​Hundreds of people came together at the Northern Kentucky University Student Union Ballroom to celebrate the beautiful but tragically short life of Kirsten Smithson.

It was a moving tribute to a young lady who touched so many lives.  Two giant screens played a video loop capturing the special moments that defined Kirsten's life. The haunting melodies from Phantom of the Opera, Kirsten's favorite play, served as a tender backdrop during the visitation period.  High school teachers shared stories of her kindness and her joy in learning.  Her brother Drew read a beautiful poem he penned the week before her passing.

But it was the final five minutes that will stay with me.  Kirsten's mom and my dear friend Terri, directed her brief comments to the young people, especially the Millennials, her late daughter's contemporaries.  I can't repeat what Terri said verbatim, but the essence of her comments and the conviction with which she shared them, was simple and powerful:

Do not define your life by straight As, by being perfect, by constantly striving at the expense of all else, most notably, your happiness. Don't define yourself by what others expect of you.  And, above all, never believe that you've run out of options or that you are alone. Her words here were clear and strong:

"Talk to a parent. Talk to a grandparent, an uncle or aunt, a teacher, a friend.  Just talk to somebody."  

​What Terri was saying, what we all need to hear, to embrace is this:  it only takes one second, one word, one hug, to break the spell of despair that can overwhelm us in a singular moment.  Just one hug!

With that, I wanted to close with these beautiful words by poet e.e. Cummings, on the importance of not defining yourself by what others think:

"To be nobody-but-yourself, in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else, means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."

​For anybody who is a friend or family member of Kirsten Smithson, you will likely never forget this week.  The manner in which this exceptional young woman left us is, and will always be, incomprehensible.  We witness the inconsolable grief of Terri, Drew and Alex and are at a loss for something, anything to say that might, if only for a moment, ease their pain.  But the right words are difficult to come by, maybe because there is no such thing as a "right word" in such difficult circumstances.

Several years ago, I was watching a documentary on Netflx called Ram Dass: Fierce Grace. Ram Dass is an American who had a spiritual awakening after a trip to India in the 60s. He has spent the past four decades writing and speaking about spirituality and consciousness throughout the world.  

Ram Dass ("servent of God" in Hindi) is widely known for his work with the dying and families of those who have passed.  In the film, he told a story about a couple who lost their teenage daughter Rachel in a violent murder.  Their pain unbearable, they sent a letter to Ram Dass, hoping that he could share some wisdom that would help them make sense out of such tragedy.  

Ram Dass read the letter he sent to the parents.  It is both poetic and profound, and is something I have re-read many times over the years.  Under the circumstances, I thought it would be fitting to share this letter with you today.

​With much love and peace 

Dear Steve and Anita, 

Rachel finished her work on earth, and left the stage in a manner that leaves those of us left behind with a cry of agony in our hearts, as the fragile thread of our faith is dealt with so violently. Is anyone strong enough to stay conscious through such teaching as you are receiving? Probably very few. And even they would only have a whisper of equanimity and peace amidst the screaming trumpets of their rage, grief, horror and desolation. 

I can't assuage your pain with any words, nor should I. For your pain is Rachel's legacy to you. Not that she or I would inflict such pain by choice, but there it is. And it must burn its purifying way to completion. For something in you dies when you bear the unbearable, and it is only in that dark night of the soul that you are prepared to see as God sees, and to love as God loves. 

Now is the time to let your grief find expression. No false strength. Now is the time to sit quietly and speak to Rachel, and thank her for being with you these few years, and encourage her to go on with whatever her work is, knowing that you will grow in compassion and wisdom from this experience.

​In my heart, I know that you and she will meet again and again, and recognize the many ways in which you have known each other. And when you meet you will know, in a flash, what now it is not given to you to know: Why this had to be the way it was. 

Our rational minds can never understand what has happened, but our hearts – if we can keep them open to God – will find their own intuitive way. Rachel came through you to do her work on earth, which includes her manner of death. Now her soul is free, and the love that you can share with her is invulnerable to the winds of changing time and space. In that deep love, include me. 

In love, 
Ram Dass

Yesterday, I posted about the tragic death of Kirsten Smithson, taking her own life at the age of 21.  I was overwhelmed and humbled by the response to that post. Through the power of social media, more than 16,000 people read it, truly a moving testament to the memory of an extraordinary young woman. I was also touched by the many comments posted, beautiful and tender tributes to Kirsten from friends, teachers, family members...and even those who did not know her, but felt compelled to share their sympathy.

So many people have asked how they can help, what small gesture can they make to let this grief-stricken family know that they are not alone. Hearing these voices, my wife Kate was inspired to open a Meal Train to support the family over the coming year.  Below is the note Kate posted on her Facebook page yesterday.  I could not improve upon her beautiful words, so I share them here in their entirety:

When a family is stuck by tragedy people gather around for support; but after awhile, perhaps a few days or weeks, people drift back to their lives and the family is left to deal with their grief. Grief is unavoidable, but showing that people still care is important. I have started a meal train for Terri Smith, Drew and Alex Smithson. I have the most wonderful friends and so many, who don't know this family, have already asked if there's something they can do. Well,we can provide food and love...especially during the coming months. If you are interested, you can bring meals to me on Wednesdays or I will pick them up and deliver them. Please go to: https://mealtrain.com/89moqn to sign up. I will be setting up a fund for those who would rather donate for groceries, that others can cook, or restaurant gift cards in the next couple of days. I will let you know when the account has been set up. It will all be handled by Meal Train. You need do nothing now except sign up, but in the next couple of weeks we will start the train. I want to call this endeavor "The Friends We Don't Know". Please feel free to share this with others who may wish to contribute their culinary skills. Much love and thank you. Kate

This isn't about the food as much as it is about the power of community to help with the healing process. I loved that Kate entitled this effort "The Friends We Don't Know" because it will indeed be the love of strangers that will sustain this project over the coming weeks and months.

Please do whatever you can to support the Food Train for a very special family.  

Again, here is the link to Food Train.    

Thank you.


 

​

​It was supposed to be a quiet Sunday evening-dinner, some TV and early to bed with a book. Around 5PM, my son Jay called to tell us about a cryptic posting on Facebook from his best friend Drew: he was calling for prayers for his older sister Kirsten who was in the emergency room at Mercy Anderson.

Kate and I rushed to the hospital.  We were ushered into tiny waiting room where we were introduced to family members who would become our friends over the next three hours. I noted that a hospital chaplain was in attendance; not a good sign.  Down the hall, Drew's mom, our dear friend Terry, sat vigil at her daughter's bedside. Terry, a nurse at Mercy herself, watched as her friends and colleagues tried valiantly to revive Kirsten who swallowed a combination of OTC drugs in an effort to take her own life. At about 9PM, the ER team lost their battle. Terry lost her daughter; Drew and his younger brother Alex, their older sister.

We've known the Smithsons for more than 15 years.  We were neighbors in the Anderson Township suburb outside of Cincinnati.  Jay and Drew, a year apart in age, became fast friends and the three of us spent countless hours in our pool, playing whiffle ball and watching movies in my man cave.  Drew still refers to Kate and I as his second parents. 

Last year, the family endured a painful divorce.  As it turned out, Kate and I were looking to sell our condo and move to the city.  And Terry was looking for a new home and a fresh start.  I found it beautiful symmetry that this family, who we considered to be part of our own family, would move into the home we had come to love.  

We didn't know Kirsten very well.  She was quiet, very shy, a bookworm some might say. She preferred reading or playing on her computer to just about anything else.  But she loved our swimming pool-loved to bring her friends and hang out with her extended family.  She blossomed into a beautiful young woman and attended Northern Kentucky University.  The last time I saw Kirsten was on the day last summer when her family moved into our condo.  She was excited and seemed happy to be starting a new life.

There is nothing one can say to a mother who has lost a child in this manner. Nothing makes sense of a tragedy this immense. And words cannot possibly assuage her unbearable suffering. So, you simply hold her, absorb some of her grief, provide some level of comfort, if only for a moment. 

I"m glad my final image of Kirsten, of this beautiful, engaging young woman, is a happy one-from a moment when her world seemed alive with possibility and hope. With that, I would like to share something from one of my favorite writers, Annie Lammot, who wrote so poetically about love and loss:

“You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” 
― Anne Lamott

Although the source is disputed, Andy Warhol is credited for first using the line:  "In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes."

I'm not sure if this constitutes "fame," but I did have the honor of being interviewed by Cincinnati's public radio station, WVXU, while I was on the Florida leg of my Journey.

Here is the link to the interview.

I didn't know my sister Renee very well.  She was born six years after me, a gap that always seemed challenging to traverse.  The older I got, the more I resented having to baby-sit my kid sister.  After all, I was a teenage boy, consumed by my own ego, lacking empathy, focused only on my needs.

I went away to college, happy to escape a home besieged by an anger that was fueled by drink. During breaks, I would work, stay out late, eventually developing my own brand of drink-fueled anger and self-absorption.  

​At 19, Renee fell in love a kid from the church and moved away with him to Florida.  I suppose escape was one thing we had in common back then.

We both married..too young as it would ultimately play out.  We exchanged greeting cards and occasional calls, perhaps more obligatory than anything of depth.  I was too caught up in my life, my career to have anything more than an obligatory relationship with a sister I hardly knew.

We shared each other's pain as well.  I didn't make it to the christening of her first daughter, Ashley.  But I was with Renee four months later, when she buried Ashley, the victim of SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.  It was the most gut-wrenching experience of my life to watch my sister try to make sense out of something so tragic, so mysterious.  I remember reading once of a Buddhist monk, an evolved being, losing a young son to a rare disease.  One of his devotees reminded the monk of his teachings that death, like life, is simply an illusion.  To which the monk replied:  "Yes, but the death of a child is the ultimate illusion."  Indeed.

Almost nine months to the day after losing Ashley, my niece Whitney was born.  Several years later, my nephew Gregory.  And my son had cousins on my side of the family.  And, in a strange way, the kids brought us closer, made us more of a family.  The kids gave us something in common, a reason to call, to share triumphs and tribulations.

I traveled to West Palm Beach on this Journey, to visit my sister, to experience her children.  Whitney is heading to medical school.  Gregory is a firefighter.  My kid sister, the little girl who I barely knew, who was often an afterthought in my life, who experienced pain that I can never imagine, has created an exceptional life for herself. She was able to fight off the demons that consumed her mother, the love of her life.

I was only supposed to spend one evening with Renee.  I planned it that way.  I didn't want to intrude, to force the "brother-sister" dynamic that, in earlier days, was often uncomfortable. As soon as I arrived, I regretted my decision to stay one night, as I found myself consumed by a desire to be with my family, a family I really never knew.  When I called Greyhound to make my reservation for the next leg of the trip, I discovered that the bus was sold out and I'd need to wait an extra day.  

​It was a wonderful extra day.











 

“If I get married, I want to be very married.”
Audrey Hepburn
 
Sonny and Doris are very married. 
 
The day I met them, they were celebrating 60 years of being very married.  They are neighbors of my good friend Karl, in the Rose Lake Estates “Over-55” trailer park on the outskirts of Tampa. 
 
We sat together in their comfortable double wide, surrounded by photos of their three children and six grand children.  I asked them if it was love at first sight.  They looked at each other, smiling, almost a conspiratorial smile for a question that, I’m sure, has been asked countless times.
 
“Well, you could say it was love without first sight,” Sonny said, emphasizing the word without.  Another smile.  I waited for the story they were anxious to tell.
 
Sonny and Doris were farm kids from Wisconsin.  Sonny had 11 sisters, 10 older and one younger.  “You could imagine why I didn’t care much for girls,” Sonny said.  I could. 
 
Doris was one of four kids.  “My life wasn’t quite as interesting as Sonny’s,” she said.  “But it was a good life.”
 
One of Sonny’s sisters was blind.  Each summer, she attended a special camp for the blind outside Milwaukee.  Doris had an uncle who was also blind and attended the same camp.  The sister and the uncle became friends.  Soon, they began talking about Doris and Sonny, at the time, 16 and 17 respectively. 
 
“Doris’ uncle had never seen her,” Sonny said.  “And my sister never saw me.  So, they could only talk about the fact that we were really great kids and began to hatch a plan to get us together.”
 
They met at the end of that summer.  Sonny drove to call on Doris at her family home in La Crosse.  “I guess you could call this the ultimate blind date,” Sonny said.  “I just knew Doris was a great gal, but had no idea if she was pretty or not.” Now the conspiratorial smile makes sense, as I’m sure they’ve told this story and used the blind date punch line hundreds of times.
 
It ended up being love at first sight for Doris and Sonny.  “She was wearing a red sweater,” he said.  “I can still see it.  And her hair was long and blond.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.”  It was the perfect set up for another “blind date” joke, but I let it pass.
 
Both of their families relocated to Milwaukee soon after that first meeting, giving them more of a chance to get to know each other. They married in 1955.  I asked if they went on a honeymoon. 
 
“Well, we didn’t have much money,” Doris said.  “But Sonny’s sister gave us a $10 bill and told us to at least go to a hotel for the night.”
 
Sonny continued the story.  “We stayed at the Edge of the Woods Motel.  So, when people would ask where we went on our honeymoon, we’d tell them we went to the "edge of the woods." And, wouldn’t you know it, that building still stands today, but now it’s a nursing home.”
 
I asked if there was ever a time when they thought it wasn’t going to work, maybe thought that it would be better to split up, be with other people.
 
“Never,” said Doris.  “We saw marriage as a commitment, something you did for life.  We’ve always been good about sharing what’s on our mind.  And we’re good at taking care of each other.”
 
Sonny added:  “And we just like spending time together.”
 
Of course, it’s what you do when you’re very married.

It was 2AM in the Tampa Greyhound station.  I had to wait until 6AM before my friend Karl would pick me up.  Ten minutes in a Greyhound station is arduous.  Four hours is simply inhumane.  Every Greyhound station that I encountered was furnished with the same metal chairs that were, I’m sure, once used as antique torture devices.
 
Sydney must have spied me trying to contort my body into a sleep-worthy position.  He made his way over to me.  “Dis Greyhound is crazy mon,” he said.  “They are bad people.”  I liked him immediately.
 
We spent two hours chatting about everything from American politics to goat farming.  He came to the United States from Kingston 16 years ago after an armed intruder broke into his house and shot him in the chest.  Things were bad in Jamaica.  Police and government corruption made it impossible to find justice and heavily populated cities like Kingston became increasingly dangerous.
 
So, Sydney left for New York City, where he had some distant relatives.  His wife stayed to manage the small farm they owned, waiting for Sydney to get settled and make some money before calling her to join him.  I asked how long it took before he went back to get his wife.  With a wide, infectious grin, he said:  “Couple of years, mon. But she already sold the farm, the animals and my tools and ran off with my best friend.  I guess she didn’t want to wait.”
 
Fortunately, Sydney was a master welder, so he was able to find good work in the booming New York construction business.  He became a U.S. citizen in 2009.  Several years ago, he met and fell in love with a woman from South Carolina, eventually settling in Buefort.  He’s saved up enough money and is about to invest to start raising goats.  “Goat meat gonna be the new beef,” he says, trying to convince someone who tasted and rejected goat after a visit to Jamaica many years ago. 
 
Sydney is a beautiful soul, curious and opinionated.  Regardless of the topic, he would stop, touch my arm and ask:  “What you think about dat, mon?” I ask if he might ever return to Jamaica.  He waves me off.  “Jamaica more beautiful than America, more green,” he says.  “But too corrupt.  I love America.” 
 
He gave me the opening to ask whom he would vote for in the next Presidential election, even though I was 100% certain of his answer.  Without hesitation, he said:  “Mrs. Clinton, must be President.  She’s a good person like her husband.”
 
After two hours, we shook hands, promising ourselves and each other that we’d try to get some sleep.  He stopped me, grabbed my arm one more time.  “You like Bob Marley, mon?” he asked.  Before I could answer in the affirmative, he said:  “You listen closely.  He the prophet everyone waiting for.” He smiled and walked away.
 
And yes, neither one of us slept.

​​The Atlanta Greyhound station was chaos.  It was a rainy Monday.  Buses were late.  Some were cancelled (which happens frequently because drivers simply don’t show up for work).  And, because there are no digital status boards or signs, nobody knows when their bus may be leaving, or arriving.
 
While I wasn’t happy with the situation, I’ve become used to life in chaotic terminals, so I put my noise-reducing headphones on and tried to listen to a book through the noise that wasn’t being reduced.  Directly across from me was an African American family, a mom, son and, what I assumed to be, a grandmother.  They were noteworthy only because they’d been sitting and waiting for as long as I’d been in the terminal. 
 
Somehow, through the chaos, I started to drift asleep.  I awoke to a frightening scream.  There was a commotion, but I couldn’t see what was happening because of the line of people standing in front of me, waiting to board a bus.  As the line broke, I could see that the commotion was coming from the family across from me.  A young man, in his 20’s I guessed, was hovering over the younger woman, the one I assumed was the mother.  She was crying hysterically, almost inconsolable.  She couldn’t catch her breath and, for a moment, I thought she might have a heart attack.  The only words I could hear her saying were “Praise the Lord, praise the Lord.”
 
When things calmed, I approached them, told the about the Journey and asked about what I had just witnessed.  The mother, whose name I learned was Debra, was out of breath, unable to construct a coherent sentence.  So, I turned to the younger man.
 
He introduced himself as Anthony.  He was Debra’s 29 year-old son.  Anthony had just been released from Georgia State Prison the previous day. He’d been convicted of armed robbery when he was 19.  Debra has only seen him once in 10 years, unable to afford the time off of work to visit her son in prison, at the other end of the state.

​Having confirmed his release date, Anthony arranged with his Aunt Sydney, the older of the two women, to invite Debra and his younger brother, Keshon, to Atlanta for the weekend.  Upon his release, the Georgia Department of Corrections gave Anthony a $100 check and a one-way ticket home to Forrest Park, Georgia.  His bus made one stop, in Atlanta.  There he would transfer to the bus headed for Forrest Park.  But only after a reunion with his mother.
 
Their bus was called and the family rose to get into the boarding line.  I never did get a chance to talk to Debra because she was so overcome with emotion. But I guess I didn’t need to.  What could she say that I hadn’t already witnessed. As they moved toward the gate, she gripped Anthony’s arm, with both hands, not wanting to let go of her son, to risk losing him again. And, all the while, her lips moved gently, simply repeating:  “Praise the Lord, praise the Lord.”

​I met Fish in a church basement in Birmingham.
 
My friends Jim and Betsey are part of a group that feeds Birmingham’s growing population of homeless people.  I joined them on his particular Saturday.  They feed in excess of 200 people on a given morning, sometimes more depending on the weather.  Eggs.  Biscuits.  Grits.  Coffee.  A hearty meal for many grateful people.
 
If there is food remaining after everyone passes through once, they re-open the line for seconds.  With the food dwindling and the line of seconds thinning out, a young man came through, a backpack slung over his shoulder.  Soft spoken, he asked if there was anything left.  While we plated his food, he said that he just got into town.  When someone probed as to his mode of transportation, he said:  “I ride the rails.”
 
He took his food to an empty table.  I took him another biscuit.  He declined.  I shared about the Journey and asked if he would be willing to tell his story. Even though he wasn’t traveling on a Greyhound Bus, I’d never known anybody who traveled by boxcar.  He was a little hesitant at first, but eventually agreed.
 
I asked his name and he told me it was Fish.  When I asked about the origin of his nickname he said, in a matter-of-fact tone:  “I always drank like a fish.”  Then, a smile.  He continued:  “I’ve been drinking since I was six, but I’ve been sober, more or less, for the past ten years.” 
 
Fish was 36 years old.  I asked about the train.  “I’ve been riding boxcars for about 18 years,” he said.  “I can’t think of another way to live.  I guess you could call me a nomad.”
 
Fish shared that he was a Messianic Jew.  Messianic Judaism is a movement that combines Christianity with elements of Judaism and Jewish Tradition.  Messianic Jews believe that Jesus is the Jewish Messiah.
 
“The second coming is close at hand,” he said.  “I travel the country on boxcars to proclaim the truth.” 
 
I wasn’t sure what truth he was proclaiming, but let it pass. “Do you work?” I asked.
 
“Sometimes,” he said.  “But I don’t have ID, so I’m not always welcome in the towns where I stop.  And it makes it hard to get a job.”
 
When I asked if I could take his picture, he held up his hands.  “No, the sect I belong to believes that it is evil to have your picture taken.  Plus, there are a few people looking for me, so I really don’t want my picture out on the Internet.”
 
I’m thinking it was more of the latter than the former, but didn’t say anything.  His breakfast finished, he begins to gather his belongings.  I notice something tattooed on his knuckles and asked if I could take a look.  He puts his fists together.  The knuckles spell out:  FAREWELL.  “I’m always saying goodbye,” he says, with a smile.
 
Then, he reverses his hands, showing me that how the knuckles then say:  WELLFARE.  Again, he smiles, pointing to his empty plate:  “We all need a little welfare once in a while.”
 
After some coaxing, he let me take a picture of his tattooed knuckles.  He then threw his backpack over his shoulder, thanked the staff and started to walk off.  I asked where he was going.
 
“Not sure,” he said.  “I really won’t know until I get there.” 
 
With that, Fish put his fists up, showing me his knuckles, his way of saying goodbye:  FAREWELL.  Then he headed into the Birmingham morning.  Fish had a boxcar to catch.