January 2026: A second letter

Dear Friends,

When I wrote my January letter earlier this month I didn’t expect I’d be writing another one so soon. I haven’t even responded to everyone who reached out and I’d hoped to do so before writing again. But I was encouraged by how many of you replied. My soul felt lifted by the conversations that were started. My hope for deeper connection going into the new year was buoyed, and so I’m here again because I could use that kind of boost again. Perhaps you could too?

I have to warn you though, it’s been a heavy week, and this letter may not feel like much of a boost. In fact if you’re feeling sensitive right now, you might want to wait on this one or give it a pass altogether.

I’ll start by telling you about a book I listened to a couple of months ago. The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter is a book about confronting and even embracing the things in life that cause discomfort. It covers physical exertion, cold exposure and hunger – all things that have to do with our material existence, but it also considers existential discomforts such as boredom and the reality of our own impermanence. In the book, he talks about the Buddhist monks of Bhutan and their practice of contemplating their own deaths at least three times a day.

Recently I’ve been given plenty of opportunities to contemplate death, and this week in particular brought it into sharp focus.

Just after the holidays, our sweet old dog, the one we adopted after finding her on the side of the road fourteen years ago, went into decline. We recognized what was happening, and we knew our days with her were running out. Our care for her went from typical elder care accommodations to more of a hospice care situation. We fed her fresh ground beef and gave her extra cuddles. We carried her up and down the stairs and cleaned up after her when she didn’t make it outside. On Monday, I told my supervisor at work that I might need to take some time as we were getting close to having to make the difficult decision to have her put down.

Then on Tuesday morning I woke to a text from one of my sisters telling me to call her right away. That’s never a good thing to wake up to. I feared that the call might be about my 87 year old mom who’d just had a rough bout of flu and I braced myself before dialing my sister back. The news she delivered was not about my mom but about our nephew Ellijah, just 27 years old and the son of my youngest sister, who had died in the night after a tragic accident involving a gun. The exact circumstances of his death weren’t known at the time, and frankly they didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was gone, and whatever amount of pain and shock that I felt upon hearing the news were a million degrees smaller than what Ellijah’s parents and siblings were experiencing.

Then a sense of helplessness set in. We cannot undo death and we cannot ease the pain of a parent whose lost a child. We can offer comfort, express our condolences, shower them with love as best we’re able, but the hard truth is that sometimes pain has to be endured, and we have to allow those that are hurting to endure it in whatever way they need to. I can carry pain over the loss of Ellijah’s life, but that will not diminish the pain that my sister is experiencing. Comfort in her time of exquisite pain is the best I can hope for.

I was not personally close to Ellijah, but I kept in touch with him on Facebook. Interestingly, I feel like I know more about him now with the tremendous outpouring of fond memories and photos that his friends and close family members are sharing online. By all accounts he was silly and thoughtful and was an exceptionally loving uncle, brother, nephew, friend, son and coworker. And while none of that is surprising given what I did know of him, it’s beautiful to see so much love for him expressed so openly.

Like many of us, I have a love/hate relationship with social media, but I will say that this week I’ve been thankful for Facebook. It’s helped me know my nephew better. It’s given me a place to go to mourn. It’s helped me feel connected to family that’s thousands of miles away. And it’s a helpful and effective way for me to get this letter out to you, wherever you might be.

And writing this letter and knowing so many beautiful people are reading it is helping me process my own grief, and I thank you for being there.

I know there are many ways to go through grief. Lots of people prefer to keep it to themselves, but (obviously) I’m not one of those folks. I don’t share my grief to bring you down, and I apologize if that’s the effect this letter is having. I share because life is full of beautiful things and it’s full of hard things, and only sharing what’s good doesn’t feel completely honest. I promise I’ll share the good times as well so that I will not become the Debbie Downer of letter writers.

How are you? We’re just a couple of weeks into 2026 but it seems like a lot has happened. In terms of world events and politics, etc. it’s been intense and I have the sense that it’s going to be that way for a while. I keep reminding myself of the overall message of Easter’s The Comfort Crisis, which is that change for the better often comes from leaning in to discomfort. How do I lean into the discomfort of this time of chaos that we’re in? How do I show up for my family and my friends and my community? More importantly, what is my role in getting us through to the other side, whatever that other side might look like?

I’m looking for ways in which I’ve chosen comfort over growth in my own life, and there are plenty. One of them is my tendency to keep my convictions to myself.

The subject I’ve probably read the most about over the past two years is deconstruction from religious systems. I laugh about it because I deconstructed from my religion long before that word ‘deconstruction’ was a thing. I’m more in the reconstruction phase of my spiritual life and while organized religion isn’t the pathway I’m choosing, I still resonate deeply with the teachings of Jesus.

I am baffled and dismayed at how so many people who claim to follow Jesus don’t actually apply his teachings to their political convictions. It’s not my job to change anyone’s mind, but I am trying to become a person who speaks her own truth and I’m reclaiming the stories that formed my sense of right and wrong. On this subject, I highly recommend reading or listening to Separation of Church and Hate by John Fugelsang. It’s funny, because he’s a comedian, but it points out the ways that scripture has been used to justify policies and behaviors that are a far cry from the message Jesus brought into the world.

Are you feeling challenged to step out of any of your comfort zones? If you are, I’d be curious to hear about it.

I’ll tell you about a beautiful thing that happened in our town a couple of weeks ago, although it is also a story connected to death. I guess that’s just the nature of this letter, which is a reflection of this moment in time, and a reflection of life in general.

There is a fun-loving group of people in town that have taken it upon themselves over the years to bring the New Orleans spirit to Homer. They call themselves the Krewe of Grambrinus Social Aid and Pleasure Club and every February they march in the winter carnival parade with their instruments and costumes and spread their Mardi Gras joy. In recent weeks a number of the folks that were a part of this festive group have passed on, but they were honored with a Second Line procession down Pioneer Avenue on a frigid and sunny Saturday afternoon. Nearly 200 people showed up with instruments, white handkerchiefs for waving, and umbrellas for spinning. Tears and laughter and a big group of friends walking down the road making a bit of a spectacle of themselves reminded me of the Homer of many years ago. A lot has changed about this town over the thirty odd years that we’ve lived here, but it’s still Homer at its core, and I appreciate that.

Back to our sweet old dog, Gypsy. The same day we heard the news of our nephew Ellijah, it became clear that it was time to say goodbye to her. Some days are worse than others, and Tuesday hit us hard.

Sorrow comes in different degrees, and it’s hard to hold the loss of our dog on the same scale as the loss of a beloved nephew. Still though, our house feels pretty empty without her, and our hearts are heavy that our companion of fourteen years is no longer with us. There’s that saying that love is love, and it’s true. On the same note, grief is grief, and we’re holding it right now, on all it’s different levels. You might be, too. And if so, please know you’re not alone.

Thank you for reading this letter and for being on the receiving end of all I’ve had to say. I should tell you that even though it’s been a hard week for me, I am okay. In fact I am more than okay. My life is good and my hope is that yours is too.

Before I wrap up, I have a couple of things to ask of you. If you have a beloved pet, please give them an extra scratch or a special treat. Please thank them for the joy they bring into your life. If you’re prone to such shows of affection, please stick your face down into their fur and inhale deeply.

If you’re a praying person, please say a prayer for my nephew’s parents and siblings. If you’re a Quaker, please hold them in the light. If you are an atheist, please imagine a future for them in which the pain over the loss of their son and brother is less acute.

I believe that how we define ourselves matters very little compared to the love we offer. Please offer and accept all that you can.

I loved hearing from so many of you after my last letter and I hope you’ll continue to stay in touch. All the best to you until next time.

With love,

Teresa

And just a few more things:

*In my last letter I posted the Neil Douglas-Klatz Aramaic translation of the lord’s prayer and many of you found it meaningful. I’ll post a link to it again, in case you are interested: https://abwoon.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/APwlinks2020.pdf

*What am I talking about when I talk about prayer? Here’s something I wrote back in 2018 that still feels true to me today. https://loftyminded.com/2018/10/25/imperfect-prayers/

*Responding through the blog platform, even through “reply” will always leave a public comment. If you’d like to reach out to me personally, here is my email address tsundmark@protonmail.com