Whether the burden is child loss, abuse, chronic illness or some other ongoing and unchangeable hard circumstance, it’s easy to get so good at acting “OK” you can almost fool yourself.
But all that stress and struggle exacts a cost.
Pretending that it doesn’t is not helpful at all.
Read the rest here: Don’t Let It Fool You
Why is it “dwelling” in one instance and “remembering” in another?
Who gets to decide whether I’m taking out a cherished memory, holding it, stroking it and reliving it because it’s all I have left or I’m clutching the past, refusing to let go?
I will be the first to admit that mulling over past offenses is probably the last thing I need to do. Especially if I’m trying to forgive them. That’s not helpful nor is it healthy.
But there’s a difference between THAT kind of thinking and the kind of thinking every bereaved parent does about his or her missing child.
Read the rest here: “Don’t Dwell on That!”
I wrote this last year about this time but it suits me this year too.
So many big stressors combined with dozens of small ones have me begging God for relief. The end is not in sight but I DO know how the story ends.
If I can hold onto hope -which I manage to do most days-and make space for my heart on the days I just can’t, it will be alright.
Maybe not soon and certainly not in this lifetime. But it WILL be alright. ❤
Today is full of tears.
No real reason-other than the obvious one-but so many things coming together to remind me this life is hard, hard, hard.
I find on this side of burying Dominic that when two or three other stressful events pile one atop the other I crumble. Sometimes it’s other family members doing the best they can to muddle through and sometimes it’s physical pain or disappointment or the random “ya-ya” stuff of life in community with other people Whatever it is, the weight-in addition to grief-just absolutely overwhelms me.
I used to be stronger.
Or at least I thought I was stronger.
Read the rest here: Just Plain Hard
I’m really not good at sitting still.
When I see something that must be done I tend to get up and do it.
But right now (as I wrote yesterday) I’m in a season where I need to be patient with myself. I need to learn to rest. I need to give my own heart the space and grace I’d quickly extend to another.
So I’m hanging this little sign up around every corner in my house.
I hope my heart heeds the message.
I love, love, love when people leave comments on the blog!
Even though I wish we had come together over a common happy experience, I’m still thankful we have come together.
And I normally try hard to “like” and answer every comment in a timely way.
But this spring has been a real roller coaster ride and I’ve fallen dreadfully behind.
Please forgive me.
I’m trying to keep up, but no matter how fast I pedal, I’m not quite able to make the miles I hope to make each day.
I appreciate every single heart that chooses to engage, chooses to encourage, chooses to turn back and hold out a hand to the next struggling soul behind them.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
I love you all. ❤
I am so thankful for my children.
While I was the teacher for their early years, they are now teaching me.
From my daughter, Fiona:
It’s tempting to look at someone doing a hard thing (like foster care) or living out a hard truth (like child loss) and label them as “special”, “brave”, “extraordinary”, or “chosen by God for a big purpose”.
Read the rest here: The Prayer of the Average and Broken
I think I will post this link as long as I maintain the blog because I will always be a voice for those whose lives look more like Ash Wednesday than Mardi Gras.
I will continue to speak out for space in our congregations and fellowships that acknowledge life is often hard, often unfair and often more like a broken hallelujah than a high note.
I am not a member of the Church of the Perpetually Cheerful. I am a member of the Broken Body of Christ, limping through this world, holding onto hope with both hands.
Twenty-four hours separate one of the most outlandish global parties and one of the most somber religious observances on the Christian calendar.
Many of the same folks show up for both.
Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday”, is the last hurrah for those who observe Lent-a time of reflection, self-denial and preparation before Resurrection Sunday.
It’s a giant party-food, fellowship and fun-a wonderful way to celebrate the blessings of this life.
Ash Wednesday, by contrast, is an invitation to remember that “from dust you came and to dust you will return”. None of us get out of here alive.
Read the rest here: Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday: A Study in Contrasts
I don’t have to leave my house to “go” to work.
Most everything I have to do is on these 35 acres or within a mile of my home. And my routine is pretty much the same seven days a week.
So Mondays aren’t really all that big a deal. But rainy days? Well, those make EVERYTHING more challenging.
It’s been one heck of week here. Heavy rain for at least an hour or more each day means that it’s so soggy I can barely tell the difference between the mud and the manure (and that’s an important distinction to make around here!).
My driveway is a river. I haven’t had to fill water troughs for days because it rains as much as the horses, donkeys and goats drink.
Gray days infect my soul with a kind of weariness that’s hard to express.
I’m always just a breath or two away from overwhelming sadness, and when there is day after day after day of rain and clouds and mud and muck it often overtakes me.
I try so hard to buck up and ignore it. But I’m not always successful.
Mornings are good. If I sleep well the night before, I can get going and momentum carries me through until a little after lunchtime. Somewhere between three and four in the afternoon, I usually lose the battle.
Willpower just isn’t enough to overcome the sense of “what’s the use” that nips at my heels like a terrier chasing a squirrel.
So I usually give in. Sometimes I even go on to bed.
I feel like a failure.
I used to be able to work hard for a good 18 hours out of every 24.
Not anymore.
Especially on rainy days…
I ask myself this question often: Do I want to keep writing in this space?
Sometimes the answer is a resounding, “no!”.
Because while I love to write, some days it’s hard to put together words in a way others can understand. Sometimes I’m tired, or rushed or just tired of thinking about how grief and loss impact my life.
And then I ask the follow up: Do I still have anything to say?
That’s the one that keeps me here.
Because as soon as I think the answer is “no” to that question, a conversation or a comment thread or a personal experience brings up something that I feel I need or want to write about.
So I sit down and begin again.
I made a commitment in the beginning to be as honest as possible and I’ve done that the best I know how while protecting identities of those who are part of my story but who have their own stories to tell (should they choose).
I also promised to be transparent about my thoughts on God, on faith, on life everlasting. I feel like I’ve done that. In fact, I’m pretty sure some of my rambling has shocked friends and family from time to time. But I’m not afraid of shocking God. He knows my frame, knows my heart and cannot be made small by my questions or doubts.
I try to do research when appropriate to bring together resources and ideas for bereaved parents in one place.
One of the most frustrating things to me in the early months of missing Dominic was how hard it was to find good resources. The Internet is not your friend if you are looking for local and accessible help for practical problems. It was over a year and a half before I found a closed group of like-minded bereaved parents. But once I did, oh, what a difference that made in my journey!
So if you are interested in finding a safe, closed group, ask me. I know of several.
And then there’s the sweet comments that (usually) mamas send my way-either through Facebook or here. When someone writes that looking for the blog post each morning helps them get out of bed-well, that’s both encouragement and a serious responsibility. I don’t want to not show up and disappoint a heart. Even when all I have to offer is only my words.
So for now, at least, I plan to stay.
When my life circumstances make it impossible to carry on or I run out of things to say (which my mother will swear won’t happen!) then I’ll quit.
I send each post into cyberspace with a prayer-even for my readers who don’t believe in prayer:
“Father God, help each heart hold onto hope. Send a ray of sunshine into every cloudy day. Bring someone along who will listen, who will care and who will offer a hand to the one who is too weary and broken to take another step. Help them believe that they are seen, they are loved and that they matter. Overwhelm them with Your love, grace and mercy.”
You DO matter.
I DO care.
If you need to talk, message me.
If you need a safe space, I’ll direct you to it.
I’m not going anywhere.
I have never been one of those women who lied about her age.
My weight…well, you will have to threaten me with something that matters to get THAT number out of my lips.
But I’ve noticed this year more than others since Dominic left us that the wear and tear of years and tears and life and loss are showing up on my face as well as my hips.
I am definitely the worse for wear.
My daughter is getting married in May and for the first time in my life I am religious about applying under eye cream and moisturizing lotion to my face each morning and night.
I don’t want to be the sore thumb in the family pictures!
I’m not sure it’s working. I’m not sure anything can erase or roll back the marks that life and love and loss have etched on my face.
I’m not sure I want to.
Because each wrinkle, each line, each saggy, baggy skin flap says, “I loved, I lived and I am surviving-even though it’s hard.”
Before Dom left I was camera shy. I still am, a bit. But I’m trying hard to suck up my pride and my insecurity and let those flashes pop. Memories are made one day at a time and photos help preserve them.
So whether I’m at my best, at my worst or somewhere in between, I won’t say no to a Kodak moment.
I wish I had more of them from “before”.
I wish I hadn’t’ been so darned particular about what I looked like, what I was wearing and whether or not my wrinkles or big butt showed.
Worse for wear?
Who cares?
This one wasn’t made to last.
❤
For instance, we know that when these bodies of ours are taken down like tents and folded away, they will be replaced by resurrection bodies in heaven—God-made, not handmade—and we’ll never have to relocate our “tents” again. Sometimes we can hardly wait to move—and so we cry out in frustration. Compared to what’s coming, living conditions around here seem like a stopover in an unfurnished shack, and we’re tired of it! We’ve been given a glimpse of the real thing, our true home, our resurrection bodies! The Spirit of God whets our appetite by giving us a taste of what’s ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts so that we’ll never settle for less.
2 Corinthians 5:1-5 MSG
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