Words possess a power stronger than weapons or loud voices.
They own an influence to fly across the generations and open their letters to reinterpretation again and again.
Words written and words uttered can sink into the human spirit like grease to ribs after too many years of eating chicken from the corner gas station fried in the same grease as the last customer’s meal.
Pen to paper, fingers on a keyboard, a voice of an aria, or the rapper spinning words of uncomfortable truths; raise language up from the depths of our humanity. The seek to release pain and find a companion through shared feelings or experiences. The ink stains on a crumbled piece of paper seek to raise awareness of the truths we need to hear even if we don’t want to.
Words as simple as: “Mommy, look at me,” from the right voice would bring me to my knees.
THE WORDS WE WRITE
The words we write change with time based on our experiences. I read a blog post sometime ago by a mom who had lost her son, and she discussed how her writing had changed from the raw emotions immediately after his loss to the reflection of human connection.
My writing was like that, too. It was very raw when I first wrote after Corrie’s death. I would not erase or change any of what I wrote because those poems and posts reveal the unimaginable reality of a mother’s broken heart. There exist poems or lines where I still write raw, but those words go with a meaning. They are part of the story, and not the protagonist of the entire message of Corrie’s life, memory, or legend.
about grief
I am aware my words or others who write about how they deal with grief may turn some way. As I read Jack: A Life Like No Other by Geoffrey Perret, I think about how grief appears in pop culture, books, and historical figures.
“Jack sough to come to terms with his grief by compiling a memorial in printed form for Joe Jr. Overtly and consciously, he was putting together a touching tribute for his brother, an act of love and acceptance.”
Geoffrey perret
According to Perret, JFK spoke with at least twenty people, and recorded their memories about his brother, Joe. Within only a few years, JFK lost three of his siblings in different ways: Joe, Rosie, and Kick Kennedy.
For every person who turns away, I hope there are others for whom I hope the words reach to console, or simply say, “I understand.”
No matter the loss. No matter the person. No one should ever feel alone in the months and years after loss. Grief doesn’t vanish after the last casserole comes to the door.
me
Our words, no matter what language, carry a magic to help us when we’re lost. It aids us in connection when we feel no one understands, or “I can’t talk about this because someone might get the wrong idea.”
Poetry, songs, legends, novels, and true stories contain within them the ability to distract, help, and heal.
We may hear a song, and realize it holds another meaning for us besides the romantic or spiritual interpretation. Those songs have guided my son, Hayes, and me through many difficult moments, since we lost Corrie.
Words can switch our moods as quickly as spinning a dime on the ground. One day in my school hallway, I had a comical exchange with one of my students in which I called him “son.”
A female student of mine said genuinely, “I wish I was your daughter.” Her words nearly stopped my heart.
As good as I am about controlling my feelings about grief around my students, those words almost unraveled me.
Never once did I ever call any of my female students “daughter.” When Corrie was with us, she was my only little girl.
The student’s words were a compliment. Her words reminded me of the power of language. It can even remind us of the good we do in the world, even if we forget.
our words
Our words, the gift we share, need not be lines that ebb and flow in the beautiful schemes of some poets. Something I always valued about Hemingway, whether you like him or not, he shared the value in economizing your words.
One day, I said to a student, “I’m proud of you.”
She replied, “No one has ever said that to me before.”
For weeks after Corrie’s death, I didn’t want to see anyone’s little girl. I did not think I had the strength to walk back into the classroom.
How could I give anything to anyone after I’d lost my baby?
The answer lay in the power of words when a student from last year wrote to remind me I “must go on” because of the effect I’d had on his life and could have with future students.
And, there is a little girl whose words from life and dreams remind me not to take myself too seriously.
I hear Corrie say, “Mommy, baby unicorns don’t poop.” I laugh and remember the words from a beloved life of laughter.
Corrie's Season 
Reblogged this on Come to Corrie's Corner and commented:
Our words, no matter what language, carries a magic to help us when we’re lost. Often the power in my students’ words helped me through tough times during COVID-19 and after the loss of my daughter, Corrie.