After my brother Josh passed, I was lost. The two best friends I was born to were gone, and I was left to be the lone sibling. Everything felt heavy and dark. I couldn’t seem to find where I was going or how I was expected to move through the world. The tides felt as if they were sweeping me away from shore, one wave at a time, relentlessly pulling me farther and farther out to sea. My panic attacks felt like I was swallowing mouthfuls of ocean water, salty and dehydrating.
One day, in a blur of fright, I found a grief center called the Christi Center, here in Austin Texas. To this day, I don’t know exactly when or how I found it, but I did. I decided to go there one evening just to see what it was like. I remember some moments in the center vividly, like waiting for my turn to hold the purple heart stone. They would pass this beautiful stone for each person to hold and speak their loved one’s name out loud, the one or ones who had passed. I could never speak a word. I would hold that stone and hysterically cry with tears burning the corner of my blood shot eyes, then hand it to the person next to me, I never spoke. I wasn’t able to break the cement that held my tongue in place. I had so much inside of me but my brain wouldn’t, or couldn’t, let those emotions gain oxygen. So they raged inside my body, bouncing around in fury.
Yet, I found myself listening to each person speak. After passing the stone, we would break up into groups that I never quite fit into, but I still seemed to feel content with. There are some stories I remember fully. It is as if I can see a movie of their experience playing in my mind accompanied with the perfect soundtrack. I can still hear their voices narrating their journeys of hurt and grief as they tried to find their footing. There was a weird sense of protection I felt in the Christi Center that I can’t fully explain.
The Christi Center became a security blanket for me. As I pulled up to the center that was once a home, but at some point transformed into a safety net for the community, I could feel my heart pounding. I always felt so nervous walking down the driveway into the building behind the main house that faces the road. I could feel my entire body tremble with anxious vibrations that were incessant, with a small voice begging me to turn and run. I know what I was afraid of. Still, I don’t know what kept me putting one foot in front of the other, propelling my body into the building, but I’m happy it did. I wanted to be there more than I was afraid of my grief and new existence.
The Christi Center is a significant part of my grief journey. I may not have shared my thoughts out loud for others to hear, I may not have spoken the names of my brothers audibly, but their memories are etched into the walls of that building. Their memories breathe with other’s memories shared between the drywall and wood, the seat cushions, the purple heart stone, the fears and tears of surviving loved ones. They all still live inside that assembly.
That’s why yesterday was such a meaningful and symbolic moment for myself and for my grief. I was able to return to this place that has been such an important aspect of my journey. To have the Christi Center, we have to acknowledge the time, energy and care of those who facilitate the operations of this profound anchor. This anchor is the love that Christi Lanahan’s parents have for their daughter. That love drove Susan and Don Cox to create this physical space for others to gather and express their grief which has evolved into so much more. The staff and interns are who have created, and continue to maintain this sanctuary with a sense of compassion that cultivates a gentle energy that flows through the air.
Yesterday, I was welcomed into the center as a guest to offer a gift. The gift of kindness and thankfulness to the amazing interns. I spent an hour with them and focused on gentle movement and guided meditation. The staff and interns hold so much grief for others, and I was honored to encourage them to focus on themselves, to release tension, and to let go of anything that may be weighing on them. It felt like a full circle for me. I once was reluctant to walk down that driveway, now I’m eager and thrilled to be able to give back in my own way.
My Daily Ransom 
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