "thank you" to the woman who has a broken heart for giving me the cookies. It was so kind, and it was so ironic in the light of our recent loss. Ironic isn't the right word, providential is better.

Also, this is a cultural "thank you" to the South. I know it seems a little strange to say.

But I was raised in Seattle. Seattle tends to be a closed-off culture to transplants. I had learned to avoid eye contact with people in the elevators, not to smile at people on the street, and to always bring a book anytime that I fly somewhere so that I wouldn't have to talk to the person next to me. This is of course a generalization of Sea-town culture, but for me it was true. This last year I have noticed a softening around my edges.

I allow men to open my door, since they always do. I even say good morning to people in elevators now, and don't break out in a sweat if a stranger asks me for directions (although I am the last person in the world to ask for directions, ever!). And today I found out that I now take time to listen to people when they are hurting, I think I used to be too busy with my own life to even notice.

So this weekend as I head to a funeral, the third one in a string of loss, I will remember that while death is a part of life, sometimes grief is an emotional bridge that connects people who may otherwise be closed off. Grief allows for the divine to take place, and for each of us to try and be the hands and feet of God- nothing grandiose, just something sincere.

I will never underestimate the power of a chocolate chip cookie again, or the innate power of giving just a second of your time to someone who needs it.


Image Courtesy of LC Photography