Walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, A Mother's Journey of Child Loss
Author: Melanie
I am a shepherd, wife and mother of four amazing children, three that walk the earth with me and one who lives with Jesus. This is a record of my grief journey and a look into the life I didn't choose. If you are interested in joining a community of bereaved parents leaning on the promises of God in Christ, please like the public Facebook page, "Heartache and Hope: Life After Losing a Child" and join the conversation.
I know many who wonder about the eternal destiny of loved ones.
God in His mercy extends grace to everyone who believes.
NOTHING can separate us from the love of God:
God promises that HE holds on to US–HEfinishes the work He began in us.
“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.”
Philippians 1:6 NLT
Even if the last choice someone made was a foolish one, or a desperateone, The Good Shepherd brings all His sheep home.
“My sheep recognize my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them real and eternal life. They are protected from the Destroyer for good. No one can steal them from out of my hand. The Father who put them under my care is so much greater than the Destroyer and Thief. No one could ever get them away from him. I and the Father are one heart and mind.” ~Jesus
When news that Dominic left us spread, our yard was filled with friends and family here to help bear the burden of grief and loss.
Our house was bursting with people and food and phone calls-more coming and going than our gravel lane had seen in a lifetime of living up in the woods.
It was beautiful and terrible all at the same time. Beautiful because we were not alone in our sorrow and terrible because it was due to that sorrow they were here.
In those days between the accident and the funeral I was boundary-less.
People hugged me, fed me, cleaned my house, cut my grass, tended the animals, asked me questions, told me stories and I just accepted it-whatever “it” was-because I was utterly unable to do anything else.
But in the weeks that followed, as the pain made itself more at home in my heart-as it expanded to fill every nook and crevice-I realized that I had to put up some fences.
My oldest son was getting married just a couple months after the accident.
There’s a lot of stuff to do for a wedding as most folks know. So I got a phone call one week after Dominic’s funeral and the person on the other end launched into a long saga regarding a minor detail and expected me to 1) listen attentively; 2) care as deeply as they did about something that absolutely didn’t matter; and 3) join with them in light-hearted, laughter-filled banter.
I just. couldn’t. do. it.
So I didn’t.
I politely but firmly explained that I was unable to continue the conversation and that in future they needed to contact me through my son. I promised I was 100% committed to making the wedding happen, to doing my part and to being as happy as possible on the day.
But until then, unless it was a true emergency, please leave me alone.
Drawing a boundary created space for me to DO what needed to be done without the added burden of extra emotional baggage.
Before Dominic left us I was a “yes” person.
Smiling stylish woman showing sign excellently, isolated on red
Need help with an event?Why, sure I’m available.
Need someone to take your Sunday School class? Absolutely.
Keep your toddler? Just drop him off-we’ll play with the critters all day.
Phone call counselor and Homeschool Help Hotline-that was me.
Not anymore.
I’ve learned that if I am to have the energy needed to do necessary things, I have to protect my heart. I am too weak to carry everyone else’s burdens. If I am going to survive this journey I’ve got to prioritize.
I still listen.
I still help.
But I do it in a more healthy way-with respect for myself as well as others.
It is OK to say, “No.”And I don’t have to offer a reason. It’s a complete sentence all on its own.
All of my children had urged me over the years to draw boundaries. But I had grown from a parent-pleasing first born into a people pleasing adult and I just couldn’t do it.
Dominic even crafted a wire sign that hung on my kitchen curtains in the shape of a cursive “no”.
He made me repeat the mantra: Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.
He’d be proud of me for finally taking his advice.
Forty years Israel wandered in the desert, unable to claim the promise given them through Moses.
Forty yearsforbidden to set foot across the Jordan and partake of the bounty that lay on the other side.
Forty years of death as the rebellious ones were laid to rest because of their rebellion.
I bet they got tired of traveling. I bet they were weary of moving on. I bet they wondered (even though they had sure knowledge) just when this would be over.
And all that time, even in the midst of their heartsick longing to go back, have a do-over, make it right and the heavy weight of knowing, knowing, knowing there would be no going back, the LORD was in their midst-a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night-He was there.
I understand completely.
Sundown yesterday began the Feast of Tabernacles for Jews around the world. It’s a seven day period to celebrate God’s faithfulness in the wilderness and to remember that this world is not our home.
I think it is a beautiful tradition and a wonderful way to speak truth to our hearts.
Because it’s easy to forget.
Unless something happens that sharpens the homesick longing that lies latent in all our hearts, it’s easy to get comfortable here. Life seems pretty good-we gather our people and our stuff around us and think, “I could stay here forever.”
But no one stays here forever.
This world is not my home.
It never has been.
And I am tired of traveling. I am tired of moving on. I wonder just when this is going to be over.
But even here, God is in the midst of it.
Emmanuel-God With Us-is near.
Jehovah-Shalom-The LORD My Peace-is speaking peace that passes understanding to my weary spirit.
I was created for a place where love and light reign and sickness and death cannot enter.
I feel it every day.
“I began to try to define the pain I felt. Yes, it was sorrow, but it was something more, something infinitely deeper. I felt it all the time, even when I was happy. It wasn’t just sorrow. It was a longing; a pining for a better place and time … no, not just a better place and time, a perfect place and time; a different reality. It felt like longing for home, but not for a home I had ever been to. I began to see that it was something like homesickness …. Perhaps Christians are the most consistently homesick people in the world because they know this world (as it is) isn’t their true home. Yes, I was home, but I was still homesick.”
~Elyse Fitzpatrick, Home
Labels and categories can be helpful. When cruising the grocery aisles I’m thankful for the signs that point the way to “vegetables” or “baking needs”.
But labels can be harmful when applied to people.
Thankfully public discussion rarely includes some of the ugly words I heard growing up.
And that’s a good thing.
It means we are free to talk about the things that really matter without having to clear the hurdle of offense.
This trend has yet to take hold in wider circles when speaking about or speaking to bereaved parents and other hurting people.
From the outside looking in, we tend to classify struggling hearts as either “strong” or “weak”. We apply standards based on our own experience and background to determine whether or not a particular soul is “handling it well” or “crumbling under the stress”.
The problem with labels for hurting people is that it puts extra pressure on them and lets those around them off the hook.
You probably mean it as a compliment when you say, “You are so strong”.
But I know it’s not true-I’ve gotten very good at holding it together in public and at saying all the right things when I meet folks on the street.
I can look you in the eye, recite answers to the question of , “How are you doing?” by focusing on the current status of my surviving adult children. What you probably won’t notice among the well-rehearsed lines is I never share my heart-I never tell you how I FEEL.
If I opened that vault there’s no telling what might spill out.
You walk away confirmed in your opinion that I am doing well, that I no longer need any active encouragement or ongoing prayer. I’m off the “ministry list” because I am past the point of crisis and doing just fine.
Or you may see me at a vulnerable moment and think, “She’s weak” or “She’s really struggling”.
I AM weak and I DO struggle.
If you are tired of hearing about the ongoing struggle, how tired do you imagine I am living it?
If you wish I would “get over it”-how much more do you think I wish it never happened?
You may give up because it’s too much trouble to keep reaching out. You may tuck me in the basket of lost causes because you think I’m not committed to keep trying.
It’s easy to draw a line in the sand and decide that you will go thus far and no farther in extending help or encouragement or grace because you CAN walk away.
But I am not a lost cause.
Each day Jesus meets me in my weakness and brokenness and gives me the strength I need to carry on.
And He often does this through people-people who choose to walk alongside and not label me or my journey. People who are committed to continue even when they are tired of helping carry the burden and sick of hearing my story.
Grace–abundant grace-given and received is what makes life livable.
As much as I hate the mashup of Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas that assaults my senses every time I walk into a store, it IS a reminder that, like it or not, the holidays are coming.
I wrote these posts a few weeks back so that grieving parents and their families could begin to think about and make plans for year-end celebrations.
I know it’s hard-it continues to be hard for me as I approach the third (!) set of holidays without one of my children at the table.
But it is harder without a plan.
So here are links to the posts.I pray they are a small help for heartbroken mamas and daddies:
The doctor I see every six months or so for my rheumatoid arthritis always fusses at me.
One of the routine questions is, “How’s your pain level?”
I usually say, “About a three.”
And then she looks at my hands and my feet-at the swollen joints and twisted toes-and shakes her head.
But here’s the deal: sure they hurt, sure I can’t do all the things I used to do, sure I have to do many things differently than I did them when my hands and feet were unaffected by this disease-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.
I don’t really know how to do anything else.
And that’s how it is with this grief I lug around-it’s heavier some days than others-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.
This is not the life I thought I would be living,but it’s the life I have.
So I make accommodations for my sorrow just like I make accommodations for my hurting hands and crooked toes.
I try not to over-schedule my days. If I have an appointment I mark it on the calendar and refuse to pile other commitments on top of it. That way if I’m wiped out I have some built in down time.
I prioritize what needs to be done. Whether it is for a week or a day, I jot down a list (still using paper-but a phone would work) and then decide what are the two or three MOST important tasks that must be done in that time frame. If I find myself running behind because it’s a hard grief day (or week), I can quickly make choices that ensure the needful things are done and the others laid aside for when I have more energy to do them. I’m less anxious about what I don’t get finished because I know I did the most important things first.
I build rest into my days. When I’m overtired, I’m more susceptible to grief attacks. I pause every now and then to sit or take a quick walk outside or simply change my work from detail-oriented to broad strokes. I have more flexibility because I work at home but even in an office it’s possible. My husband walks every day on his lunch hour-sunshine and physical activity make his afternoons easier to bear.
I ask for help. When I’m drowning in grief, I reach out for a lifeline. There’s no shame in asking for help. I have a good friend that I can text or call anytime I need to and ask for prayer or a listening ear. I belong to a couple of online grief groups and they are full of people who understand my pain and will lift me up in prayer and encourage my heart when it feels especially broken.
I accept my limitations. My toes don’t allow me to wear beautiful shoes anymore so I’ve learned to wear what fits instead of what’s in fashion. I am not the same person I was before I buried a child so I’m learning to live with the new me. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like unexpected change. I feel anxious in unfamiliar places and around strangers. I make choices that limit my exposure to those things when possible.
I shake off the really awful day. I can’t help that some days take a nosedive into terrible as soon as I leave the bed. I admit that grieving is hard, that it will continue to be hard. But I won’t let my worst days be my only days.
I am not in control of everything, but I can control some things.
I would not have chosen this life for myself, but I can make choices that help make it bearable.
Those hours before I planted one last kiss on my son’s forehead, I held his hand.
I nodded at the people filing past to pay their respects with my arm tucked behind me, desperate to cling to my child.
And I’m still clinging.
I will not let him go.
I don’t care how many days or months or years march on taking me further from the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand or the brightness of his smile-I refuse to release my grasp.
It’s hard for someone who has never buried a child to understand why we who have are compelled to speak about them, to post pictures of them, to air our great grief and share our great hope of reunion.
I didn’t have a clue before it was me.
But this is all we have.
There will be no new experiences, no fresh memories, no photos marking higher achievements or life passages.
So I will hold onto Dominic as a little boy who was so stubborn he would sit in the floor and cry in frustration because he couldn’t yet crawl.
I will hold onto Dominic as a young man who could argue anyone under the table until they gave in because, right or wrong, he wasn’t giving up.
I will hold onto Dominic who taught himself how to play the drums and pounded away when I took my daily walk so that it wouldn’t be too loud for my ears.
I will hold onto Dominic who talked his way into a program that admitted few students even though he had missed the first semester of classes.
I will hold onto Dominic who could fight like a banty rooster when he was mad but be as tender as a mother hen with someone who was hurting.
I will hold onto Dominic who would have never wanted this for me, who would have done anything he could to prevent this great sorrow resting on my shoulders.
The Fall Feasts of Israel are a beautiful reminder of Who God is and what Christ has done for us.
Beginning this evening and continuing until sunset tomorrow, Jews around the world are observing Yom Kippur or The Day of Atonement.
According to Scripture (Leviticus 16), The Day of Atonement was commanded by God for Israel to remember the terrible debt of sin and the only acceptable payment–blood.
The high priest would enter the Holy of Holies and apply blood to the horns of the mercy seat, thus covering over for another year the individual and corporate sin of Israel.
According to Jewish tradition, God inscribes each person’s fate for the coming year into a book, the Book of Life, on Rosh Hashanah, and waits until Yom Kippur to “seal” the verdict. During the Days of Awe, a Jew tries to amend his or her behavior and seek forgiveness for wrongs done against God and against other human beings. The evening and day of Yom Kippur are set aside for public and private petitions and confessions of guilt. At the end of Yom Kippur, one hopes that they have been forgiven by God.
Yet year after year, this sacrifice was not enough.
The blood of animals is insufficient to pay the debt owed by men to a perfect and holy God.
But the blood of the Perfect Lamb, Jesus Christ,has completely paid the debt I owe-I no longer cower in the shadow of my sin.
When I chose to apply that blood to my heart by faith, I was made right with the LORD.
As a believer in Jesus the Christ, I have a High Priest that has offered His own blood as the Perfect Sacrifice once for all (Hebrews 9).
I can rest assured that I’m not sealed only for a day, or even a year,but for all eternity!
Because Jesus is the eternal and sufficient propitiation for my sins, I need not fear death.
It is sin which gives death its power, and it is the Law which gives sin its strength. All thanks to God, then, who gives us the victory over these things through our Lord Jesus Christ!
I Corinthians 15:55-57 PHILLIPS
We do not have to bring a sacrifice to the altar and hope that our sins are forgiven. The Law holds no power over us who believe-Jesus fulfilled its every obligation.
But it is a good thing to take a day to reflect on the cost and the gift
Too often we grasp the gift and forget its cost.
Today, remember what the LORD has done for you. Remember the burden He lifted by His sacrifice. Remember His claim on your life–the life He purchased with His blood.
Remember.
If you are withholding grace and forgiveness–remember, and repent–give to others what God has graciously given to you.
If you are walking outside the will of God for your life–remember and repent-fall back in step behind the Lord Jesus and let Him guide you.
If you are dabbling in sin–remember and repent-turn from your wickedness and back to holiness.
Rememberand be thankful.
“Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered.”
thelifeididntchoose 