# A Reflection by Kim Steinberg: Finding Comfort in Grief Embracing the Sacred Space The first time I see The Virgin Mary in the dim light of St. Mary’s chapel, I mistake the life-size sculpture for a real woman. It is Lent, 2023, and I’ve come on the heels of my son’s death to pray the Stations of the Cross, an unusual impulse I can’t ignore. I enter the Boise church, letting the door shut behind me. I walk into the chapel, dip my fingers in holy water, cross myself, and look around...

Outside the camper, birds cry out, upset about the pending weather. Around here, lightning flashes and thunder booms without rain, but tonight's forecast calls for a downpour. I like to watch storms, feel the wild electric energy, smell the earth. I think of last January, when the ring tone snuck through my Do Not Disturb setting. Like the storm, you don't know the damage until it's over. The things that might have been.

The walks are flat on these country lanes. Around the pond, past the field, stopping at the horses. I walk, write and think about my son. I still cry every day, but not as hard and not as long. It doesn't hurt as much, somewhere else, somewhere new - in this unfamiliar land.