Chad and Terri Sigafus

Stories of Hope and Healing 




Hello friends! It's been a while since my last blog. As many of you know, I've been on a long journey. I'm thankful to announce that my journey has come to an end with the completion of my Counting Cardinals book, a memoir written in free verse poetry, depicting the events that transpired that stillest of all summers--the summer my mother passed away suddenly from brain tumors.

Over the past few months, I've been thinking a lot about the purpose of this blog. In the beginning, I could only write only about grief and loss . . . because my heart was so broken. But God has a way of changing hearts. He changed mine! He set my feet firmly on the path toward hope and healing through the writing of Counting Cardinals.

It's been over two years since Mom died. Yet the tears still find me. Sometimes when I least expect it. When I'm clothes shopping, or walking down our gravel road and catch myself pulling out my cell phone to give her a quick call, only to realize she wont be there.
 

We all deal with grief in different ways. It is never easy to lose someone you love. But grief is a necessary part of healing. Grief is a place we visit, but do not stay. I have come to understand this very well since the passing of my beloved mother. Some of us heal by writing books, poems, songs, or short stories about how we feel--how much someone has meant to us, and how painful it feels to lose them. There is something in the writing and reading of such stories that brings lightness of heart and healing. 

For this reason, I will use this blog to share stories of hope and healing. Your stories of hope and healing! Both happy and sad. Stories that will bring a smile to the readers face, and perhaps a tear to the eye. 

For those of you who would like to share your heartfelt stories with me, I encourage you to submit them by clicking on the link below. Please include your story or poem in the body of your email. No attachments please. I am particularly interested in any stories about cardinals, as I believe they are visitors from Heaven. 

For those of you interested in reading my book Counting Cardinals, I thank you for your support. It is my sincere hope that you will find comfort in its message. You can order your copy at www.timberwindrecords.com. I'd be glad to sign your copy. Just drop me an email.

In conclusion, I will leave you with this comforting thought. I found this circulating on facebook. It made me smile . . .

Grief is the last act of love we have to give to those we loved.
Where there is deep grief,
there was great love.
 
Still Counting Cardinals,

Terri Sigafus
 
 

Back From A Journey 

It's been a while since I've posted. The reason is because I've been all consumed with my current writing project, Counting Cardinals. Two years ago September, I lost my mother to brain cancer. The book tells the story of our journey. This project has proven more difficult than I ever imagined. There were times when I sat down to write, and found myself sobbing so hard that I had to get up and leave. However, the hundreds of cardinal sightings out my sun room window gave me the strength to carry on! As I near the end of this project, I find that I am a different person. Through the writing of this book, God has helped me to understand and accept the loss of my mother with a full heart. It is my hope that this book will bring comfort to those who find themselves facing such loss. I wrote this book in free verse poetry, which allowed my inner-most thoughts to flow freely . . . I'd like to share the first chapter with my facebook friends. I'll keep you posted as to when the book will be available. I've still got some tweaking to do, but I'm thinking it will be ready by September 2nd, the two year anniversary of my Mother's death.

Chapter One

It was the stillest of all summers.
Not a butterfly in sight.
The birds did not sing.
The maple tree in the front yard
stood tall
and sad
against the empty blue sky.
The lilacs
I remembered from my youth,
once hearty,
fragrant,
looked pale,
frail . . .
like Mom.
And we set out on a journey,
navigating
blindly
through the stages of death and dying.
It was the summer of sadness.
Insufferable,
inconsolable,
sadness.
It was the summer of laughter.
joyful,
triumphant,
laughter.
It was the summer that ended in silence.
deafening,
penetrating,
silence,
as we laid Mom
to rest
in the shade of the oak tree,
beside Grandma and Grandpa.
It was the stillest of all summers . . .