It was a day I’d planned for and eagerly anticipated. 12 August 2026 and I was about to witness a total solar eclipse in a clear sky in Northern Spain.
As the moment approached, the sky darkened and in an instant the sun’s heat and light disappeared to be replaced with an eerie darkness. It was awe-inspiring and deeply emotional. I knew much of the science and saw with my own eyes the sun’s corona; the brighter stars came out and I felt the stillness around me.
What surprised me most was that it wasn’t quite dark. There was a faint glow in the horizon as the sun was still shining on distant mountains. There were also tiny dust particles in the air and the smoke from distant wildfires reflected the sunlight back into the darkness.
My mind also went back to another day, 1 August 2003 in Southern France. This was the unexpected day I could never have planned for. It was the day when my son died, and it seemed that the light and joy went out of my world. But I’d also say that, even then, it was never quite dark. In my grief and emptiness, I found comfort in those around me. In particular, as I connected with other parents who had also lost their child, I slowly began to believe that there might be a time when hope and joy could return to my world.
I know there were people around me who desperately wanted to help, but talking to them some years later, they felt so inadequate and didn’t know what to say. Nevertheless, they were there, and they didn’t turn their back on us out of insecurity or a fear of making things worse. Just like those tiny specks of dust and smoke, they reflected back enough light to see, enough hope to continue.
As I write this, I know there are people who are even now experiencing the deep grief of loss and bereavement. As hard as it is, it is worth connecting with others and sharing with a trusted friend or reaching out to Care for the Family. We have a team of trained befrienders and regularly run support events for bereaved parents.
There will be others who are trying to support a friend or family member through their grief and feel helpless and insignificant. I want to say that, whilst words may be inadequate, your presence is not. That cup of tea, the kind word, the offer of food or ironing – all those countless acts of practical love reflect light back into the dark space. It may not be much, but it really does matter.
Back in Spain, there came the magical moment that I’d heard about. A tiny beam of light shone through a valley on the moon’s surface, and a blaze of light shone like a diamond in the sky. A gift of love, a gift of hope, the promise of a future.
