Earlier this summer I finally tasted a cup of jojo. This wasn’t a weak-willed violation of a (not very likely) fast from caffeine. Actually, “Jo” is my good friend, and “A Cup of JoJo” is the collective title for the local art classes she teaches. They fall somewhere between lessons in fine art and the finest art therapy. I’m pretty sure she named this particular workshop, held at the Harry Edwards Healing Sanctuary in May, for my benefit: “A Whole Day with Clay.” Eight or ten of us began the day working the clay on tables, in just the way we kneaded the sourdough on our kitchen counters during lockdown. Eventually, we were asked to pat our terracotta-coloured lumps into balls before gathering in a circle to introduce ourselves.
The whole thing became surprisingly intimate when we passed our little balls of clay round the circle and discovered that each one was different from the rest—some wetter or drier, some warmer, some bigger, etc. As part of our introduction, we were asked to say something about why we were there. A healing element was part of the creative purposes of the day, and mine began unexpectedly, right there in that circle. As we went round the circle, I heard my son’s name again and again and again. Human voices said “clay”, as they talked about the lump of earth in their hands. Tears came without warning—ridiculously, some might say. Of course nobody was referring to my son, but so desperate had I been to hear my son’s name that it moved me, healed me.
No parent could prepare for the abrupt physical absence of her child from Earth. That’s true enough, but the slow bleed that happens over the long term is when the child’s name eventually evades mention, like ‘slacks’ or ‘dungarees’ or ‘By gum!’ — all having silently fallen from common usage. It’s not intentional, and there are perfectly good explanations. There is no ongoing life of Clay’s about which it would be customary to inquire, in the way people routinely ask about my surviving son and daughter. No further developments, and no well-being to check up on.
It can also be pretty daunting to speak to a parent about their deceased child. Perhaps it’s even unsuitable for polite conversation: inevitably it acknowledges the most unfathomable existential condition for a human being. A grieving parent not only has to face the certainty and capriciousness of death, but their instinctive participation in the natural order of the living world is so personally and directly challenged. The latter is surely part of what can make infertility so unbearably painful. Aren’t we cellularly programmed to produce, nurture and protect our young for all our earthly life? It has been said that one is only ever as happy as his unhappiest child. When a child dies, well what then? Could it be that natural selection drives out contemplation of the possibility of outliving one’s offspring for the way it could undermine a parent’s confidence in his ability to secure the future of his genes?
There are no rules for grieving the loss of a child, we are constantly told. I don’t think, therefore, that there can be strict rules for responding to the bereaved either, only a muddling along together in community as we try to look after each other, preserving and nurturing the good that remains. Looking back on how I related to the one or two couples I knew who had lost a child before I lost my own, it’s pretty disappointing. I remember having all these thoughts swimming around…. I wanted them to know how very special their child was, how much that child still impacted me and others –his smile or his sense of humour or whatever, and how often I thought of them and felt for them in their loss. Not once did I write or call to say so. Recalling this helps me resist having specific expectations for people’s responses to our loss, and helps with the hurt caused by what people do or don’t say.
We have been blessed to have received hundreds of cards, letters, and messages from people, many of whom simply wanted to tell us they care. Others, it was obvious, were deeply affected by Clay’s death, and some were bereaved parents themselves. I couldn’t have imagined such an outpouring, especially at the time Clay died. I have heard some bereaved parents recount the deep hurt they feel when their loss is minimised over time, or their grief is no longer acknowledged, or their child is simply forgotten….even by close family. If ever you find yourself dithering over what to say to a bereaved parent, or anyone suffering loss for that matter, my best advice is to just say something. Or be physically present, quietly. If you find yourself on the other side, giving yourself over to feeling offended by someone’s impertinent comment or unexpected silence, do extend to the offender the same grace you undoubtedly need.
Many sent scripture verses about comfort and the closeness of God, acknowledging our broken hearts. For some these verses can be hard to receive due to the deep pain of child loss. My experience is that these verses reflect a tangible reality in which comfort and protection are experienced in direct proportion to the depth of one’s suffering. I’ll share just one example.
Last autumn, already more than two years after Clay died, we received a letter from someone we didn’t know. She had taught Clay some years before but had left the school and only just learned of his death. I had to catch my breath as I sat reading about the moments she’d shared with Clay, her genuine fondness for him—cheekiness and all—and such genuine feeling for our loss. Clay’s sense of humour, gentleness, earnest interest in others and constant laughter jumped off the handwritten pages and touched something deep inside me. The letter came at a time when we were still having to contend with the muck and mire of the drug-riddled, lost young man Clay had become in the time before he died.
This teacher had taught Clay art, and she sent copies of a digital piece Clay had produced, identifiably modelled on the work of David Hockney. I’d only recently become familiar with Hockney’s styles when his lockdown paintings made the news– scenes from Normandy around the theme of springtime. Clay was no graphic artist, but I thought his digital composition bore as strong a resemblance to these recent paintings as anything else Hockney had done. No other teacher from the school had written to us with such personal words about Clay, and we’d had no such contact from any staff since the time of his death, so we received this letter truly like the Balm of Gilead. He was loved! He’d made an impact!
Comfort and healing come in many forms, and I could tell dozens more stories that touch on the miraculous. I suspect one’s eyes and ears must be open and heart soft, which is a vulnerability too great for some. There are many moments when I could choose, and occasionally do, to put the walls up, hunker down and protect myself against this cruel world at all costs. Those closest to me will know how hard I’m working to survive our loss of Clay, one day even to thrive. He was really special, and we were close. Sometimes his loss still seems incomprehensible, and all I can say is, “I’m still standing.” By gum.
clay fragments 
Everyone grieves differently. I am very emotional and I like to see pictures and to see the things that Kyla did. We had some of her artwork and had them framed and are still outside my bedroom and I see them everyday.
It has been 13.5 years since she left this earthly plane what helped me was keeping her memory alive. Her biological mother’s side of the family grieved very differently like it was taboo to talk about her. Since Miley, my 7 yo granddaughter has come along I see so much of Kyla in her and it is truly healing to see part of Kyla in Miley. Miley has also helped her mother my youngest daughter Larissa to help her with Kyla’s loss. We talk about Aunt Kyla a lot.
I do not know what it will be for you. But you will know that the time of great grieving shifts and love and acceptance become easier. I hold you all in my heart and my thoughts and prayers. Thank you for sharing your journey because that is what it is a journey one we never wanted, one we will never understand and one that has changed us forever!
In Love and Gratitude
Sandy Roberts
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Thank you for beautifully to words and sharing your journey. I am encouraged by the thought that it is never too late to say something to someone who is grieving or experiencing loss, or just to listen. love you.
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Our loved ones will never be forgotten. Our Kevin was killed in 1984, quite a while ago. His high school band director just posted a message of remembrance on Facebook that brought many other memories from Kevin’s friends. It brought many tears from his brother and sister but it made my heart sing. Even after 38 years our son is still lovingly remembered. Clay will not be forgotten!
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The loss of our sons will always be with us. Each of us grieves in our own way, there is no right or wrong way. We talk about our son all the time, he is still and always will be a part of our family.. I love hearing about Clay and wish that we could have met him.
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What a touching account of your ‘clay’ class and the preciousness of hearing your beautiful son’s name over and over, having been deprived of that simple pleasure for quite some time, and what treasure to receive from Clay’s teacher her positive recollections and his artwork after losing the child you knew and loved to the awfulness of drug abuse. I too lost a daughter 6 years ago to an eating disorder aged 26 and I completely recognise all that you have so eloquently described. Much love from one bereaved mum to another ❤️
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Beautifully written as always Gretchen. I will never forget Clay and think of him and you all so often. I wish I could wave a magic wand and the grief you feel, would magically disappear.
Always in my thoughts and prayers.
Much love Amelda Xx
Sent from my iPhone
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You write so well Gretchen. I remember the day he died as I was painting with my mum on a prayer and painting week at Crowhurst. The shock of Clays death then is still so strong now. Will continue to pray for you all .Teresax
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Gretchen I love reading these reflections and memories. I’m deeply affected and interested in how any mother (or parent let alone other family) copes with such loss and I often struggle to hear of lives taken too soon. I think it strikes a chord with me as I have a son whose an alcoholic and every possibility I’ll outlive him and a daughter who was a drug addict which meant my husband and I took permanent custody of her son at 17 months old, he’s 5 now and a joy to us. Thankfully she managed to stop using 18 months ago but I live in constant awareness that she’s fragile and I could lose one or both my children to a horrid addiction which has no socio-economic boundaries. I have so much respect for your honest accounts and love hearing and learning more about Clay. I have introduced others in the same position to your writing as it is such a unique and painful situation which touches the hearts of so many who are unable to relay the deep wound it causes. God bless you xx
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Gretchen, thank you for sharing another piece of your journey. Clay has undoubtedly left his beautiful mark on the hearts and minds of many. Some have been able to reach out and others have not . Some people consciously realize Clay’s impact while others have no idea. The ripples travel far and Clay definitely made a splash! Sending you so much love! 🥰
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Gretchen, you are the most amazing writer. I was deep into a few boring admin tasks just before I read this latest post. I’m now in a puddle of tears and feeling the profound emotions around love, life, death, parenthood…. We are all mourning life without Clay, but I also mourn that he didn’t get to have you and Frank as his parents for longer than he did. JCP
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Thank you for the picture of Clay.That helps to keep him alive in my heart and realize how terrible hard this is for all of you
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Thinking of you always Gretchen and how strong you are. You are truly an amazing woman and I don’t know how you cope. I have lost my sister but I can’t begin to imagine what it feels like to lose your child. Clay would be so proud that his mum remembers him like you do because he will live in people’s memories probably longer than anyone who is alive now. You are a brilliant mum! 💜💜💜
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Gretchen, your words are so beautiful and your grief so tangible that I feel completely lost for any worthy words in response. But I do want to say that I didn’t know Clay very well and I’m truly sorry about that. But I believe that he was very like George and that makes me feel so much closer to you in your grief. What you and Frank are going through is torturous in the extreme, but please know that Clay will never be forgotten. We have his picture on our fridge and it reminds us to pray for him and you daily. Clay was special because he was a beautiful combination of a very special you and a very special Frank and that means that every day you can see him in each other. Let’s try again to sort out that camping trip and I’ll drive the boys over and then the two of us can talk all things Clay whilst they do their thing. Id also LOVE us to do a clay workshop together as I learnt how to throw pots in Kent and I absolutely LOVED it-I too found it emotionally healing. ❤️❤️
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❤️❤️❤️💔
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