Nat

Today was my stepdaughter’s last day of junior high school, and we attended the student awards program. I loved the way the staff spread the prizes among a relatively large group of students. They gave awards in every subject, for the arts, and for good citizenship. I’m very proud that my stepdaughter won three prizes.

I’m proudest of the award she won for citizenship. It acknowledges a student each year who serves the school well at school and who represents it well in the community. The principal, a lovely woman who is retiring from a 35-year career in education today, talked about Catherine’s cheerfulness and her smile. She mentioned that Catherine brightens the school with her attitude and friendliness.

Nothing matters more to me than this trait, and I’m thrilled to pieces that she receives praise for demonstrating it. Mrs. Conlon, the retiring principal, started today’s assembly reading a quote from Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. In it the prince meets and befriends a fox. When they part, the fox tells the prince, “Remember that there are two ways to see, with your eyes and with your heart. The only way to see well is with your heart.”

It’s a lovely reminder, and Catherine needs no one to remind her. She sees with her heart every minute of every day. She is special. We are blessed.

What I’m finding as we deal with a loss in the family is that our personal strengths have been amplified. I am fundamentally optimistic and forward looking, and that has never been more true than now. It is the only way I know how to find the determination to press on. There is really nothing else to do.

I think that is the mental trick, or demand. I can’t afford to live with the saddest part of loss for too long at one time. For starters, I want to be part of a legacy we can all be proud of.

When I was 20, one of my friends, a talented, vivacious woman named Maryann, died in an accident. After the funeral, her father, a profoundly wise and compassionate man, gathered her friends together and said, “I want to ask you to do one thing for me. Whenever you have the chance–for the rest of your lives–to do something great, or not to, choose to do something great. Remember that Maryann won’t have the chance. If all of you do this, I will have the comfort of knowing that dozens of people are doing more than they otherwise would.”

I haven’t always lived up to that advice, but I’ve never forgotten it. That’s how I think of loss now: the best way to honor someone we love is to do the most we can to honor their life.

We had a death in the family last week, and the response from family and friends has been remarkable. People have outdone themselves to be kind and supportive. It is a marvelous human trait that so many people surprise you with their goodness in times when you need it most.

For example, we received a letter from the grown daughter of family friends. The letter writer didn’t know the deceased well at all, yet she managed to capture all of his qualities precisely and warmly. Also, I have been flooded with cards and notes from people at work whom I don’t even know well, and many have said the most naturally reassuring things. There is nothing more moving for me in this than to be floored again and again by people’s ability to find words to make you feel happy and proud. Maybe this amazes me because I always struggle to know what to say to people who have lost a loved one, and I think of myself as usually knowing what to say.

All in all, I have found throughout my life that most people will do everything in their power to do good to you if you give them half a chance. At no time in my life can I remember feeling this more strongly. It is a great gift and one that also suggests to me the presence of a comforting God, reaching out through many, many people.

I have found new things for which to be grateful every day, and they start and end with our friends’ fundamental decency and caring. I am so grateful.