I don’t get to choose.
I don’t get to plan the way life is going to be.
Oh, I bring out the calendar and mark down the days: birthdays, holidays, special events and obligations.
But then one dark morning a knock stops the clock and makes the world spin faster all at once.
I’m suspended and plunged under in the same breath.
Read the rest here: Not What I Had Planned
A couple weeks ago I walked away from my son’s house, after kissing him goodbye and prayed under my breath that it won’t be the last time I see his bright eyes and lively smile.
Because when you’ve mistakenly waved a cheery “see you later” to your child, ignorant that it’s the LAST time, your heart never takes these moments for granted again.
I drink in the laugh lines around his 30 year old eyes, wondering if mine had laugh lines at that young age as well.
I make a mental record of the timbre of his voice, the set of his shoulders, the way he laughs.
I cannot get enough of him- like a parched woman in the desert-trying to quench a thirst that simply cannot be filled.
He’s off to an adventure and I refuse to squelch his enthusiasm.
I’ve buried one son and part of my heart begs me to set up barricades and safe zones around the rest of my children.
But the truth is, I can’t. There is no way to guarantee safety in this world. And if I try to circumscribe their lives, all I will gain is a false sense of control and a strained relationship.
So I open my hand.
Open my heart.
Take a deep breath.
Pray for grace and mercy.
And let go.
I just love this.
It’s simple, humorous, shareable and oh, so true.
“You don’t need to be perfect, you just need to be present.”
At first everyone talked about him.
It’s what people do just after a person leaves this world and leaves behind only memories.
It comes natural before the unnatural fact of child loss settles in and begins to make everyone uncomfortable.
But at some point after the funeral and way before the tears dried up, people stopped feeling easy mentioning his name.
And when I mentioned him, they weren’t sure whether they should just let those words fall with a “thud!” between us or pick up the conversational ball and run with it.
It’s a bit easier to understand when friends do it.
But so, so many bereaved parents lament the fact that even family members stop saying their missing child’s name aloud.
They stop sharing memories and stop acknowledging the place he or she holds in a parent’s heart regardless of their permanent address.
It hurts. A LOT.
I realized after the first six months or so that most people (including my family) didn’t know HOW to talk about my missing son.
So I began modeling it for them: I spoke of memories in past tense as I would for anyone, I spoke of character traits in present tense– because he is still all that plus some in Heaven-and I refused to ignore the elephant in the room.
I told them it was impossible to make me sadder by mentioning Dominic but it was very possible to make my burden heavier by NOT mentioning him. They were not reminding me that he was gone, I breathe his absence in and out like oxygen all day long.
I know it seems unfair that we must simultaneously learn by (awful and heartbreaking!) experience and also educate those around us, but it is what it is.
If I’m honest, though, before Dominic ran ahead to heaven I didn’t really know how to talk about a young person who died. It’s natural to reminisce about Grandmama’s favorite recipe or the old-fashioned way she did her hair. It’s positively Unnatural to speak in past tense about a young, vibrant human being that you never expected to outlive.
There are always going to be some folks-even family-who cannot or will not speak about my child in Heaven.
I can’t force them to do it.
But I can encourage the ones who do by telling them what a beautiful gift it is to hear his name on their lips.
We live in an angry society.
Social media is full of rants about this and that. Television blares raised voices shouting over one another in what passes for news coverage. T-shirts are emblazoned with one-liners intended to provoke others.
We tolerate and even embrace anger as a legitimate emotion.
Yet we rarely make room for mourning. We hide our tears. We shame those who don’t hide theirs as “weak” and “soft” and “cowardly” or worse.
Read the rest here: Anger or Sadness? Or Both?
We’ve all experienced it and probably been guilty of it as well: listening with one ear while anxiously waiting to reply or to make a getaway.
I hate that.
What I LOVE is people who really listen.
I knew a woman once who made me feel as if whatever I was telling her at that moment was the most important thing in the world. She would look me in the eye, often take my hand, and never made even the slightest body movement to suggest she had things to do or people to see or anywhere else to go.
Even when we were talking about the most ordinary things.
I want to be like THAT.
I want to make every single heart that shares feel honored, loved, heard and safe.
When grief was fresh, the pain was raw and my heart was oh, so tender, I desperately needed a safe space to talk about the nitty-gritty of child loss.
And I found it in online bereaved parents’ groups.
I’m so thankful that they exist, that they are maintained by people who give time and energy to keeping them safe and that-for the most part-participants are kind, compassionate and encouraging.
There is something I’ve noticed now that I’ve been here awhile. Many parents tend to drop out of active participation when they get a little further along in their journey.
I understand completely that time, plus the work grief requires, often means a heart has less need for these groups. It’s not that grief dissipates, it’s simply that we get stronger and learn to carry it a little better.
I also know that grief groups can become Echo Chambers and wear on a heart after a time.
We all need a break.
But can I take a moment to encourage those among us who have learned a little, lived a little and walked longer in the path of child loss to stick around?
Newly bereaved parents need to know that they CAN survive.
Your presence-even if you don’t have wonderful words of wisdom-speaks volumes.
When someone comments and shares that her loss was 5, 7, 10 years ago, it helps my heart hold onto hope.
Because if YOU can make it, maybe I can too.
I confess.
When I used to drive by an unkempt yard, a run down house or bumped into an untidy person, I would think, “Goodness! Don’t they care about their yard, home or appearance? They need to do better! I would NEVER let my (fill in the blank) look like that.”
I don’t do that anymore.
Because I’ve learned that there are all kinds of reasons a body may not be busy mowing a lawn, painting a porch or even putting on matching socks.
Life happens.
And when it does, it demands all my energy, effort and attention. I don’t have the time or luxury of worrying about things that aren’t absolutely necessary for survival.
When Dominic left for Heaven, my priorities were immediately shaken out, sifted and re-ordered. Not only the big ones-like spending more time with the people I loved-but also the smaller ones-like whether or not I swept the front porch before someone visited.
More than nine years later and I look around sometimes wishing I was better at keeping up with things, better able to tidy up, decorate for the seasons, mend the fences, stay on top of clutter, or put together decent outfits.
But then I pause, breathe and realize that while the outside looks messy and unorganized and not at all like I’d prefer, my inside is focused on the things that really matter.
I am spending most of my time caring (one way or another) for other hearts.
Now when I see someone’s home that needs attention or someone who isn’t put together, I think, “What battle are they facing? What life circumstance has swallowed up their time, energy, and emotional reserves?”
Because life happens.
Whether we are ready for it or not.
No matter how busy or how noisy or how frantic, in the middle of my chest there is a quiet place that holds space for my missing child.
It was true last year in the craziness of my mother’s health crisis and it’s been so very, very true this past eight weeks full of anxiety, discomfort, challenge and unbelievable stress.
Read the rest here: The Loudest Silence
I am not among those who have given up on the local church.
But I AM critical of the way we in the U.S. –and especially the Southern U.S. -do church.
Let’s be honest.
Many of us go to church because it makes us feel good, refuels our spirits for the week ahead and is a safe spot to park our kids for a few hours respite from the demands of parenthood.
An added bonus is that sometimes we get to contribute to a cause, a mission or a personal need without having to get TOO involved.
So we come away feeling pretty good about who we are, what we believe and how much we “sacrifice” for others and the Kingdom.
But this is not what Christ came for folks.
He didn’t come so that we can have a weekly club meeting, soothe our souls and shut out the world. He came so that desperate hearts on the fringe could draw near.
He rent the veil so that no one who trusts His finished work is excluded.
Not even the messy and imperfect.
Not even the poor or unlovely or slightly crazy.
We have got to do better.
We have got to make church a place where people who have no hope feel like they are welcome. We have got to reach out and reach down and reach across and pull those hurting hearts inside.
I know (believe, me, I know!) that it takes more energy than you want to exert. It takes more flexibility than a crammed-full schedule can allow. It takes more time and more emotional investment than any of us really want to spend.
But this is what Christ came for.
He came to expose the barriers religious people had erected between God and man.
He came to make a way where there was no way.
How welcome are the truly broken to our house of worship? Do we want to see their pain, entertain their questions and offer hope that includes walking the road alongside them and giving support for the long haul?
Jesus came to heal the broken.
Healing takes time and resources. It requires personal commitment to those God brings into our lives. It is messy and can’t be boiled down to a formula or pamphlet.
Jesus has invited is to be His hands and feet.
Will we accept the invitation?
Celebrating Life And Living Without The Denial Of Loss And Grieving
Carrying the torch for bereaved parents.
mama bereaved by suicide#child loss#grief
Healing through writting
"The Lord will look with compassion on all her ruins; he will make her deserts like Eden, her wastelands like the Garden of the Lord." Isaiah 51:3
Journaling Through The Grief
Losing Joe and finding my way thru grief.
Ideas and musings from a middle-aged 20 something
& seeking to walk in His ways ~ Joshua 22:5
Defying mainstream thoughts on grace and who it is reserved for.
IANspiration : Live Like Ian
“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.” — Maya Angelou
...the heart of a God chaser.
~ declaring His kingdom ~ for His glory
Living Each Day in the Light of God's Faithfulness
"In faith there is enough light for those who want to believe and enough shadows to blind those who don't." - Blaise Pascal
thelifeididntchoose 