Maybe when we face a tragedy, someone, somewhere is preventing a bigger tragedy from happening.

When my late father died — now I'm in mourning for my late mother — that sense of grief and bereavement suddenly taught me that so many things that I thought were important, externals, etc., all of that is irrelevant. You lose a parent, you suddenly realize what a slender thing life is, how easily you can lose those you love. Then out of that comes a new simplicity and that is why sometimes all the pain and the tears lift you to a much higher and deeper joy when you say to the bad times, I will not let you go until you bless me.

Let's be honest, the world's always been a scary place with very little charm. I try to brush it off as I've brushed off the flu, as I brushed off the death of my father when I was young, as I've brushed off so much since Benton has known me.

When a friend of Abigail and John Adams was killed at Bunker Hill, Abigail's response was to write a letter to her husband and include these words, My bursting heart must find vent at my pen.

grief is a housewhere the chairshave forgotten how to hold usthe mirrors how to reflect usthe walls how to contain usgrief is a house that disappearseach time someone knocks at the dooror rings the bella house that blows into the airat the slightest gustthat buries itself deep in the groundwhile everyone is sleepinggrief is a house where no one can protect youwhere the younger sisterwill grow older than the older onewhere the doorsno longer let you inor out

Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.

You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.

She's not here, I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. She's not here. You can hiss all you like. You won't find Prim. At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. Get out! He dodges the pillow I throw at him. Go away! There's nothing left for you here! I start to shake, furious with him. She's not coming back! She's never ever coming back here again! I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. She's dead, you stupid cat. She's dead.

In this sad world of ours sorrow comes to all and it often comes with bitter agony. Perfect relief is not possible except with time. You cannot now believe that you will ever feel better. But this is not true. You are sure to be happy again. Knowing this, truly believing it will make you less miserable now. I have had enough experience to make this statement.

How could you go about choosing something that would hold the half of your heart you had to bury?

From a medical standpoint, the third and the most probable explanation is that Jesus was indeed dead, and what his disciples experienced were mere hallucinations evoked by the grief over the loss of their beloved teacher. It is clinically known as "Post-Bereavement Hallucinations Experiences" or PBHE.