Hey friend, Come right on in.
Let me take a second to orient you to my little corner of Substack.
My name is Kara McMahon Cross. I’m a mom of three who’ve flown the coop, a retired performing artist, and a person who, maybe like you, isn’t so sure everything is always working for the good. But platitudes are flyover territory. (Let’s take those out with the recycling.)
Why sans birds?
The curious name of my Substack came from my sister. While she was dying, she received dozens of kind letters from friends and family. But the ones that had birds on them, she summarily tossed. She so wished she could fly away. But that was impossible. The card she actually stuck on her fridge said:
If you’re going through hell, keep going.
If I had to summarize the ethos of those years, it might just be that.
This is how it unfolded:
While my three boys were still in elementary and middle school — playing soccer and horn instruments and making science fair projects that spread out over three rooms — my mom, who lived across the hall, started losing her mind (Alzheimer’s). And in the midst of that, my younger sister, Lis, a single mom, was diagnosed with a rare form of sarcoma. It was stage 4. Now she was dying too.
What happened over the next two and a half years as they died together was grisly — heartbreaking, hollowing, and logistically impossible. My mom and my sister eventually died six months apart in 2016.
The Aftermath
I staggered through what everyone was calling “grief.” Which, by the way, turned out to be about 8% deep sadness and 92% things like numbness, hyper-vigilance, insomnia, confusion, isolation, agoraphobia, physical pain, an immune system that went loco and an old-fashioned hitch to red wine to make it all feel survivable. (Bad idea.)
Not sure what else to do, I began to read. A lot.
First memoirs — other people’s stories helped me find a language amidst the shattered questions that ran amok in my own heart and head. Some were written by Christians, plenty were not. I found anyone’s journey through that terrible terrain both compelling and a balm to my soul.
I also returned to the power of art and its ability to reach places that words and arguments simply could not. Slowly, and with lots of help, I was able to trust God again with my messy, confused and unfinished faith.
The File
One thing I did right in all this was to keep a record of it 一 a file. Anything that rang of truth — passages from books, prayers, poetry, philosophy, sermons, paintings and scripture — I threw in there. It’s filled to bursting with wisdom from many faith traditions, the science around suffering and grief as well as the myriad connections between physical and mental health.
I recently moved from New York City after many years and when I came upon the boxes that held my file, I had to hold back tears. I was so grateful for all those words and the people who wrote them. I realized I couldn’t toss out this brain trust, nor bury it again in sturdier boxes or new cabinetry.
Instead, I decided to share it with you.
Why I’m Writing to You
It’s my prayer that these letters and stories from the file will do for you even half of what they did for me: encourage you, remind you that you’re not crazy and help you keep going.
Because underneath all my wrestling, I feel certain that life is a wildly difficult gift. And more than ever, I’m convinced that God intends something truly extraordinary for us — in the end, that is. He says it straight in scripture and we know it deep down: we’re on the dark side of the moon.
So join me, my friend. Let’s keep the lights on. And keep going. Together.
Welcome to sans birds.
