Aged 13 and Writing to the Archbishop for answers

me around 13 looking annoyed in pigtails

When I was young, around 13, I wrote a letter to the Archbishop of the Church of Ireland. It was a heartfelt piece about how angry I felt about the people of violence in our community who regularly bombed and shot others. My question was how as Christians could we turn the other cheek to such individuals? How could we love those who hate us and do us harm? Living in an area of Northern Ireland prone to bombs and violence I really wanted answers. One of my playmates on our street later would be sent to prison for planting a bomb that killed others. She was released after many years for health reasons. Seeing the devastation killing created it seemed forgiveness was an inadequate response for the community. Wolves when allowed free reign will kill the whole flock. Acquiescing and forgiveness in those circumstances will not avail. Surely communities have a right to defend themselves from such abuse. But where do Christians  stand given scriptural demands of a higher moral standard?

I was surprised to receive a reply from the archbishop. It was unexpected and appreciated. He wrote of our duty of forgiveness not just in words but in hearts also. He recognised how hard this task was and how many in Northern Ireland struggled with the enormity of this call. It seems strange then that decades later the man of violence on both sides are not just released from prison but invited to play their role in government. In fact those not involved in violence in the past are seen as rather ‘weak watery’ types who have little role to play in this new peace. Centre stage are the redeemed bad guys whose pronouncements on political and social affairs receives much prominence. What is this strange new vista where not only are we to forgive those of violence but handover to them the reins of power. Not just devout Christians but atheists, agnostics and those of all Faiths are expected to turn the other cheek and pretend all the bloodletting never happened. 

The same scenario was repeated in Rwanda where almost 3/4 of a million were slaughtered in a matter of months. The new peace requires victims to swallow an unpalatable reality. Violence achieves results. Those who are terrorists today will be tomorrow’s government. Until someone more violent trumps the existing cards and takes his place at the peace table. So we perpetuate a system of injustice devoid of reward and punishment. Almost the opposite where violence is a new currency of political debate and is rewarded with depressing regularity. The only beneficiaries apart from those of violent tendencies are huge armament industries whose bank balances bulge with blood money. 

It almost feels as if countries are being used as military advertisements of just what weapons of war can achieve. Instead of staid military hardware conventions the new sales arena for this industry is unfolding on our screens in the nightly news. Look! Look! How powerful our strikes are, how many we can kill or maim, how quickly can we lay waste a whole urban city. As millions flee the violence should we demand they turn the other cheek? Actually we ask much much more. We demand they turn around and head back to the hell they have fled. We are annoyed they fling themselves and their offspring at our European borders and drown in our seas. That's the perverse thing about injustice. We no longer see the reality that exists but some coloured perspective of our own construction. Everyone is the hero of their own movie. We look on all events as to what effect it has on me and mine. It is a tendency that is rampant in people, in industry, in nations and even in how hard facts are portrayed. To defend our dignity our nation’s flags are hauled around our naked flanks. Bare of principle or integrity but proudly indignant of the precious soil beneath our feet. 

One human life is worth more than any of this. When you take another life you have lost the game. Everything shifts and you have to see things in a light that justifies your actions. To do otherwise would be unbearable. That shift is subtle but cataclysmic in consequences. You must go forward claiming justification for your actions or spend a lifetime regretting those actions and attempting to find some redemption. Perpetrators choose the easy path and we have chosen to look the other way. It is easier for us to think that when men of violence achieve their objectives we will have peace. But even in our worst dreams we cannot think our way into their heads. 

Violence warps the fabric of our very humanity it makes us walk among others like humans but devoid of humanity. We no longer seek forgiveness. We are full of self justified anger. We have no mercy and are hungry for more blood. We have developed a taste for such things. I would it were not so. If I was writing to my 13 year old self I would hesitate to put pen to paper. I would not unfold the terrible path that lay ahead. It would not be fair. The young need hope to weather such storms. It would be unfair to take that away. Perhaps, with hope in their hearts,  they will find a more just path than we have.

Wonderful Science Mistakes

Science makes mistakes, big ones. This doesn't tie in with how it is conveyed in the media nor taught in schools and universities throughout the world. Instead, it is presented as fundamental truths that should be absorbed much as religious dogma is. Not only does this do our educational establishment a disservice but it also acts to the detriment of science itself. Scientists perversely know quite well that the field progresses on the basis of crisis and victory. It is inbuilt in the scientific method and to deny the possibility of errors also impedes progress. We make mistakes, we are human that does not tarnish science it makes it more dynamic and strangely more engaging.

Being taught physics at University I found the most interesting part was the discovery that science did not know it all. Einstein for all his great genius failed to solve the Unified Field Theory. He like others wanted an explanation for all the forces (electromagnetic, gravitational, weak and strong forces) that would simply cut to the fundamental truth that they were actually the same force. Hints in that view abounded. Take the electrostatic force between two charges Q1 and Q2 the formula  looks like this. 

Where F is the electrostatic force and Q1 and Q2 are the charges and k is a constant, and r is the distance between the charges. Then compare it to gravity’s force between two masses.  

Here M1 and M2 represent two masses, G is the gravitational constant while r is the distance between the two masses. These two forces just look similar don't they? You almost feel there has to be some equation relating mass and charge which would explain both of these in a single formula. Einstein got a heck of a lot further than most and found the relationship between energy and mass ( and c the speed of light) with his famous  

. 

This was an important milestone and recent discoveries in the world of physics seem to back up yet another of Einstein's beautiful predictions. The fact that 100 years later experimental physics is eventually coming up to speed with his theoretical and elegant equations is indeed breathtaking.

But we have been stunned before at the underlying beauty in science. When Einstein’s relativity is applied to the Maxwell’s equations as if by miracle you are able to describe electricity, magnetism, and light in one uniform system. Lorentz transformations of Maxwell’s equations is startling in its beauty. You feel not only as a scientist its elegance emergence of truth but also as an artist surprised science and mathematics could manage such a masterpiece. It feels right, complete truth discovered. Illuminating and fascinating. Perhaps not everyone has the mathematical tools to appreciate this but they can still sense they are in the presence of a work of genius.

Having discovering a link between the forces between electrostatic charges and currents it seemed a similar link should exist between the four forces of physics. You sense that it is there. The fact that Einstein died trying to solve this puzzle just adds to its appeal. Sitting in the lecture theatre, having spent years day digesting the basic physics and tools, I felt the excitement of the hunt call to me, as something unfinished needing attention. This search for excellence felt like an awakening of sorts. The the excitement was tangible. Here was something we didn't yet know and the realisation too that here is what real science is all about.

Getting to that stage of inventiveness we have to go through a process of coming up to speed with important tools and knowledge. But education has prioritised such fundamentals at the cost to its real purpose and character. Ask any student studying physics and somewhere along the way usually the mundane wipes the floor of any desire of investigation. The closest they get is repeating scientific experiments done for generations. They don't have time to investigate further they must memorise and repeat and then carefully vomit up properly at exam time their digested fodder. Somewhere along the process the system cultivates not elegant beauty but bulimic effectiveness. Truths become secondary to results, grades, and publications. Our universities which should be centres of excellence have largely become devoid of the art of science but effective commercial science incubators. Those who churn out publications are admired and courted. Personal agendas dominate senates, meetings, departments, agendas and even fields to be studied. Stultifying real research they have become clones of the dairy herd. Effective in milk production but deformed until even walking normally is no longer viable. Look closely in departments throughout the country and you will see the same deformities afflict other fields. The beauty goes, the search becomes joyless. We have settled for soulless science when it was always so much much more.

Some decades ago a body was discovered in Düsseldorf Germany and was thought to be a French army officer who died during Napoleon’s campaign. It took years for him to be discovered as a Neanderthal.  Mind you we have made mistakes like this before. In 1908 the remains of a Neanderthal was found inside western France. This was a nearly complete skeleton of a man who would've been elderly by Neanderthal standards. The bones were analysed and a description created of what Neanderthals look like which remains in common usage today. They were pronounced dull witted, brutish, ape-like creatures who walked hunched over with a shuffling gate. This was accepted for decades by paleoanthrologists. It also became the reason why we had so many popular images of stupid looking cavemen in cartoons and movies. The truth was this was a 40-year-old Neanderthal, an elderly man of those times, he was hunched over in posture because of severe arthritis in his spine. The bowing of his legs was probably from Ricketts disease in his childhood and he had lost most of his teeth and part of his jaw. In fact, Neanderthal man looked much more like us in appearance and intelligence than anyone suspected and probably exceeded us in physical strength. In fact some modern scientists begin to suspect a healthy Neanderthal could lift an average North American football player over his head and throw him through the goalposts!

In another well known mistake in carbon dating techniques, one expert had dated prehistoric human remains as 21,300 years old. Subsequently the “Bischof-Speyer” skelton was found to be a mere youth at 3,300 years old.  Another error involved an allegedly prehistoric skull discovered near Paderhorn in 1976 and thought to be the oldest human remains ever found in the region. The skull was dated 27,400 years old. Recent research however indicates it belongs to an elderly man who died around 1750.  Germany’s Herne Anthropology Museum which owned the Paderborn skull was so upset by the findings that it did its own tests. “We had the skull cut open and it still smelt,” the museum’s director Barbara Rushoff-Thale ,said last week “We are naturally very disappointed.” Such disappointment is not restricted to this field of research.

The earth receives radiation from the sun on its surface and a certain proportion is reflected back. We have very effective formula to try and describe this exchange. Strangely the earth is emitting too much energy for the story to be true. Some have speculated we may have a huge nuclear fission reactor deep inside the earth to explain the discrepancy. “According to high school science books at the centre of the earth there should be a liquid iron alloy core and a smaller solid inner core at the centre. For ten years, geophysicist J. Marvin Herndon has presented increasingly persuasive evidence that at the very centre of the Earth, within the inner core, there exists a five mile in diameter sphere of uranium which acts as a natural nuclear reactor.” The truth is we can suspect but as yet we simply don’t know.  But doesn’t it make you want to find out?

We think of scientists as all knowing and incredibly smart.  We can also be slightly intimidated by their cleverness. They are however humans like us and they make mistakes. The Mars climate orbiter was a satellite designed to collect data. It was launched in December 1998 and was due to arrive at the red planet later in the next year. On September 23, 1999 NASA announced the orbiter was lost. Investigation showed the disaster was due to a confusion in mathematical units. One team working on the spacecraft had used standard US measurements (like feet), while the other had used the metric system. That's why they lost the spacecraft. It's horrific that something so simple could could cost us $125 million dollars.  Don’t you feel suddenly less stupid?

Hubble telescope’s main mirror  was ground down too much (only by roughly 1/50 of the thickness of a human hair). Nevertheless this tiny error resulted in blurry images. The cost of repairing it entailed a trip to space and and a bill of $1.5 billion dollars.

The Ariane 5 rocket was designed by the European Space Agency to push Europe to the head of the space exploration industry. It's guidance system was running on the same computer code as it's slower predecessor Ariane 4. 36.7 seconds into the launch the guidance computer attempted to convert the sideways velocity of the rocket from a 64-bit ‘floating point’ format to 16-bit ‘signed integer’ format. However, with Ariane 5’s faster rocket the velocity generated a number too big to be represented by the 16-bit ‘signed integer’. As a result the nozzles of the two solid boosters swung out of position nearly detaching the boosters from the body of the rocket and triggering a self destruct mechanism. The rocket disintegrated 39 seconds into its maiden flight destroying several extremely expensive satellites in the process.  This time the the bill came to $370- $500 million dollars.

For reasons I don't yet understand such facts make us more not less excited and interested in science. I expect it is because were all inherently curious and want to find out stuff. It appeals to that stage in childhood when we ask “why”, so often of our parents, about every single thing around us. That healthy curiosity get damped by education rather than enhanced. Somewhere along the way we stop asking because being told a lot of stuff is not as exciting. If you were told everything in a room there is a part of you that no longer is interested in going in there. We filled the room with staff, employed experts about tables, history and types of wood. Created courses in each nuance and failed to notice that our students have lost interest in this inventory. Even those involved in its conveyance have lost their joy and purpose. Because we focused on just how much we know and not on what we don’t, we managed to spoil the mystery of science. That's why we must celebrate the search and the questions, until students start asking “why” again. Until our education system produces people who get to do what they love our science will languish in the hands of the scientific illiterates who cannot appreciate the beauty to be found just out of our reach.

Hug the important stuff to you and cut out the rest

I am just back home in Malta from a three week visit to Northern Ireland. Apart from the luxury of soaking up my mum's company and seeing friends and family including my two grandchildren there was much to appreciate. Usually, I would dwell on the disasters of the trip, of which there were a few, but I will close the veil over those and speak only of positives.

I visited an elderly friend of my mother's, Jean. She has just been given the diagnosis of terminal cancer so it was with some trepidation we approached the neat bungalow in Portrush. When we were ushered into the bedroom we were startled to find a smiling radiant Jean sitting up in her bed on oxygen and weak but full of joy. She greeted us both with outstretched arms and hugged us  close. After asking about our family she explained how she come to terms with death. She had done everything, lived a full life and was happy to end the show. Talking about her funeral she explained she didn't want some clergyman wittering on about how she was a good wife, mother or grandmother. So she was getting the music ready and picking poetry she liked and was hoping her grandchildren would be willing to read on the day. Laughter was quick to bubble to the surface and Jean beamed her goodwill around the room. At one point, she pulled down the bed covers and showed us her swollen pregnant looking stomach. “I'm calling him Elijah”,  she laughed pointing at the growing belly. We left her bedside blown away by her courage, radiance and her ability to shower love even at this time. Such people raise the bar of what it is to be human and I wish all of us knew more about these gems rather than the doubtful specimens that stride down corridors of power in this country. Nobility is so far from what we have grown to expect.

My mother, in her eighties, was full of gusto and energy as usual despite two broken toes. Keeping her home and garden immaculate. Weeding out with unforgiving remorselessness dirt, untidiness creases, dust and disorder. When she turns that glance upon me she notices the haircut I administered to myself with a large pair of kitchen scissors. Also, the fact that I had resown my size 16 pair of trousers to accommodate a recent loss of weight. Not being a dressmaker I had simply taken the same kitchen scissors (aforementioned) and sliced off a corridor of material from the inside legs all the way around. Then, on resewing by hand (in large and irregular stitches) I somehow created an unsightly bunch of material at the crotch. It was not a good look, for any woman, as it appeared as if I'd suddenly grown testicles but no penis in my mid 50s.   My mother notices too much and set about bullying me into improvement. Later, with a proper haircut, her size 12 trousers and a comfortable pair of shoes from her wardrobe I am transformed like her house and the garden. Then, each night we played sudoko with an intensity of competition seasoned athletes could not match. The winner gloats with satisfaction and the loser complains about distractions like visitors /TV or a phone call. 

My Mum and Northern Ireland people in general are always concerned what others think of them. They're convinced the populace is taking notes on all their misdemeanours. Neighbours may well have a telescopic lens trained on your front windows. This phenomenon of course is not limited to Northern Ireland. In the north of Greece my friend lived in a remote village where the neighbours took note of how often you washed your bed sheets. The lack of crisp clean sheets regularly blowing in the wind would be discussed with forensic intensity by the women of the village. I take after my father not my mother in such things and have fond memories of my dad, who cared little for the public’s opinion, opening the front door of the bungalow completely nude (just out of the shower) apart from a small hand towel strategically placed. 

I returned to Malta after midnight a couple of days ago and fell eventually into a fitful sleep. The flat is very noisy and creaks and I require darkness to sleep properly. However, I'm unused to the emptiness and so kept my bedside light on. As my grandson Charlie so eloquently declared when put to bed,  “Charlie doesn't like the dark.”  I love the way he always talks of himself in the third person.  Not having slept well I rose to a flat devoid of food. Accustomed to breakfast in bed, a dreadful habit, I decided to go shopping in my pyjamas in the neighbouring supermarket. I just put extra layers on top and bought all the food I needed. Then, got back into bed and resumed my normal breakfast routine. Now, I'm sure there were people who noticed my state of dress, bed hair disarray and panda eyes but fortunately I did not notice them! 

Something however I did notice this visit to NI was how old I have become. I cannot tell you how shocked I was by my mother’s magnifying mirror on her bathroom window ledge in Northern Ireland. There, for the first time in four years, in blistering sunlight I could see my wrinkles and hair growing everywhere it shouldn't particularly in places were really there seems no actual need for it. I mean nose hair serves a useful purpose but why should it proceed to grow excessively outside the nostrils like an overgrown hedge? In addition, because I've lost weight my face looks like a half deflated balloon and as if to take pride in its sprouting set of nostrils my nose has taken up immense proportions dominating my face in a fashion I neither recognise nor appreciate. But I'm being too negative. I’m mobile, I have loved ones and I am loved. There are times in your life you just hug the important stuff to your chest and take the kitchen scissors to the rest.

PS I have just realised that my interpretation of concentrating on the positive seems to consist of death, dying and the disintegration of old age with hair and wrinkles thrown in…sigh...

"Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while a great wind carries me across the sky."  Native American Saying

A North Coast Walk on the Wildside

My father used to sit in his  favoured seat in the living room at the window overlooking the busy seaside resort. Coffee shops, ice cream parlours and tourists melted in an economically productive slurry a floor below. After his early morning 5 mile walk he enjoyed the quiet rest his corner seat offered. In fact he liked it so much he eventually wore out the carpet in front of his chair. But it was the treehouse quality he appreciated most. Being on the first floor the living room  is perched at the perfect position to allow you to people-watch or if you raise your head you see the sweep of the coast towards the Giants Causeway beyond. 

The beach stretches for miles in pristine condition with sand, sea and sky creating new masterpieces each hour. Even in the winter storms he would return triumphant that the wind had buffeted his 15 stone but not managed to blow him off his feet. How many others struggled along the church rails opposite hauling themselves along handover fist in the 70 mph gales. He loved these battles with the elements even in his 80s and his all weather kit and strong walking boots usually won the day. I find I share the same Northern Irish habits. You can be suddenly caught out by the weather on the distant headland. The clouds close in and the ferocious rain stings your face and your anorak flaps in foetal distress against your chest. At times to put one leg in front of the other seems a physical battle. Then from inside suddenly springs an ancient ancestor who seems to shout in delight “Bring on your worst! I can bear this and more!” 

You screw your courage and strength within and delight in this unexpected challenge. Lifting your face to the rain you feel eyelids sting with the downpour and your feet beat a heady tune in time with your heart. This is an ancient landscape not cultivated like smooth English downs nor pretty like chocolate box Swiss villages. It is rugged and edgy with bog pits that can kill and treacherous sheer cliff path's that erode continually. The waves can become angry mountains at the flick of grimace  both terrifying and awe inspiring. They, like the wind, beat upon this headland with relentless timeless fury. As I round the most exposed part of the coast I want to scream at my victory despite my numb fingers. At that moment it is as if I feel my father's feet beneath my own, his heart beating with mine in celebration of another triumphant victory on the north coast. Perhaps it was ever so. When times are easy we forget even ourselves. But when tests or hardship bombard us we are forced to remember the fundamentals. Who we are, those we love and who loves us.

Getting over hurdles and not under them

It was the opening of the Baha’i terraces on Mount Carmel in Haifa in May 2001. Only 19 would be chosen from each country to attend. My sons were both teenagers in Greece at the time and were lucky enough to both be chosen. Youth were a priority and hence their selection for this wonderful event. As always with such great opportunities comes great challenges. My husband was knocked off his scooter and fractured his back entailing hospitalisation and months of recovery. The second setback was as the boys were under age they could not travel alone and would need to have a guardian appointed to travel with them. Fortunately, our dear friend Ursula from Rhodes volunteered to be their guardian as she was also one of the 19 representing the Greek Baha’i community. This was a blessing as both boys loved Ursula so much and I could not think of a better guardian then this elderly tiny spiritual giant of a woman. Anyway, the British consul on the island had to sign the guardian consent forms as well as my husband and myself. Unfortunately, as my husband was in hospital and the form had to be signed by everybody involved at the same time, the only way to achieve this was for all to arrange to meet in my husband’s ward and to sign there. The British consul staff informed me that there was a considerable charge for this service. I was shocked at the amount. It far exceeded anything reasonable. I proceeded to have a very heated discussion with them during which I, in very forthright terms, told them exactly what I thought of their attempting to rip-off British subjects when abroad and hospitalised. Having never contacted them in a decade while living on the island I was less than impressed and ended the conversation by telling them to get stuffed. Not a wise move when the clock was ticking on getting this guardian form signed and legal before flights departed. 

Without this form they could not travel. Fortunately, I am a citizen of more than one country and so I turned to the Irish consul who turned out to be a likeable competent person whose services were provided at an unbelievably reasonable cost. All was signed and legal, so I did not have to turn to my third citizenship and contact the Canadian consul! Such is the weirdness of being brought up in Northern Ireland. I am entitled to both Irish and British passports and because my parents emigrated to Canada for two years, during which I was born, I am also a Canadian passport holder. You know it pays to have as many passports as you can possibly acquire!

It it seemed as if we had cleared all the hurdles when the boy’s school flagged up yet another major one. The opening of terraces coincided with the end of year Greek school exams and they were informed that if they missed their exams they would have to repeat their entire school year again! We discussed it as a family and both boys agreed they would rather miss the exams and repeat the entire school year then lose out on this special trip. They went to the school to meet with their headmaster and headteacher to explain. I didn't envy them explaining the event, their Baha’i Faith to a school dominated by the Greek Orthodox religion. When they returned from the meeting the tale they told was surprising indeed. 

After explaining the event and their desired attendance the boys informed the headmaster and headteacher of their willingness to repeat the year because of missing the end of year exams. The headmaster and teacher talked among themselves for a while and then suggested a way forward. They said that repeating year could be avoided if a note was sent in saying the boys were sick on the days of the missed exams. Both men were rather pleased at finding a clever way to avoid the boys having to repeat the whole school year. This time it was my two sons who conferred with each other as to how to respond. Their decision was - they weren't prepared to lie to go to a Baha'i event, it didn’t seem right. I don't know what the headmaster felt about this unexpected response but he suddenly decided that they could go to Haifa and would not have to tell a lie or repeat the year. Our next door neighbour who was a teacher at the school told us the headmaster had been floored by their youthful integrity. They had a fantastic trip.  It was one of those wonderful life affirming events for them both.  Sometimes out of the midst of unexpected challenges we learn not only about ourselves but also the hidden depths of others. 

My signature dish turned out worse than cat vomit

Something is going wrong with my cooking. It is not brilliant at the best of times but in the last few days it's reached a new low. I am visiting my mum in Northern Ireland and normally she is more than happy for me to take over the cooking duties. This visit, she's grown more wary of the dishes served up. Even meals that I normally produce regularly, mistake free, are failing in dramatic form. For example, I make a make a meat kebab that usually goes down a treat. Despite loads of onions, coriander, mince, egg, seasoning this kebab came out like small wooden brown logs/turds, so dried they made a ringing noise when hit against the plate. My vegetable soup, I mean how does one mess that up? lasted an embarrassingly long time and I could see my mother found the green tasteless mush  a mighty challenge. But it was my quinoa that outdid all of the above. I got the recipe from a friend in Malta and it has always been easy to make and much appreciated by guests and family. This visit I watched family members push the stuff around their plates with obvious reluctance. My brother refused to eat any of it and my brave mother tried to consume a few tiny spoonfuls. I was feeling overly sensitive, when my cousin arrived that evening for surprise visit, and I challenged her with “Del,  if you love me you eat it!” Not even a cousin’s love held up under her inspection of the dish. I ended up eating gallons of stuff myself and then upended the remaining quantity for the birds outside. A week later I spotted this on the path, exactly where I had thrown it. My brother pointed out that the birds will eat his cat’s vomit (he has five) but they will not tackle my quinoa!

Building muscle memory in your heart

Grief is a process as unique as each individual who loses someone. There will always be a need for patience. It takes time to assimilate death. The loss is too final, too immense. The emotions are like powerful waves that must be weathered.  Don't rely on outward appearances. People swallow down loss in a variety of ways. It can be those who feel that the most, show it less. Often those with the most regrets and guilt are the ones throwing themselves into the grave whereas the quietness of a long time carer can mask an ocean of heart stopping grief. Don't tell them stuff like “it's for the best”, “he had his day”, “You couldn't have done more”, “I am shocked by what happened”. We either turn to verbal diarrhoea at such times or find it impossible to say anything and avoid the bereaved like lepers from an alien zone.  Find a better and more moderate path.

When Mandela was in prison and received the shocking news that his son had been killed in a car accident, he lay on his back in his prison bunk felled by the news. His close friend came and sat beside the bed, saying nothing but holding his hand through the long dark hours. Knowing that nothing can be done to fix what has happened, one realises words will not suffice. Where there is love you must offer your presence and find ways to let that love show. In the most barren and stark conditions that seed of love must be sown and shown. Expect anger, pain and blame. Weather the storm. Those emotions are better out than in. Bare your share in respect to those who have lost so much and in honour of those who have passed on. Such tests assail the very soul. Find whatever nobility you can muster to hold the breech between what the bereaved cannot bear and what they must. Give yourself time to master such skills. Summoning the courage to step up when every part of you wants to run is vital. Whatever strength you find will build muscle memory in your own heart. Don't avoid it. Death comes to us all. Prepare yourself to be worthy of a good death. Both your own and those you lose along the way. 

PS I like this poem, below, by Maya Angelou on the topic.

When I Think Of Death

When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors.
I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else.
I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return.
Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake.
I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting? ' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'