Loss.
Great, sudden, inexplicable, unfair loss.
It's everywhere and unavoidable.
Caused by hurricanes and earthquakes, fires and floods, train and plane crashes, war and terrorism, criminal violence, disease, betrayal, even the thunderous crash of monumental financial institutions, thousands of people's lives are maimed and mutilated, forever diminished by loss.
Homes, prized possessions, pensions, jobs, and health and are damaged or destroyed.
And so much worse, loved ones -- sons, daughters, moms, dads, friends, and family -- are yanked away without ceremony or a chance to say good-bye.
Victims of loss weep, "Why me?"
Survivors silently rejoice and then feel guilty for thinking, "Thank God it wasn't me."
And the great mass of casual onlookers feel both compassion and fear knowing, "Next time that could be me."
What's left after loss?
Choice.
One choice: dwell in loss, close the curtains, confine oneself to the small dark room of inconsolable despondency.
Another is to grieve and move on.
One choice is easier; the other is better.
How long does loss last?
It's up to you.

I was inspired to write this poem not only by the almost daily stories of natural and human-caused calamities but by a remarkable woman named Susan Whitmore. Struck down by the death of her daughter Erika, Susan chose to escape the dark dungeon of despair by creating the Erika Whitmore Godwin Foundation and a website www.griefhaven.org to console and counsel other parents who lost a child.

As the father of five kids I love so much it almost hurts, I can't cope with even the thought of losing any one of them. So I marvel at Susan and other moms and dads who found the strength and courage to choose to live good and decent lives despite the holes in their hearts.

This is Michael Josephson reminding you that character counts.