By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

I WONDER IF ALL CHILDREN SUFFER this way? When I was 12 years old, I went through a period when I thought nobody liked me. I don’t know why I felt that way; I was not an unpopular kid. I held a post on the crosswalk patrol, received my share of punch-out valentine cards, and even filled a term as president of Mrs. Northrup’s sixth-grade class.

And, yet, I still felt blue. I would lie in my bed in the middle of the day, staring blankly at my model airplanes strung from the ceiling overhead and wonder about the meaning of it all. It was a heavy burden for a 12-year-old to carry. “I feel so unhappy,” I told my mother one day.

“Oh, son, what’s wrong?” she asked, holding my face in her warm, soft hands.

“I don’t know.” I was on the verge of tears; one more question and I would be sobbing. “I just feel empty and sad,” I said quivering. My mother comforted me as best she could, but it was not enough to soothe my tender sorrows. I was beginning to think that I would never be happy again when something occurred that shook me to the core.

It happened after school. A bunch of us were playing flag football on the school playground. We were laughing and snorting and crashing to the ground like wounded elephants. For a moment I had forgotten my sadness.

It was dusk. Suddenly, in the middle of an end run, a flash of jagged white light ruptured the sky. At the same instant, there was the unmistakable sound of electricity, crackling like cross-wired jumper cables. It was as though ten thousand flash bulbs fired all at once. We were not looking at the sky, but we all saw it. It was not lightning; there were no clouds overhead. It was not the flash of the setting sun on a window pane or metal shingle. It was nothing like that.

Fifty yards away, at the top of a high school stadium light tower, a man hung from a single cord attached to his belt. He was bent over backwards, his arms and legs limply dangling below his head. His face was blackened from the electrical charge. A wild cable snapped and popped like a snake striking and recoiling and striking again. We knew he was dead. A few minutes later another man climbed the tower and gently eased his partner down with a hand line.

No one dared speak. We walked home quietly, solemnly, absorbed in our own thoughts. I could not stop picturing the lineman grotesquely suspended overhead. I had never seen a dead man before. It seemed inconceivable to me that a man could be alive one moment and gone the next. I was bewildered by the frailty of life. “It is so short,” I said to myself, “and so quickly gone.”

You might think that incident would have deepened my despair. It did not happen that way; the next morning my sadness had vanished. Somehow in the middle of the night, it had been replaced with a sense of respect and thanksgiving for life. That was the end of my brush with childhood depression.

Sometimes we need a dramatic episode to awaken us to the glory of the day. Sometimes that episode is traumatic, sometimes euphoric. Regardless of its nature, those events should not be treated lightly; they should be embraced as a blessed wakeup call.

Last week I met a man on an Alaskan cruise. We struck up a conversation over lunch, one that quickly drifted to heartfelt topics. Soon, the man confided in me that he had recently lost his mother.

“What did you learn from that experience,” I asked.

His answer was immediate and sure. “Carpe diem,” he said. “Seize the day. That is why I am on this cruise today with my family and friends. I am not waiting for tomorrow.” I nodded in understanding.

Forty-five years have passed since I witnessed the death of the man on the light tower. I have grieved for him. I still grieve for his family, wherever they may be. But I am convinced of this. That man-son or husband or father-did not die without meaning. In a way, the man on the tower gave his life for me

By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

ERNIE WAS NEVER OLD. Even when he was old, he was young. He was the kind of man a boy wanted to go fishing with. He was gentle and a little mischievous. He squinted his eyes like Clark Gable when he spoke to you, recounting wonderful stories about growing up, about stoking fires in the cold winters and making do on practically nothing-even less than nothing. Then he would tell the hitchhiking story. Ernie had double-jointed thumbs; he could cock his thumb back like a hammer on a pistol. He said they got that way from hitchhiking so much. I was always pretty sure he was joking, but still a piece of me wondered if it might really be true.

I heard those stories plenty of times. I knew the tales about his sheriffing days. I could recite the adventures about running the big crane. But the stories I loved most were the yarns about delivering Western Union messages on the streets of Seattle. He was just 16-not much older than I-bicycling up and down the avenues and alleys, darting in and out of traffic, living on the edge of his seat.

“I was in shape then,” he said, his eyes squinting. It was not a boast. Nor was it taken as a boast; it was just a matter of fact. It was always the last line to the Western Union story. When he said, “I was in shape then,” I knew the story was over.

Ernie was Sunday school superintendent at our church. Every Sabbath he was there, as regular as the preacher. As a boy I was always intrigued by his Sunday school attendance pin: a lapel cluster the size of a quarter with a bar attached for every year of perfect attendance. He had 12 or 13 bars, dangling like a ladder from the kingdom of heaven. It was splendid; I wanted a string of bars just like it. Twice I got up to two years and then I would come down with the flu, miss a Sunday, and have to start all over again. It was discouraging.

But Ernie never missed. When I was a boy, I thought he wore the pin for himself. When I grew up, I realized he wore it for us. Ernie had a way of making a boy feel special. He sang tenor in the church choir and invited me to sing tenor too. I was really a baritone, but I wanted to sit next to Ernie more than I wanted to sing true.

Every Sunday we sat side by side. I stood close and sometimes sang out just a hair behind Ernie when I wasn’t sure of the pitch. He knew what I was doing; he just smiled and winked his Clark Gable wink.

When I first started to play cornet, I wanted Ernie to hear my B-flat scale. I put the horn to my lips, curled my toes, and blew: “Do-re-mi-fa-sol-SPLAT-ti-do.” “That’s fine,” Ernie said, “really fine.”

“But I can only go up the scale,” I said. “I don’t know how to go down yet.”

“Sure you can,” Ernie said. “Give it a try; you can do it.”

And, sure enough, I could tumble down the scale:

“Do-ti-la-sol-fa-mi-SPLAT-do.”

“Now, Son,” Ernie said, “I know that you’re not quite ready now, but when you are, I want you to play my favorite song for me. Do you know what my favorite song is?”

I knew. “Yes, sir. ‘Amazing Grace.’”

“That’s right. Is it a promise?”

“It’s a promise,” I said.

Years later, when I was a full-grown man, my dear friend Ernie died. I was asked to be a pallbearer at his funeral; it was a sad, but proud honor. The services were held in the church where Ernie and I had sung tenor so many Sunday mornings. As I walked to the front door, I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me; a smile was unthinkable. Then I saw Ernie’s daughter, Ruthelma. She was smiling serenely, almost glowing.

“He was so important to me,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. “Thank you for coming to celebrate with us.”

Yes, to celebrate-that was the perfect expression. We were there to celebrate a man’s contribution to humanity. We were there to remember how he had touched us all, including an aspiring cornet player. In the solitude of my own thoughts, I thanked Ruthelma for shaking me out of my misery. What a wonderful lesson: The passing of a good friend is, indeed, a time for celebration-for the legacy that he has left and the adventure he has just begun.

When the preacher got up to say a few words, I wasn’t listening. I was offering my own eulogy to the man who was willing to enter the life of a 12-year-old boy. And I was remembering, with sadness, that although I had learned to play “Amazing Grace,” I had forgotten my promise to my old friend; and now Ernie was gone, one cornet solo shy of a proper goodbye. It is for that reason that today, when I am asked to speak at conferences, I often pay tribute to my beloved friend with a cornet solo of “Amazing Grace.” And when I do, it is always introduced in the same fashion: with a triumphant B-flat concert scale.

By J. Bailey Molineux

Everybody is afraid of death. Because our own consciousness is the only consciousness we really know, we all have trouble conceiving of our own death. It is difficult for each of us to imagine the universe going on without us because it is our consciousness that makes the cosmos exist for us, Death is something that happens to other people, we like to tell ourselves.

The modern American attitude towards death has not been a healthy one. With our glorification of bodily pleasure and youth, we seem to fear and shun old age and death.-. In contrast to our ancestors, death is a stranger, a rarely seen event. In the past, most people had more of a first hand acquaintance with death than we do today. People died in their homes, surrounded by their families, not shunted away in an impersonal hospital. One fourth of all children died in infancy, while another fourth died by adolescence, so parents had only a fifty percent chance of seeing a child grow to adulthood. Our attitude towards death is changing, however. Death and dying are becoming respectable academic subjects, while hospice care is becoming more accepted by the medical and lay communities.

There are three different and separate death fears, each calling for a different response if the fear of death is to be reduced. The first is the fear of the actual process or event of dying. For some, the manner in which one dies is a measure of the way in which he has lived. All living is a preparation for death, so a good death is indicative of a good life.

Consequently, we are afraid that we will die in great pain, or we will be frightened, terrified and resist death, or we will "crack" during the process of dying and not die with peace and dignity. ­But recent psychological evidence suggests that this does not have to be the case. In studies of near death experiences in which people have had a close brush with death, or of cases in which people have been clinically dead but brought back to life, we are beginning to gather evidence that death, once accepted, may be a pleasant experience. Although not universal, many people in near death situations describe a sense of joy and peace they have never known before. Some also describe the perception of a light that loves and welcomes them. Whether these experiences are "proof" of an afterlife or simply explained in biochemical terms, science cannot tell. But we do know that the experiences are so beautiful that the subjects have not wanted to return to life, or have done so only reluctantly.. And they learned some things as a result of their experiences: to be more loving, to learn more about life and, above all, not to be afraid of death again.

The second fear of death concerns what happens after we die. Most people believe in an afterlife, and as long as they believe that afterlife will be pleasant or happy, they have nothing to fear. But if a person believes his or her afterlife is going to be painful or unpleasant, that he will be punished in some kind of hell, then obviously he will fear death.

The third death fear, the one that is most basic, is the fear of extinction. Death as an end of all consciousness, as a blank or nothingness, is something to fear, although if it is true, we will fear it before death but not afterwards. Studies of people who are actually near death, however - the elderly and the terminally ill - indicate that fear is not a universal or strong reaction to impending death. The famed psychiatrist, Elizabeth Kubler Ross, for example, has found that the terminally ill go through a series of stages - denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance – which can result in the eventual acceptance of death and a peaceful expiration. ­Studies of the elderly reveal that impending death brings more depression than fear, although some elderly actually welcome death Younger, healthier people further from death have a greater fear of death than people who are old or ill and closer to it.

From a murky distance, especially when you are young and healthy, death can be seen as a frightening event to be avoided at all costs. Up close, it may lose some of its terror. Besides, who among us would really want to live forever?

By J. Bailey Molineux

My father died seven years ago. He had lived a full life and died a good death at the age of 71. Refusing to retire, he died of a heart attack doing what he always loved: practicing law. But my mother still misses him. Even though she is an emotionally strong and independent woman, she has not yet fully accepted widowhood, and probably never will. Married for forty years, the gap blown in her life by my father's death is too large to completely fill.

Shortly after his death, my mother expressed two fears common to many widows: that she would lose her status as a judge's wife and that her married friends would drop her as a fifth wheel. Her first fear has come true to a certain extent, but, fortunately, the second has not.

Although most of her friends are now widows like herself, my mother is still invited out by the married friends she and my father shared. If you are a married woman, your chances are three in four you will be widowed someday. Like my mother, you will probably face the death of your husband and have to adjust to living alone foryears or the rest of your life.

Surprisingly, research shows that most women do not prepare emotionally or financially for widowhood even though they usually outlive men. One study of widows found that-two-thirds of them had never considered the possibility of their becoming widows. The death of their husbands came as a complete surprise to them.

This is unfortunate. Women who refuse to think about their own probable widowhood deny themselves the opportunity to prepare for the death of their husbands. They cannot engage in anticipatory grief, a process by which they begin to realize the loss they will probably face.

When that loss comes, their grief is made that much easier if they have anticipated it.

The widow faces many problems. Loneliness is usually her major problem. Married friends may pull away from her because she really is a fifth wheel, or because they don't know how to respond to her grief, or because her pain reminds them of the pain they will have to face. The older widow may have difficulty getting out to contact old friends or meet new ones because of poor health, lack of transportation or reduced economic circumstances. She may not have the financial resources to entertain as she once did.

Another major problem facing the widow is a reduction in her standardof living. Research has found that most widows' incomes are cut in half when their husbands die.

Despite the women's movement, men still have higher incomes and pensions than women. At his death, the remainder of the husband's pension that goes to the widow is usually lowered. If she is an older woman who has stayed home to raise her family, she would probably have few marketable skills or recent experience to get a good paying job.

For the widow, the reduction in her income can stir up many strong emotions: fear for her financial future, shame for her lack of money, anger at her husband for not providing sufficiently for her or regret for missed opportunities.

Despite the problems, widowhood can be a time of growth. Every problem presents an opportunity, and all emotional pain can be a spur to take advan­tage of that opportunity.

Although the disadvantages are far more numerous, there can be some advantages to widowhood. The widow can feel more independent than married people. She can have more freedom from chores and routines. She can cook when she wants to, clean when she wants to, or just do nothing when shewants to. She can go visit whom she pleases, when she pleases without having to check with someone else.

One study of widows found that one half claimed they liked living alone. These women had not necessarily been unhappily married; they simply had grown accustomed to being by themselves for a change.

Widowhood can be an opportunity to forge a new identity, to develop skills that may have lain dormant for years, to establish one's own status apart from a spouse, or to develop and maintain new relationships. Widowhood can also be a time for a spiritual reawakening. Loss can lead any of us to re-examine the fundamental questions of life and to confront our own death.

It can force upon us the realization that nothing material lasts, and that perhaps we should seek for ultimate security and peace elsewhere.

By J. Bailey Molineux

For many, widowhood is probably the last major adjustment they will have to make in a life full of adjustments. For many also, it may be one of their most difficult adjustments. Widowhood is a transition period from a married state to a single state, and like any other transition period, it is usually painful and difficult. The widow suffers numerous losses. She has lost a mate, lover, companion, comforter and friend. She also faces a reduction in her income and a change in her status and identity.

If the widow is to adjust to widowhood, she must eventually compensate for the many loses she has suffered. She must find other sources of emotional support, income and status. She must find other things to do to fill her time.

But first the widow must mourn the loss of her husband. She must accom­plish what is called the grief work. She must emotionally detach herself from the life she had with her husband before rebuilding a new life for herself.

The purpose of the grief work is to severe her ties with her husband. Not that he won't be remembered with love, but life goes on without him. The widow's only choice is whether she will go on with it or draw back from life in defeat and depression.

There are three stages in the process of grieving the death of a spouse. The first involves the shock, denial and disbelief a widow experiences when her spouse dies. This reaction is Nature's way of protecting her against the full realization of her loss until she is better able to adjust to it.

Despite her confused state, however, the widow has to make decisions about the funeral during the first stage of widowhood. She has to arrange for a coffin, burial plot, service and greeting of friends and family. She would be much better prepared to deal with these decisions if some of them had been made in advance while her husband was still alive.

After the funeral, after friends and family have left and she is alone, the real grief work begins in the second stage of widowhood. Strong emotions that may have been denied so the practical details of the funeral could be handled now begin to make their presence known.

The widow may begin to feel angry. She may become angry at her family physician for not having prevented her husband's death; angry at the ambulance driver for not getting him to the hospital on time; angry at her husband's boss for working him too hard and driving him to a premature death. She may also begin to realize, perhaps with horror, that she is angry at her husband for having died and left her with so many problems and so much pain.

As she searches for an explanation for her husband's death, the widow's anger may eventually turn on herself, She may begin to blame herself fornot having done enough to save her husband. She may begin to regret that she did not make him lose more weight, or give up smoking, or reduce his work load. And she may scrutinize her behavior at the time of his death to determine what she could have done to save him, all in an agonizing ritual of psycho­logical self-torture that compounds the grief she already feels.

But time does heal all wounds, or at least reduces the pain. The nagging, unanswerable, irrelevant questions about who didn't do what or should have done what fade to a barely audible murmur. The widow enters the third stage of widowhood.

Now she has completed much of her grief work. Now she must begin to adjust to life as a single woman. Now she must determine what to do for the rest of her life without her husband. Now she must decide whether to get a job, or go back to school, or sell the house and move into a smaller apartment.

But having done her grief work, having faced and worked through her pain, the widow is in a much better position to deal with these questions. Now she can be calmer and more rational in malting these important life decisions.

If she can, the widow should wait for some time after the. death of her husband before makingmajor changes in her life. If she makes them right after his death, she may later regret them for she will not be the same person with the same needs at a later date.

Like it or not, widowhood will force the widow to become a different person, perhaps even a stronger, wiser, more compassionate person. Out of grief can come emotional and spiritual growth.