Healing Hands

This weekend I helped run a group for young boys who had lost a close relative in a traumatic accident. The boys were ages 9 - 11 and were brought to this therapy program as a way to help them talk about the event, find solace in knowing that others had experienced this also, and to learn ways to cope with the myriad of feelings that follows the death of a loved one.

After discussing our purpose for being in the group, we talked about group rules: "No talking while someone else talks. Respect what others say and how they express their feelings. Listen to the counselor. Don't hit anyone or break anything. Talk or don't talk--whichever is best for you." We listed these on a large Post-it sheet and stuck it on the wall where we could refer to it. We talked about ways to express ourselves and how to set limits on what we feel comfortable sharing in the group. Then it was time to hear from each boy about why they had come.

Suddenly, Nat, one of my students who was helping lead the group, suggested that we needed a way to express our support and appreciation for each other when information was shared that needed to be recognized. "Clapping is too loud," he explained. The boys soberly nodded their agreement. "Maybe what we can do then, is to just rub our hands together" he suggested. The air was immediately filled with the slithery sound of little hands rubbing together. Nine eager faces around the circle indicated that this gesture was a good thing.

We went around the circle and heard each boy share the circumstances that surrounded their loss. The first two boys were able to get through their stories with a quavering voice. They were rewarded by a round of hand rubbing and kindly looks from the other boys. The third boy completely broke down. As he sat in his chair sobbing, the boy next to him started to quietly rub his hands together. Everyone joined in for several moments until the crying stopped and the boy could continue.

Around the circle, everyone shared why they were there. As I heard each one, I groaned inside, absolutely horrified that any child should have to experience such losses.

I was unprepared for what Matt, the group leader said next. "Barbara, why don't you share what has happened to you recently." Turning to the group he added, "Barbara knows what it feels like to lose someone, too."

I had started the group without any conscious thought about the death of my father except that it had happened. My role was to facilitate healing for others, not myself. But nine little faces were all looking at me with big, sad eyes.

"Well," I started, "My father died in October." There were nods around the group. "He had a heart attack after he had lived a long time." I didn't want this group to be about me. These boys had much to process and recover from. "We used to sing together and make jokes together. I loved my father a lot. So it was very sad for me and I miss him very much." A tear ran down my cheek, most unexpectedly.

Across the room, Martin* looked at me solemnly and began rubbing his hands together. Everyone joined in. As the slithery, soft sound became louder, I looked around the room. There was Pete whose father had been gunned down in front of him. Pablo's uncle and sister had been killed by shots intended for someone else. Sal had lost mother and father in one horrible shooting. He tucked his chin down onto his chest and looked up at me through his long wet eyelashes. He needed a tissue. "We understand, Barbara."

Truly, they all did. And my loss was pale in comparison with theirs, yet they so readily took me in and recognized that loss is loss, pain is pain. It was such an unselfish, generous gesture--so typical of childlike goodness.

Life continues on. The shades of grief move from vivid colors to more muted, subtle tones. At times, I am consumed with the feeling of being lost and without an anchor in this world. At others, I have to stop and search for that silent grieving spot. And now, when I reach for that tender spot inside, the sounds of little hands rubbing together comfort me.