"I saw our old pastor yesterday," Norman announced at lunch. last week. Our boys and the daycare children were finished eating, watching "Reading Rainbow" on Public Televison, waiting for the call to get ready for story and nap.

"What did he say?" I asked, not really wanting to know. Thoughts of our abandonment by our church and the thoughtless comments said to us by members there, and our own families, flashed in my head, angering me.

When Ethan first died we had been surrounded by a bevy of help, food, anything that could help us was offered and gratefuly accepted. In our pain and fog of disbelief we were so appreciative of the help and the caring and the sound of peoples' voices to fill the spot where one small one used to play.

Then, like turning off a lightbulb, the help, calls, and offers stopped after his funeral. Perhaps they wanted us to be alone in our grief; perhaps they did not know what to say and so said nothing; perhaps they just did not care. Contributing to our feelings of isolation were not only the loss of support from friends and church members, but our families' lack of understanding of the pain we were experiencing. It is not something you can describe to another, this pain. It eats you up with longing and desire, slams you with pain and the memory of pain. Pain shared is pain halved, but they do not know that--or do not want to know.

"He just asked how we are." Norman replied, not looking at me, knowing what my response would be.Our pastor had made two appointments with us soon after Ethan died to discuss our grief and related topics, but had not showed or called for either of them. Now, after four years of silence, he was inquiring about us?

"I hope you told him we were fine without him" I spat out, angry again. It is not for me to judge him, I tell myself, but the pain of his desertion still lingers.

We are fine without him, I realize. We are private, stay-at-home people now, enjoying our time with our children as never before, relishing in each milestone they reach. We pass on our thoughts on God and religion to our children, including the simple Golden Rule of "do unto others" . . . wishing others had done unto us what we needed, hoping the boys will not grow up insensitive to others' pain, providing the tools they need to help any bereaved person they meet.

"I did. That's exactly what I said," Norman says with a grin. He knows what I'm thinking; we are a strong family, we five. We will be stronger still in times to come, knowing we have each other to count on. I smile back, glad for this man who did not abandon me when our son died, but who stayed with me and grieved with me and grew with me.

We lost our foundation when our son died. Our beliefs in our church system, our family system, our whole system of life was rocked to the core and shaken down to the only things that mattered: the lives--and the quality of those lives--of our children.

"Good," I replied, knowing how he felt. We are an island--an island in a sea of nonunderstanding, of judgemental people . . . an island as strong and steady as our beliefs in our God and our faith in the belief of seeing our son one day.

"Lets do a story" I announce, and the kids scramble for the couch, all snuggly. Our island is a good and safe place to be, now. We will teach our children the ways of grieving and helping the bereaved, in the hope that one day, they will not turn away from others' pain, but will stay and help, and comfort, as the bereaved so desperately need. Hugging the kids close, we begin yet another story.

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