The light finally turned green. I made a left turn and drove through the poor section of our hometown, remembering how each Thanksgiving my family would be together. I also remembered how my father would take some time out of each Thanksgiving Day to make sure there was no one hungry in the surrounding neighborhoods. I can remember as a young boy going with him to deliver food. I was scared; I had never been into this part of town this deeply before. My father seemed unaware of any danger and went calmly about his business. The people we went to seemed to know him and gratefully accepted what he offered. My father seemed able to give away the food in a way that honored the recipient, in a way that turned what could have been an arrogant act into an act of humility on his part. He would stop at each place and talk a little, which I remember totally pissed me off. I wanted to get the hell out of there, but my father wanted to be sure everyone had food. If he found someone who didn't have food, he would take the time to go back and get more. That's the kind of man he was.

I pulled into the bluestone circular driveway of my brother's house, the same driveway I had driven into so many times before. This had once been my childhood home, then my wife and I bought it from my folks and later sold it to my brother Joel. The crunch of the bluestones as they passed beneath my tires brought back more memories. I got out of the car and Joel was there to meet me. We hugged and Joel said Dad had "passed away" just an hour ago. I was in shock. The first thought that hit me was "Hey Joel, why are you using euphemisms?" but I said nothing of this to him. It brought back a memory of working at a counseling center for death and dying in Washington, D.C. Father William Wendt, the director, was a powerful man whose deep, rumbling voice I imagined to be surpassed only by God's. One day a new counselor was introducing herself in our monthly staff meeting. Talking a bit about her own grief history, she said, "We lost my mother last summer." From the back of the small room came Father Wendt's unmistakable voice, "Where'd you lose her?" The new counselor looked like she wanted to melt down into the couch. Bill had made a point in a way only he could do: people don't pass away; people die.

I was lost for a while, though. I went through the motions of talking with my brother's family, discussing when we should leave. I could hear myself talking, but it seemed as though someone else was speaking instead of me. There was a distance between my actions and my brain, as if I were in someone else's movie. Then I decided to call my mother. We talked for a short while and I told her that I wanted to speak at my father's memorial service. She told me that I didn't have to, that it might be difficult. And then it happened-the tears started to flow out of my gut amidst strange, almost animal-like noises. It began when I said to my mother that I wanted other people to know what it was like to grow up with a great man like my father, and only one of us could do that. These words took about a millennium to come out, interspersed with tears like a syncopated ratchet in the hands of a two-year-old. Although it sounded bad, it felt good. My father had been ill for about six months and during that time I had experienced a great deal of sadness but no tears. Now they were flowing.

I did speak at my father's memorial service, and it was an important and powerful experience. Through the action of speaking and preparing for the service, I found a container for bits and pieces of my grief. The word "container" is meant to describe anything that allows us to move from an ordinary state of awareness into the experience of pain, and then lets us move out of the pain again. Women often will use verbal and emotional interaction as a means of containing their pain, while men often will prefer an active container.

Only in retrospect have I realized how ironic it seems that one of the active containers I found for my grief that week was actually building a container. Joel and I decided to design and make the container for my father's ashes. During the week of the funeral we spent a lot of time in the garage, which had doubled as my father's workshop, planning and constructing this memorial container. As we worked, my brother and I would share stories about my father. We used his tools and his wood. One of the most important aspects for us was the presence of my father's eighty-year-old best friend, Charlie Beamen. Charlie was a retired minister who had been my father's woodworking buddy. As the three of us worked together we exchanged numerous tales of my father. Joel and I told Charlie of our experiences growing up with Dad, and Charlie told us of his exploits with my father in the recent past. As we worked and told stories, the tears and laughter flowed.

We men had found a safe place to act as a "container" for our emotions. The workshop functioned in this manner to connect our pain and tears with a project. The project became a "hook" for our pain. That week, the men who came to visit our family tended to be drawn to the workshop. They usually had ideas or comments about the work that was being done, and gladly chipped in to aid in making the container.

The women visitors, however, were more likely to spend time inside talking. These boundaries were not solid; we men spent plenty of time in the house talking with visitors about my father and what he meant to us, and the women would sometimes boldly venture into the workshop area. It was not that the men and women were separated, but that the men and women each had specific tasks that were many times intermingled.

One of the reasons that men tend to have an easier time in connecting their grief with action is that men have a harder time in connecting their emotions with words. Women have greater skill in this arena, and are usually more drawn to connecting their pain, tears, and grief on a verbal level to their most intimate friends and family. It needs to be said that each person's grief is unique to them, and by separating men and women we are in dangerous territory. There are general differences in the way men and women grieve but there are probably more individual differences.

This preference for action puts men in a precarious state when grief strikes because in our culture almost all of the activities related to death have been contracted out. Activities such as building the coffin, directing the ritual, giving the eulogy, digging the grave, and the funeral itself have been turned over to the "death professionals." This leaves men with nothing to do following a death, negating many men's strength of action. It is a difficult task for men to stand in a funeral home with nothing to do.

Without any sanctioned grief rituals men have had to be creative in finding workable containers. Abraham Lincoln had a male friend who would come to the White House at his request and sing what Lincoln called "sad songs." This man and Lincoln would walk quietly to a certain room in the White House where the man would proceed to sing. During these activities Lincoln would sit quietly and cry. Was Lincoln dealing with his grief? Undoubtedly. Did those around Lincoln know of this activity? Probably not. Many times the activity a man chooses (often this is not a conscious decision, but done instinctively) to contain his grief is not highly visible to those around him. This invisibility leads many to believe that the man is not grieving. This is simply not so.

There are many containers that men use to deal with the chaos of their grief. Writing functions for me as a container for my grief. Through the act of writing I come into contact with my pain. Interestingly, the writing takes on a more powerful capacity when I read aloud to others what I have written about my grief. It is somehow more natural to read what I have written (usually through my tears) than to sit and talk about my feelings. Writing now about my father's death and the containers I found to deal with my pain has provided me with yet another container where I can listen in safety to the echoes of my grief.

Tom Golden http://www.webhealing.com

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