Dealing With Loss - contributed by Brenda Baker-Jackson

Each of us approach loss in different ways. As a type A personality, I approach any emergency as a need for action. I need a plan to cope. If there is no plan, I feel totally lost and adrift. Thus is my story on learning of the loss of my great nephew…

Upon receiving the news of the death of Brody, I immediately began thinking of how I could honor him, this little one whose life was cut so short. As a gardener, the first thing I considered was planting. What better way to remember Brody than planting a tree, something that is lasting and will be a monument for his life. Luckily, the Heard Natural Science Museum was having their native Texas plant sale and I remembered seeing several Texas Persimmons during my Friday evening visit. With that plan in mind, I called my brother (the grandfather) and let him know that I was going to purchase two trees, one for me to plant in Dallas and one for him to plant in the Austin area.

That thought didn’t take long and I found myself, once again, needing a plan. As a side note, I feel it is important to note that my mother had not yet been told of the death of her youngest great grandchild, so I felt it important that she be included in the remembrance of Brody, even though she didn’t yet know. Being the keeper of several of her various craft/sewing projects, my mind began thinking that a baby quilt needed to be made. My thought being that the quilt could be buried with Brody and a piece of his great grandmother would always be with him.

I felt trepidation in approaching my niece (the mother) about this, not knowing how she would respond. Additionally, I didn’t know what to say to her about the loss. I would try to put myself in her place and found that I just couldn’t even begin to grasp the immense pain that she and her husband were going through. When I finally worked up the courage to call my niece, the first words that came out of my mouth were, “I don’t know what to say.” I proposed the making of a quilt and it being buried with Brody and she said she would like that. Never having made a quilt before, I began the project. It helped me to get through that Sunday evening because I now had an assignment - something that I could plan for and take action on.

The quilt is far from perfect and I know that is not the point. There was love and thought put into this quilt.


The top row of the quilt contains three little boy/girl quilt blocks that my mother had done. The top row is significant, as the middle block represents Brody, with his older brother, Brooks, and his older sister, Breanne, keeping him company.

Three of the blocks I included are recycled from a quilt that my own grandmother made (the star blocks). The butterfly block and heart embroidered blocks were made by my mother.

As I already stated, even though there are mistakes in the construction of this quilt, I must say that I felt another force was helping me put this quilt together. My mother’s best friend, Viola Snyder, was an avid quilter and passed away this last January. I can definitely say that I felt Viola was looking over my shoulder and assisting me in the construction of the quilt. I just know that I could not have assembled this quilt in the time it took (it took me around 3 ½ hours) if I had not had assistance.

The quilt was delivered on Monday, April 14 during the evening visitation. I took a variety of markers and the funeral home set-up a table to display the quilt and allow everyone the opportunity to leave their thoughts and wishes for Brody. Breanne and Brooks both had time to personalize their blocks. Brooks colored his block in the typical 3 year old fashion while Breanne spent quite a bit of time decorating her block with rainbows and a picture of her and her mom visiting Brody. It was all very humbling.

My project was fully completed when, at the graveside service, the quilt was draped over the small casket. The quilt will permanently be with Brody and he will always have a piece of my mother, a piece of me, and (I strongly believe) a piece of Viola watching over him. My only wish is that when it comes time to join Brody, Viola, and all the family members that I have lost, that Viola doesn’t criticize my quilt attempt too much!


Now, I am back to not having a plan, but feel a certain contentment and peace that I am protecting Brody and was able to have my Mom participate in the service.

Brody, we love you and will miss you for the rest of our lives. As your Great Uncle James wrote on the quilt, “Wait for us on the hill.”

Great Aunt Brenda

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Remembering Brody

I have often thought that if we need to know how to run, or to tumble and fall, or engage in an activity unconditionally, we need only watch kids. Oh, they know nothing of form or pace, or running a negative split, but kids do know that they run for the joy of it, and that’s all.

I was reminded of all this these past couple of days as I have watched many different children, especially my great-niece and nephew Brea and Brooks. Their energy was remarkable; even more extraordinary their abilities to be in the moment. Only Brea, the older of the two, finally crashed out of her energetic flurry into another moment, difficult to grasp, as she came to a confused realization that her youngest brother, Brody, had died just three days earlier. Watching this was a sobering, but poignant experience.

A couple of weeks ago I ran the Capitol 10K in Austin. My nephew (technically nephew-in-law, but that is only a useless detail here) asked if he could run with me. I’m no speedster, as you all know, but I have tried to learn how to run better races, and it was largely for pace that Bill wanted to run with me. Bill is a big guy, tall and heavy, really a Clydesdale if he chose to look at it that way. Bill is light on his feet, and a good bit like a kid. He’s also a good 25 years younger than me, an age difference which has made less and less difference as Bill and I have shared our love for running with each other. This made the Cap10K a special opportunity. We didn’t talk much (it was a challenging day for running easily), but we managed to stay on pace for the first half of the race, pulling each other along up the Enfield hill. In the end, Bill took off, burned out on the fifth mile and coasted on empty across the finish. I crossed the line a half minute or so later, not unhappy about the race. In fact, I was thrilled to have been of any help at all to Bill. It had been a fun time for us both.

Bill waited for me at the finish and we walked back across the grounds as he looked for his wife Cathy and the kids. My schedule was full that day, so I had to run on without seeing the rest of his family. I could now express regrets about this, but they are of no value here. Less than two weeks later, Bill and Cathy’s youngest son, Brody, died unexpectedly in his sleep. Only a little beyond a year old, Brody was still too young to run, though everyone has observed that whatever this young boy did, he did with a smile and a laugh. It would have been a joy to see him grow and run, tumble and fall, then get up and run again.

We all these past several days, this gathering of relatives and friends, learned much through this profound tragedy. We learned that even when we don’t know what to say, the right thing is said by our very struggle to say it. Words are without meaning, while fellowship becomes our language of grieving, and healing. I don’t know if we accomplish anything with our monuments and memorials. Many say these are for the living, for those of us who have survived, and that the dead have already moved beyond a need for things and gestures. But I have never been absolutely sure of this. The first marathon I ever ran was for the memory of a close friend who had died. WOG (William Oltenberg Ginn) was magic-markered onto my hat. I knew it was there; few others noticed, but I felt my quiet demonstration was met with a subtle spiritual sigh. Was it Bill Ginn or only the wind in my face? I know not.

I tell you of this simply as a reminder that we don’t necessarily have to run always in solitude. It can be with a friend; it can be across the yard with a child, as thrilled to run with us as we are with them. We can also run to the spirit of another, a friend passed or a son lost so young. I see many who do this, making their 10 Ks, or half-marathons, into memorials for those they love, or have loved. Empty gesture? I think not. In our running, tumbling, falling and getting back up, we recapture the spirit of children running, and that is a pure lesson.

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