There is an old story about a woman named Kisa Gotami who was overcome with grief after the death of her child. In her sorrow, she carried her baby through the village, searching desperately for someone who could bring him back to life. Her pain was raw, visible, and Kisa had grief that had nowhere to go.
Eventually, she was guided to the Buddha. He did not turn her away. He did not correct her hope or dismiss her anguish. Instead, he listened. And then he gave her a simple task.
He asked her to bring him a handful of mustard seeds from a household that had never known death.
So she went from door to door. Each family was willing to help. Each home offered mustard seeds freely. But every house had known loss: a parent, a child, a partner, a beloved elder. By the time the day ended, Kisa Gotami had gathered no seeds – but she had gathered something else.
She discovered that her grief, as unbearable as it was, was not hers alone.
This story has endured for centuries because it honors sorrow without rushing it. The Buddha did not try to fix her pain. He helped her see that suffering is part of the shared human experience. That loss, though deeply personal, is also universal. And that connection, however quiet, can begin to loosen the tight grip of isolation.
This story invites us to pause with our own griefs. Not to compare them. Not to diminish them. But to remember that every life carries loss, even when it isn’t visible. Every home has known heartache, even when it appears whole from the outside.
Sometimes healing begins not when the pain disappears, but when we realize we are not alone in it.
Where might your own sorrow be asking not for answers, but for companionship and understanding?
May we meet one another with gentleness, knowing that unseen grief often walks beside us. May shared humanity soften our loneliness. And may we find peace – not by erasing sorrow – but by allowing it to be held in compassion. 🤍
The Prayer Porch 