No one could have predicted it. Why would they? My daughter and son-in-law have two beautiful children. During her pregnancies – as well as before and after – Kate was a model of health, eating well, sleeping well and running every day, even within days of delivery. Her daughter and son were born healthy and active, too.

Nothing could have prepared any of us for her third pregnancy – a stillbirth. Even after a year, the loss lingers, wrapping itself around my motherly heart.

Nothing could have prepared me for the phone call I received that morning, just after Kate saw the obstetrician for what should have been a routine checkup. At first, I couldn’t understand her words through the sobs.

Silently, without warning, the baby’s heart has stopped beating. Her little son, our grandson, was dead.

What could I say to my broken-hearted daughter, knowing she would go through the birth process – but when there should be joy, there will only be sorrow?

What could I say to my son-in-law, Cody, a highly trained military officer who manages crises and fixes problems as a career – knowing he would stand helplessly at her side, trying to offer her comfort despite his own crushing loss?

I am so very, very sorry, was all I said. Do you want us to come and be with you? No, she said. Wait. She would be OK.

Kate asked about a baby I lost more than 25 years earlier. I was only eight or 10 weeks along, but in my mother’s heart, I believe the baby was a boy. I didn’t want to think of him forever as “the miscarriage” or “the baby I lost,” so I named him David. I suggested they might want to name their baby, too.

Later that night, the doctor induced labor. My husband and I barely slept, waiting to hear news that she came through all right. When I did sleep, I woke gasping with fear from distressing dreams of losing my daughter.

Nothing happened until late the next morning. Kate was fine, physically anyway. They named the baby Wyatt.

Neither Kate nor Cody really wanted to talk. Truthfully, I didn’t want to talk, either. In the haze of my nightmares, I connected to Kate’s pain. Yet nothing I said or did would make her feel better. I didn’t see any immediate resolution to my own emotional rollercoaster of anger, sadness and emptiness, either. 

I turned to what I know: research. I made some phone calls. I wondered what traditions and support systems were in place to help parents whose children are miscarried or stillborn. I learned that often, these parents in particular suffer from disenfranchised grief – their losses go unrecognized by faith or social customs. However, as medical and psychological specialists realize the profound impact this loss has on a family, this lack of recognition is changing in the Jewish community and in general society.

Ron Wolfson, PhD, Fingerhut Professor of Education at American Jewish University, discusses the Jewish response to stillbirth and neonatal death in a blog on Kveller, based on his book, A Time to Mourn, A Time to Comfort. He writes, “The family whose newborn dies should not be denied its community. It is also extremely important, especially for the father, to allow permission to do nothing else but mourn during the shiva period.

“Both parents will react different to the loss, (but) it is particularly important for the father to recognize his loss, for it is no less real than the mother’s. When the father is treated as a mourner, he is relieved of the burden of ‘being strong’ for his wife. He has a specific set of ritual tasks to do that encourage him to confront the magnitude of his loss in all its dimensions.”

Rituals are critical for helping us through the pain of loss and grief, to help us know we’re not alone in the darkness. Without a funeral or memorial service, my family just pushed through life without fully acknowledging what had happened, or how we each felt about it. I wanted to be strong for my daughter and son in law, to wrap my arms around them and “make it better.” This was new territory and I didn’t have a map, leaving many emotions unexpressed – unusual for me and for our family, too.

I started writing this blog – then left it unfinished. The words were inadequate. The timing wasn’t right. The wounds were too raw. My notes gathered dust in a file folder.

Last week, I felt sad for no particular reason. My husband was feeling inexplicably gloomy, too. I talked to my daughter, who was also feeling out of sorts – and then she realized it had been a year almost to the day of Wyatt’s death. Our brains may not have remembered, but our hearts knew.

I searched my files to find two shadowy images, the sole evidence of my third grandchild’s existence. I strained my eyes, looking for features that just aren’t visible in the ultrasound, made less than a week before he died. What color were his eyes? Did he look like his sister and brother? What would his talents have been? I believe in heaven, so I imagine him there and hope he and his uncle found each other through the miracle of a spiritual family connection.

Maybe it will be better next year. I marked Wyatt’s birthday – for lack of a better description – on my calendar, to honor his memory each year. More important, I want to let my daughter and son-in-law know that I remember, so they know that Grammy loved Wyatt as much as they did.

I was captivated last week by a blog post about photographer Mark Nixon's book, "Much Loved," which features photos and stories about well-worn and still treasured stuffed animals - many of them Teddy bears.

Later, at home, I went immediately to one of my bins-of-treasures stacked against the basement wall and pulled out my dear friend, Abraham.

He was my Christmas gift when I was 17. I asked my mom for a bear that year - perhaps it was a way to embody the spirit of my childhood, from which I was rapidly departing. I remember opening the package and squealing with delight at my bear's furry, slightly protruding belly and sweet, soulful eyes. I named him Abraham. It suited him.

A few weeks later, he was at my side when I was in the hospital for a thyroid condition. I parked him on the pillow next to me during the day and snuggled him close at night. I had better things to do than sit in a hospital bed for two weeks. Things like hanging out with my friends, editing the school paper and celebrating the final semester of my senior year of high school.   

The thing is, if the two of us hadn't been in the hospital - Abraham never would have introduced me to the Charming Young Guy who eventually became my husband.

One night, the Charming Young Guy - a nursing assistant - came into my room to check my blood pressure and temperature. He spotted my brown friend peering from beneath the starchy white sheet that covered us both. 

"What's your bear's name?" he asked.

I told him. 

"Well, why isn't his name Ted?"

"It didn't suit him," I said. "He's just an Abraham." 

 "My name is Tedd," Charming Young Guy laughed.

Fortunately for me, Charming Young Guy had a sense of humor. And, after we were married, Abraham kept watch from a pillow perch on our bed all day, and - painful as it is to admit - slept on the floor at night. He eventually went to live on a shelf, and then in a bin with some of the bear siblings who came to live with us over the years. It's a challenge to leave any of these beloved bears out in the open - their lives would be endangered by the whirling dervishes (our dogs) whose instincts cause them to shred every stuffed animal they meet.

I wonder - do you keep some beloved vestiges of childhood stashed away? Whether you had a bear, a bun-bun, a blankie or doll, what stories come to mind? As evidenced by the Nixon's book, it doesn't seem to matter how old you are. The memories of that special object can bring comfort to your heart. 

Who knew?

Teddy bears have Jewish roots!

Teddy bears are the stuff of American folklore - but did you know the first one was created by Brooklyn shopkeepers Rose and Morris Michtom? According to an article by Gilbert King in Smithsonian Magazine online (Dec. 21, 2012), Jewish couple heard about a hunting trip during which President Theodore Roosevelt refused to shoot a bear that was tied up, stating that it would be unsportsmanlike to do so. Rose, a seamstress, stitched a bear from velvet, which Morris placed in the shop window with a sign that said, "Teddy's bear." Many people asked to purchase the bear; the Michtoms, thinking they needed permission to use the name, sent a bear to the White House with their request. Roosevelt gave permission - and the Michtoms eventually formed the Ideal Novelty and Toy Company.

This gray Monday morning has faded into a grayer early afternoon. There is much to say, but the words drift into view and then disappear before I can discern their shapes or meanings. Loss is like that. Perhaps that's the reason for tears - they fill the void when words fail.

My friend, Bonnie, died a couple of days ago. Cancer was the culprit. It took the life of this feisty woman and left those who knew her shaking their heads in sorrow and their fists in exasperation - though we would not wish for her suffering to continue, either.

Bonnie and I worked together for a little more than six years - I as a newspaper editor and she, a graphic designer. She intimidated me the first time we met as she barked orders and loudly expressed dissatisfaction when copy and photos were late, or weren't formatted correctly. I can hear her vociferous voice punctuating a vibrant vocabulary, her words most often flung like bullets toward the computer that thwarted her efforts, especially on deadline.

Over time, as we worked together, I learned her outwardly peevish attitude was hiding a gentle heart. She was proof that you should never trust a first impression. I don't remember what broke the ice. It might have been my asking about her daughter, whom she adored. Maybe it a long conversation about the benefits of living with a cat - or rather, being allowed to live with a cat.

It might have been when we bonded over Sudoku - me as the student and she as the teacher. She played Sudoku and did a crossword puzzle (the hard kind!) every day. "It's supposed to be good for your brain," she told me. Her puzzle skills were far beyond mine. I was honestly impressed, and told her so.

Bonnie had a great laugh and a smile that spread across her whole face. Her heart beat passionately on the edge of her sleeve. There was rarely any doubt as to how she felt at a given moment. She worked hard, expecting other people to put forth the same amount effort. Her determination fueled my own.

I think we carry little bits of every person we touch. They may have left this world, but their memories bless and comfort us, sometimes even guiding our paths. I am thankful for Bonnie's memory. We tested our teamwork and developed mutual respect for each other. My favorite memories, though, will forever be her gravelly giggle and fiery spirit.

Photo credit: Sony Pictures

My son and I saw the latest film rendition of Steven King's "Carrie" Sunday afternoon. It was our post-brunch bonding time. I'm not exactly a horror movie fan. In fact, I almost never watch horror flicks. However, I saw the first version of "Carrie" in 1976 with a bunch of my screaming girlfriends and I wanted to see whether it would change substantially this many years later.

The story was the same. However, rather than inducing screams of horror the way the original "Carrie" did when I was a teenager, this version caused a different reaction.

Overwhelming sadness. Pain from wounds I thought healed long ago.

For the uninitiated, the story focuses on a quiet, socially misfit teenage girl named Carrie White. Carrie's mother is deeply disturbed and the implication is that Carrie has been abused since birth. Neighborhood kids and classmates harass her endlessly. Carrie does her best to be invisible so people leave her alone.

A few minutes into the movie, my heart ached for the kids like Carrie - quiet, and often for that reason alone, they become targets for the bullies surrounding them. Powerful people prey on the meek. Our culture is deeply competitive and prone to worshipping those who are physically and verbally formidable - even if they are jerks. We've managed to pass this value to the youngest generations.

At 50 years old, I still remember the torture of team-picking time in junior high gym class. I wasn't very athletic, and was among the last of those chosen. I was humiliated and it colored my attitude toward sports for a lifetime.

Worse, I remember one particular kid who called me creative variations of "fat" starting in fifth grade. I avoided him in the hallways because I never knew whether he would whisper it under his breath as he passed - the lesser of two evils - or whether he would shout it for everyone to hear. I have no idea why he chose to pick on me - and he kept it up through high school. I imagine what I would say to him today if I met him on the street and think, I would rather not waste the energy.

Then again, maybe I would.

I have mixed feelings about what happens to Carrie's tormenters at the end of the movie, because I did not feel sorry for them. Actually, I cheered a bit inside, although that's not the kind of person I want to be.

My son had a similar reaction to the film. He experienced his share of bullying in school. We knew it was going on and as parents, did what we could to help him through it. There are no easy answers, though. When a kid is pushed to her emotional limit, do we blame him for lashing out? What happens when she has nowhere to go, no one to trust? Certainly, "Carrie" was at that point. The fallout was enormous - an entire community suffered the consequences for the behavior of one or two.

Who knew this horror film would be a social commentary?

My son and I talked about whether bullying is worse today than it was years ago. Throughout history, powerful people have bullied those with less power. That doesn't make it easier to deal with. I was bullied. He was bullied. My 7-year-old granddaughter experienced bullying as a kindergartener. It not only breaks my heart - it angers me.

I think bullying is worse today. At least I could get away from the jerk that harassed me when I went home for the day. Now, kids are constantly connected through technology. Painful, embarrassing situations are photographed or filmed, then instantly uploaded to be shared with the not only classmates, but the entire world. Where can a kid escape from malicious messages when they are transmitted anonymously by text or email?

Moreover, how do you teach kids to combat persistent, hateful behavior? How do you help them heal from the spiteful words and cruel actions of others? How can caring adults prevent this pandemic of bad behavior in the first place?

This horror movie remake left me with more questions than answers - not about plot or characterization - but about life and culture and coping with pain. I think working through pain helped create my empathy toward others. It drives me to help those who suffer, or who are harassed or neglected by society.

It motivates me look for hopeful solutions to what seem like hopeless situations.

Life cycle events lend themselves to cultural and religious ceremony. Formal customs acknowledge and move us through undulating emotions associated with birth, graduation and weddings, to the deepest pain and sorrow of death. Rituals provide a road map that tells us to first do this, and then do that, during times when our minds and souls are too exhausted to tend to these details.

Many of us think of "rituals" in reference to these kinds of events - loss, gain, a beginning, an end. However, we each create an intricate framework of rituals for ourselves, often without really thinking about it. Repetition creates a familiarity and comfort, so our rituals ground us and, I believe, provide a sense of peace.

I've been mulling over this idea since I read the late Roger Ebert's memoir, "Life Itself," last month. In one chapter, he described the rituals that gave him a sense of continuity during his travels. Walking in London. Waking before the sun to have breakfast at an outdoor café in Cannes. Eating a burger at Steak & Shake in Urbana. Ebert was, as his wife, Chaz called it, "touching the bases."

We all have our own ways of touching the bases. Think of the way you manage morning. My morning begins the night before, as the whirring grinder releases the warm, rich scent of roasted beans into the kitchen air. I fill the coffee maker with water and ground beans, and then set the timer to 4:30 a.m. Once I turn the knob and the little green light blinks on, I am ready for sleep.

I am like the people on the commercials who wake to the scent of coffee brewing - if you don't count the cheerful smile, fully made-up face and freshly coiffed hair. Once the pot beeps that coffee is ready, I pour the same amount (count one-two-three) of sugar-free hazelnut creamer into each travel mug - my husband's is red and mine is green. I fill his mug with coffee, but I don't fill mine until 40 or so minutes later, when I am heading out the door. I drink it during my drive to the train station.

My rituals extend to laundry. I like to stay home on Sunday afternoons, methodically washing, drying and folding so the week begins with clean clothes. Yes, it's an exciting life. I try to be flexible, of course. If we have plans for Sunday, I do laundry on Saturday. However, somehow, it throws me off a bit.

We have family vacation rituals, too. Living in Minnesota, we skied with our kids on weekends. Our ritual involved stopping at a gas station halfway to the hills for coffee, hot chocolate and breakfast pizza. For lunch and snacks, I packed sandwiches, fruit, granola bars and red licorice whips. The day I forgot the red licorice whips was a terrible day indeed. The kids complained. My husband complained. Who knew that string-shaped candy would be a key to familial peace?

For years, we met my sister and her family in the Wisconsin Dells to spend two glorious days at a big water park, staying at the same hotel, eating breakfast and lunch in our rooms and then having dinner out, usually at the same restaurant. It was easy to enjoy ourselves, because we knew what to expect. We had been there before and would return the following year. These rituals provided checkpoints in time and a rhythm to our lives. Then one year, our kids were grown and out of the house. My sister's kids were in high school and too busy with jobs and friends to make the trip. My husband and I felt lost that first year of Dell-lessness - and though we've created new rituals since then, summer has never been quite the same.

When I was young, I flexed my individuality muscles by refusing to follow rituals. I suspect the rituals existed anyway; I was simply ignoring them. Now, I embrace my quirky rituals that frame my life, and celebrate the way others "touch their bases" as well.

Be sure to embrace your rituals, too.

I love rocks. Or maybe I love what they represent. Hundreds of thousands or more years of the history of this planet, even the universe. They come in a multitude of colors, textures, shapes and sizes—a small demonstration of God's infinite creativity.

Sometimes, they represent a moment in time. For example, I still have a smooth maroon Lake Superior agate that my husband, Tedd, handed me as we walked along a gravel-edged road almost two decades ago.

When I look at that rock, I remember the way he scanned the ground as we talked, and then suddenly stopped to pounce on the tiny treasure. He handed it to me proudly, pointing out the creamy bull-eye pattern at the center. I tucked it into my jeans pocket to keep it safe until we got home. It took up residence in a box among other treasured trinkets—a broken watch, a sparkly cat-shaped pin, a carved ivory bracelet given to me by a friend who was from India, and each of my kids' first lost teeth.

That moment also started an accidental collection. I have rocks stashed in glass jars, and some in open dishes. Larger specimens live on my front porch. Others have been placed in gardens or transferred to grandchildren as instantaneous heirlooms. I have rocks smoothed by the rhythmic dance of ocean waves, gray stones from paths and walkways of places near and far.

A friend went to Israel almost two years ago and brought me back a piece of Jerusalem stone. That piece of rock means even more after I visited Israel earlier this year, and witnessed the sense of continuity and permanence the stone provides to Jerusalem's architecture.

Last week, I walked along a red dirt path, eyes focused just ahead of my toes. A bright white piece of quartz sparkled in the sunlight, and as I picked it up from the ground, tiny flecks of gold reflected on my fingers. Continuing my "hunt," I found a chunk of black porous rock, a pink-tinged bit of granite, and a rock that was a miniature version of the painted hills surrounding the area, its violet, sage and brick-colored layers whispering secrets of the past.

Perhaps the stories are key to my fascination with rocks. Each one in my collection symbolizes people and places in my personal history while at the same time giving my life and memories context. They remind me that I am but a breath in the continuum of the universe. Or, spinning the idea in a more positive sense—what is my 50 years compared to a million? I'm happy to take a youthful perspective whenever I have the chance.

For a long time, I had a rock from the house where my grandmother grew up in Ireland. It was nothing exciting to look at but it had great meaning for me. It was a physical connection between her youth and my own. That particular rock disappeared in one of our moves, or perhaps was absorbed into my daughter's childhood rock collection that became part of our home's landscape when she tired of it. Just the memory of picking up that rock and wrapping it in my sweater allows me to feel grandma's presence again in a small way.

Then there was the rock I picked up a couple of months ago. It was heart-shaped and I handed it to my husband, telling him—in all seriousness—that it reminded me of him.

Because love is like a rock. It's permanent. It grounds us. It may have some imperfections, but overall it's beautiful in its unique way. Its layers of color are like the complex layers of our life together—with past, present and future fused together.

I always had a romantic view of camping. Something stirred in my soul as I pondered sleeping outdoors under the stars, cooking over a crackling campfire, watching waves lap lazily along a sparkling shoreline.

My first "camping" experience was with my dad. He and I, and later, my sister as well, were in the YMCA Indian Princesses program (now known as the Adventure Princesses program). It was special daddy-daughter time. We had great fun, especially during the seasonal weekend "campouts," which involved sleeping in cabins and eating in a large communal hall, playing games, tobogganing in the winter, and doing all kinds of crafts and outside activities. The dads built campfires where we sang songs, lit marshmallows on fire and ate s' mores. For my young self, it was a rugged outdoor experience. At least that's what I thought.

Then I went to Camp Windego, a Girl Scout camp in Wild Rose, Wis., for two-week stretches during a couple of summers. There, we slept in tents on wood platforms. I learned to build a campfire myself and cooked whole meals over it, eating things I never ate before. It's amazing what you'll eat when you're starving and there are no other options.

I learned to canoe and make floatation devices out of my wet clothes. I discovered that I disliked outhouses, especially in the middle of the night, although an outhouse was a major improvement over digging a hole in the woods for such purposes. I also learned that I truly didn't like mosquitoes or spiders, no matter what. They simply didn't fit my romantic view of camping.

Despite outhouses and bugs, I still dreamed of sleeping under the stars, and looked forward to "real camping" someday.

Fortunately, I married someone who loves the outdoors. He never camped as a kid, so we bought a little tent and went camping. It was fun to watch him enjoy the experience.

Fast-forward a number of years, and weekend camping trips became part of our family's summer ritual. For several years, we enjoyed the serendipity of rain-free camping. We grew more confident in our outdoor skills and purchased a beautiful tent that would sleep all five of us comfortably, with room to spare. We headed to Devil's Lake in Baraboo, Wis., for the tent's maiden voyage—an apropos description for the experience.

After setting up and admiring our new purchase, and then filling it with sleeping bags and gear, we built a fire and cooked dinner. Exhausted by the three-hour car ride, fresh air and activity, we snuggled in under a starry sky—the ultimate in camping romance. I remember thinking we forgot something.

Several hours later, I woke to popping bursts of light, crashing thunder and the sounds of three distressed kids. A stream of water poured from the roof seams onto my head.

I remembered what I forgot: One must seal the seams of a new tent to avoid leakage.

"Try to go back to sleep," I told the kids. That lasted for maybe five minutes, as our sleeping bags absorbed water that not only came from the ceiling, it flowed from the sides of the tent as well.

My husband and I stared at each other as lightening flashed again, wordlessly communicating an action plan. He got up, ran outside, started our vehicle and turned on the lights. With the kids loaded inside the minivan, he and I made record time tearing down the mud-covered tent and its sodden contents, stuffing everything into the trunk area. Within 10 minutes, we were on the road toward home, the kids sleeping soundly in the back seat.

Did my romantic notions about camping change after that experience? Heck, no.

When we lived in Minnesota, I was a Girl Scout leader, and volunteered to chaperone a summer overnight campout in August. The night was clear and the Perseid meteor showers were scheduled to be in full view, so we let the girls who were interested sleep under the stars.

The meteor shower was indescribable. We lay on the ground in our sleeping bags, eyes cast upward, trying to count the twinkling stars as they made their way across a velvet sky. My childhood dream was coming to fruition! The night air cooled. The girls' voices quieted one by one. Confident that they were finally going to sleep, my eyelids drooped.

Until someone screamed, "What was THAT?" I looked up. Then I heard it—a soft flutter.

Then I saw it. Or rather, them.

Bats.

Of course, the bats were more interested in eating the mosquitoes and other nighttime bugs than bothering a bunch of girls in sleeping bags on the ground; however, the girls were unconvinced. They ran into their tents.

My idyllic image of sleeping under the stars ended. I became more pragmatic about camping—but not completely.

One Memorial Day weekend we headed to Minnesota's North Shore. I was excited to learn that there were campsites available right on the lakeshore. All practicality disappeared as I imagined sleeping next to the lake, the sound of the waves carrying into my dreams. (Feel free to insert a sigh here.)

However, I forgot something. Again. The average May low temperature in that area is 40 degrees—a whopping 8 degrees above freezing, often made colder when the wind comes off a recently defrosted Lake Superior. Throughout the night, one or another family member was up, shuffling in his or her bag to pull on one more sweatshirt, a pair of socks, even gloves. Only a crack-of-dawn fire and cup of hot chocolate helped alleviate the chill—as did sitting in the car with the heater on "high."

Our kids are grown now, and my husband and I both prefer sleeping on a mattress to not sleeping on the hard ground. We love being outdoors, but appreciate life's comforts as well.

Still, if I ever have the chance to sleep under the stars with my grandkids—I will do it. Bats and all.