Our Memories Fill the Stars

When a loved one dies, all we have left are memories. While the memories are sweet, they are never enough. We wish for more.

When my son Daniel died, I felt cheated that I had only four years of life with him. But after the horrific pain subsided, slowly, I was able to think of the happy memories I could hold onto and carry with me.

I'm no artist, but I did go to Michael's many times to find items I could paint or decorate that connected me to my son. On one trip to the arts and craft store, I got a plain basket and some paint. I also picked up wooden objects from various bins. These were already cut and painted, which was great since I don't think I could draw a boy in a blue-striped shirt to save my life. Daniel had blond hair and a blue-striped shirt, so that made me pick that wooden piece up and put it in my shopping cart. I got a boot because he had cowboy boots and a pig because he once fell on a prized pig at a petting zoo and the pig bit him. (Security contacted the owner of the pig, but he never showed up.) I also picked out a watermelon slice because there are many stories about Daniel revolved around that juicy red and green delight.

I painted the box with gold, red, and blue. I managed to paint a few yellow stars, too. I wrote on the lid: Our Memories Fill the Stars. The quote is one I came up when I stood under a velvet sky and watched the distant stars. I cushioned the inside of the memory basket with a red bandana that Daniel was given at a Make a Wish event the last autumn of his life.

Each wooden object holds a precious memory. My memory basket gives me a way to take out the pieces, touch them, smile, and remember.

At first when Daniel died, I thought he wouldn't be remembered by many. His friends were only four and five years old. Perhaps adults would keep his memory alive, but I couldn't be sure. At his grave, I promised that I'd tell Daniel stories. Over the years (there have been 23) I've discovered that no one can steal the memories. They are life-giving and connect me to the Daniel I love and miss every day. While I have had to struggle (immensely) with the events that surrounded his demise and death, I don't cultivate those memories. I've learned not to dwell on the treatments for cancer he went through and the shock of his passing.

Those of us who have lost a loved one discover how to recycle the memories that bring sunlight. We tell the stories again and again, and each time, we feel the boldness that lets us know it's not only okay, but acceptable, to talk about our beloved child. No one should try to shut us up. Our child died, but he also lived!

May the memories we choose bring joy today and always.

Seeing Your Child's Name

When I showed my friend Jane the plaques we made for her daughter's memorial garden, she loved them.  Carl does the work, so I took no credit, except I did screw in the eye hooks and attached the chain to one of them. You would think I was constructing a new house; it took me much longer than it would have taken an average person to do that task of placing the eye hooks, drilling the hole, screwing them in.  But enough about my lack of skill and slowness. What impressed me and will stick with me about giving the two garden plaques to Jane was what she said after she said she loved them.

"It's so nice to see her name."

A name.  Katelyn.  When Katelyn was born, Jane came up with the spelling of the name, so not only was it her daughter's name, Jane had a part in crafting it.

In the bereaved parents' writing workshops I facilitate, I often have parents say their child's name aloud.  All together we say our child's name, like one big burst of sunlight. Sometimes we go around the room and take turns saying the name of our child. It's a sacred time.

Whenever we get an order at our shop, Carved By Heart, and the buyer has the name Daniel, I love seeing it on the order form.  My heart does a little flip.  This customer is special to me because of his name.  It doens't matter than I don't know the customer personally, I just love seeing his name. After the item is created and  I've wrapped it up, I get to write Daniel on the package. My son's name.  My son who is no longer here.

So when Jane ran her fingers over her daughter's engraved name and smiled, it was a powerful moment.

We do need to see and speak our child's name. Often.  We don't get to call them to dinner anymore, watch them play, or wrap a gift for them. But we can give ourselves a gift by saying his/her name. Aloud. We can have it engraved into pine and see it, too.  Our new butterfly garden plaques are now at our shop on Etsy.

Flowers to the Grave

[I wrote this in November, but got side-tracked and am just tweaking and posting it today.]

When you make the second turn down the short road, you see a sign that reads: Low/Soft Shoulder. Just like every journey to the cemetery, a soft shoulder is needed. When you go a bit further another sign greets you: No Outlet. I’m not sure if the sign is referring to the dead or to the rest of us.

The cemetery is Daniel’s Place, named by my children twenty years ago. On this late autumn morning, the sun casts gentle shadows across my son’s small marble marker as the old oak nearby stretches towards Heaven.

When Daniel died at age four after nine months of treatment for cancer (neuroblastoma), I came up with some ideas. First off, I didn’t order a large grave stone. And I didn’t want flower vases. A marker with a built-in vase would mean responsibility and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to visit the grave often enough to replenish the flowers for the vase. Fresh flowers would be best; I wasn’t a fan of plastic ones that faded in the heat of the summer sun. But would I have time (at six months pregnant with a six-year-old and a one-year-old) to buy flowers or pick them from the garden and take them to Daniel's Place? If I had any extra time, I was sure that the rest of society would benefit more if I used it to shower or brush my teeth.

How often was I going to come to this place, remote from the rest of life? I wasn’t going to be one of those Sunday cemetery visitors, heading over after each church service to pay a visit to my son, was I? Besides, I wasn’t sure that this place was going to be one I’d want to visit. Daniel’s memories were at the house where he played with the neighbor kids and his siblings. The garden on the side of our house held the memories of when he picked green tomatoes by the rose bushes. The roses would bloom and be his memorial flowers.

"I'm going to do great things in your memory," I said one March day as the wind made me want to jump into the warmth of my Mom Van, not stand by Daniel's grave. "I'm not sure what I'll do, but it will be great." Oh, the things I would do, could do.

Twenty years later, I have found that the flowers in the grave vases still look fake, staged, and often forlorn.

Also, I have realized that over those years, I still have not done anything great.

But I have learned lessons that only time could have taught me about life and death and the things we do in memory.

We have this continual need to care for our loved ones. We want to do things in their memory. Unlike flowers, our love and our relationship with them does not ever fade and wither. When the living can adorn the grave of their loved ones, that shows another way to say I still love you. I still care. So I bring pinwheels, helium balloons, and solar lights, and yes, even an occasional flower. I write a poem or short story and tuck it away to edit and perhaps, share.

The amazing truth is that over the years, love grows. My love for my living children, husband, and friends has grown.

And my love for Daniel has grown, too. I tell his stories, the silly jokes he recited at age four from a tattered joke book, and watch others smile.

It is love that remains.

And that's a pretty great lesson to have learned.

Songs From Heaven

One night after my son Daniel died, I was out on our deck, thinking of him. When wasn’t I thinking of him? Who is going to remember this little four-year-old who ran outside naked to pick tomatoes from the garden? I wondered who, besides me, would recall his laughter and kisses—his life had been too short. Then the words, almost as though brought to me from Heaven herself, came: “Who will remember those who no longer sing on earth? We, who hear their songs from Heaven.”





The verse was first placed on glossy postcards with stars, and shared with those who had also had children die. But it expanded to anyone who had lost a loved one. A woman was sent one of the Songs From Heaven cards when her husband died, and to this day, she keeps it on her fridge door because it brings her solace.

Years later, when my husband and I opened our Carved By Heart shop, we created a plaque with the words. How meaningful it would be if people could add the name of their loved one under the verse that meant so much to me and to others. The plaque could be for either indoor display or outdoor, like at a gravesite, or in a garden. As orders came in, we were grateful to be able to offer these plaques to others with holes in their hearts.

We also thought of a plaque that could encase a memento (a shell from a beach trip, a trinket from a vacation in the mountains) as well as a color photo of a loved one. The plaques could tell the story of a special day or a week, and so our Story of a Memory plaque was designed.

Our memorial plaques are made of solid red oak, carved with love. We want to encourage others to recall their memories, whether they were many or few—it is important to remember with love.

Stop by our shop to see the remembrance items we have for you. Email us with ideas you’d like to see on a plaque. Our slogan is, “If you think it; we carve it.” We enjoy working with customers to create something memorable and fresh. Visit us at Carved By Heart.

~ Alice J. Wisler, author of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache, speaker, writing instructor, blogger, and mom to Daniel (August 25, 1992-February 2, 1997).

A shop of memories

My grandfather Hall had a hardware and lumber shop. As a child, when my family made the trek from Osaka, Japan to Richmond Virginia, we visited his store. The memories I have of it include the loud buzz of a table saw, the fresh scent of red oak, and sawdust everywhere.

Fast forward many, many years to North Carolina. Step into our garage. While not a brick and mortar store with a bell that rings when you open the front door, Carved By Heart is in business. Inside the garage, wooden creations are made---signs, plaques, clocks, bird feeders, pet remembrances, and more.

Plaques in memory of loved ones, custom-made signs, memory pieces. And yes, the aroma of red oak and pine permeates throughout the garage as the saw buzzes to cut the wood.

We love providing handcrated wooden items for our customers.

My son Daniel never met my grandfather Hall. My grandfather died when I was a senior in high school. But the inspiration I hold from the life of my son, who died at at the age of four in 1997, coupled with my grandfathers's love of wood, makes for a lovely tribute.

It is those memories that give our shop the desire and inspiration to create and make items that bring solace and smiles to others.

Find our shop online at Etsy and spend some time there. Let us hear from you! If you can think it, we can carve it! We can be serious, funny, silly or sentimental.

Let us carve some memories for you.

Our New Venture

My husband and I have a new venture. Carved Remembrances is a special way of remembering those you love. The red oak plaque here can sit on your table or hang on the wall. There's room for a picture of your loved one as well as his/her name and the birth and death dates. We're expanding our selections to suit your needs. And we're excited about providing our public with wonderfully-crafted items to bring you solace.

Visit our webpage.

Email info@alicewisler to ask for an order form today!