This past June, our grief group welcomed the summer break with an activity where we painted the name of our child onto small, flat stones.  We then shared with everyone, so that all of us carried home a bag of stones, one for each child. The homework assignment was to find a random place to put the stone. It was suggested as a simple exercise that would bring reflection and mindfulness to our grief.

Zane’s stone was easy. I placed it in a flowerpot at the restaurant that he worked at, that Payton was married at, that Jon and I went to celebrate him on his death day this year. I felt it fitting to have Zane’s name on a stone at the place where once his entire life encircled.

The other three required some thought.  You did not want to just chuck the stone bearing the name of one of your friend’s children, so I pondered all summer where I would place these. On a teary walk on a rainy-day morning, it hit me. I was at the reservoir. The place where Zane grew up enjoying all it offered. The place that I enjoyed for years with Tango. The place I now return to when I need connection. This was a place I was sure each boy would have enjoyed. I wanted to share with them what Zane had experienced.

I went back to the car and gathered the stones. Along the path, I recalled the first stories that their mother’s had shared with me about their child.

Karl, who loved camping and enjoyed the responsibility of ensuring that the fire ‘kept burning’, his stone was placed near the picnic bench that I shared many meals in the summer with my children. It was also the place our first grief group gathered for Candle Lighting Day.

Cole, who loved football and was the star attraction at the Stampede tailgate parties. His stone I placed at the tailgate of the boats that our family has walked by for years and taken dozens of pictures of the beauty of a simple sailboat floating in the water.

Sean, who loved urban art, an artist himself, sharing his talents throughout the city. His stone I placed on a cement structure commissioned by the city to be painted graffiti style. These works of art are scattered in the parking lot and the one I chose was the one I parked my car next to when taking Tango for his walks.

For each stone, my ceremony was simple. I gave it a light kiss, whispered, “your mom misses you” and placed it in its resting spot.  

As I walked back to my car, I leaned into my grief. These boys, including my own, were all in their twenties when they left earth. I hold the same pain that their mothers do, the heaviness of how is this possible. And then I realized something, my heartache was a tinge different as I took that walk. I was caught up in the moment of finding and placing each stone in a spot, that my grief became a sweeter melancholy.

When we are mindful about remembering and honoring our loved ones, grief works with us to see life in richer deeper colors. And although there are tears and the missing them does not relinquish, spending purposeful time thinking of them, becomes a hug from heaven.