Who wants to air the good, the bad and the ugly for everyone else to see?
In today’s world where photo filters on our cellphone cameras can turn a pretty rotten picture into a magazine worthy masterpiece no one is anxious to be seen as less than polished and put together.
The pressure is on to pretend that all is well even when all is, well, going quite the other direction.
If you are trudging through a tough patch, let folks know.
You might be surprised by who reaches out saying, “That was me just a while ago. Would you like to know how I made it through?”
If you’ve already walked the long and lonely road of grief, loss, trauma, depression or other difficult circumstance-share your story!
Don’t sugar coat it. Don’t clean up the messy bits. Don’t gloss over the hard spots.
How can anyone learn to walk the hard roads, the rocky paths, the treacherous terrain of life unless someone else is willing to be a guide? And who can trust a guide that hasn’t also made that journey?
Tell it like it was.
Then tell it like it is.
Map the path from there to here.
Shine a light for a soul that thinks darkness is all there is.
I cling fast to words that speak aloud what I’ve only thought.
I collect sentences that eloquently express what I can only feel.
I pull them out on days when my head and heart are doing battle and I can’t find any middle ground.
Reading reminds me I’m not the first soul to travel this way.
Others have been here before and left breadcrumbs.
A friend said, “Remember, he’s in good hands.” I was deeply moved. But that reality does not put Eric back in my hands now. That’s my grief. For that grief, what consolation can there be other than having him back?
Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son
The promise that I will one day see Dominic again makes the pain bearable. But it does nothing to treat the essential wound. He is not here and I will miss him, miss him, miss him until I draw my last breath.
The worst type of crying wasn’t the kind everyone could see–the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived. For people like me and Echo, our souls contained more scar tissue than life.” ― Katie McGarry, Pushing the Limits
I never knew a person could cry every day for months. Not just a tiny overflow that falls sweetly down a cheek but gigantic gut-wrenching, ear-shattering sobs. That was what I hid from everyone-the pillow-over-my-mouth-to-muffle it-crying in my room in the dark.
Maybe we all do.
Maybe that’s why those untouched by child loss don’t really know how much it hurts and for how long.
grief is a house where the chairs have forgotten how to hold us the mirrors how to reflect us the walls how to contain us
grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping
grief is a house where no one can protect you where the younger sister will grow older than the older one where the doors no longer let you in or outJandy Nelson, The Sky is Everywhere
When Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, he was living on his own. He’d been out of the house for a couple of years.
So I was utterly unprepared to find his earthly absence echoed in the house from which he had already been absent. Everything changed, everything was slightly askew.
And it is “a house where the younger [brother] will grow older than the older one”.
For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?
But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?
How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
I remember being surprised the first time I circled back around in my grief and revisited places in my heart I thought I had subdued and conquered.
But that’s how it is.
Grief has so many layers that I honestly don’t believe we could survive it at all if forced to peel them back all at once. So I’ve resigned myself to the fact I will come back to many of the same sore spots over and over.
I do feel like I’m spiraling upward. Each time I circle around, I’m better equipped to face the fear or guilt or sorrow or despair.
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.
As an introvert (who can, if pressed pretend not to be!) my energy is restored when I interact with one or two folks or no one at all. A dream afternoon is writing while listening to nothing louder than the wind chimes outside my door.
I treasure solitude.
Since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, I find I need even more alone time than before.
That quiet place is where I do my most effective grief work, undisturbed by interruptions and distractions.
But I need to be careful that solitude doesn’t shift into isolation.
I have to remind my heart that spending time with others keeps me from falling so deeply down the well of despair that all I see is darkness.
I need human interaction to keep me connected to a world that, quite frankly, I might sometimes just as soon leave behind.
So how can I tell the difference between solitude and isolation?
Here are a few questions that help me figure that out:
Do I feel lonely, neglected or abandoned? If my alone time feels less like a gift and more like an unwelcome burden then it may be isolation rather than solitude.
Where are my thoughts taking me? Being alone is often the only way to “hear” my own thoughts without having to block out the noise and activity of other people. If I am sitting with myself, processing hard things or even beautiful things, resolving internal conflict, conjuring new ways to deal with difficult relationships or situations then solitude is doing its work. If, instead, I find my mind tangled up in fearful knots, filled with negative self-talk or unable to break a downward spiral into despair then I probably need to find someone to talk to.
Am I getting stronger or being drained? After the holidays or other hectic seasons I need time alone to recharge my batteries. Often it is almost a day-for-day exchange. I can feel tension melting away and strength returning. My mind begins to clear and life doesn’t feel so overwhelming. Solitude grants space for my body, mind and soul to be refreshed. When it slides into isolation I can feel the shift. Instead of waking refreshed and eager to greet a free day, I wake to dreading another long one alone. Instead of energy rising in my spirit, I can feel it draining away. Instead of thinking kindly of friends and family who choose to leave me be, I’m resentful no one has checked up on me.
Is there a helpful rhythm to my days alone or am I counting the hours until sundown? When I’m enjoying solitude, the hours feel like a welcome opportunity to do things (or not do things!) at my own pace and according to my own preferences. I sit with pen in hand and jot down a list knowing that if I complete it or if I don’t the only person I have to answer to is myself. No pressing appointments and no worrisome commitments. When I’m isolating, the hours feel like a long march through deep mud-every step tedious, treacherous and exhausting. I’m alone but I’m not getting any benefit from it. If I’m enduring instead of enjoying then I’m isolating.
Do I have an endpoint in mind? When I look ahead at a week on my calendar, I try to balance alone time with social commitments. A day or two alone (or with limited human interaction) is solitude. A week holed up in the house is isolation. If I find myself pushing off needed outings (to the grocery store, to run errands) then I ask myself, “why?”. Often it’s because I’ve drifted from solitude (helpful alone time) to isolation (unhelpful hiding).
I can shift myself out of isolation by choosing just one small social interaction.
I might text or message a friend, go to the grocery store and make a point of speaking to the clerk, call someone or show up at a church or community event even if I sit in the back and slip out early.
I’m never going to be that person who is up for every outing. That’s just not how I’m made and child loss has intensified my need for solitude.
But I don’t want to be alone and lonely, sinking deeper and deeper into a pit of my own making.
An isolated heart is especially vulnerable to discouragement and despair.
When I first found myself on this path, I only knew a handful of moms who were walking it too. They were kind and helpful but they weren’t close enough (by relationship or physical distance) to make sharing my daily ups and downs easy or comfortable. I had so many questions. I had so many fears.
And I really didn’t have anyone to ask.
Someone suggested I look for a grief group meeting in my area. But I live in a rural county and there were none. Someone else suggested I start one. But I was in no position to shepherd other hearts or facilitate discussion when I could barely form words around my own feelings.
So I turned to social media. I searched Facebook for bereaved parent groups.
And it’s there I learned the language of loss and experienced the blessing of community.
❤ Melanie
How do you speak of the unspeakable?
How do you constrain the earth-shattering reality of child loss to a few syllables?
How do you SAY what must be said?
I remember the first hour after the news. I had to make phone calls. Had to confirm my son’s identity and let family know what had happened.
I used the only words I had at the time, “I have to tell you something terrible. Dominic is dead.”
Over, and over, and over.
Until others could pick up the chant and spread it to the ends of the earth.
And then silence.
Such a deep wound requires silence.Because there are no words for the ache inside a mother’s heart, the pain that burrows into her bones, the sorrow that sucks the breath from her body.
It was some months before I found a community of bereaved parents who began to give me a vocabulary for my experience.
And it was more than helpful, it was liberating!
As I began to speak aloud what was hidden inside, it broke chains I didn’t realize held me hostage.
As long as my feelings are secret, they trap my heart and mind in an endless cycle of regret, fear, sorrow, pain and anxiety. When I speak them aloud, I can recognize them and fight them and overpower them. And when I share them, I find that I am not alone.
Others come alongside and say, “Me too!” Validation makes me stronger. Understanding makes me brave.
I hate the fact that my son is dead.
I hate the pain that his death has inflicted on me and on my family.
There are days I wish I could run away and hide, that I could pretend this never happened, that I could undo the broken that permeates my life.
But I can’t.
There’s no way through but through. I have to face the awful truth, I have to consider the ways it is changing me and remaking who I am.
I need words to process the pain because that’s how I can disarm its power over me.
It’s tempting to try to ignore the hard parts of our stories thinking that we are getting away from them.
But we aren’t.
The harder the season, the more profound the wound or bitter the struggle the more time it takes to process.
The firststep is learning the words and finding community in which to speak them.
Here are links to two online communities for bereaved parents:
If you have lost a child and are looking for a place to learn the language of grief and loss, a safe space to share your pain with others who understand it, see if one of these groups might be the place for you.
It’s not uncommon for clients to be asked by their counselor, “What does happiness look like for you?”.
Because, let’s face it, few of us seek counseling unless we are unhappy or dissatisfied with our current life.
Unlike physical healing, mental, spiritual and emotional healing are rather subjective and it’s important to know what we’re aiming for when seeking help in moving our hearts toward wholeness (or at least, “less brokenness”).
So it’s not surprising that another bereaved parent was asked this question during a session recently. She brought it to the greater community because she felt that she didn’t have a good answer or, really, any answer at all.
I get it.
Child loss is devasting.
In the early days after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, the idea of “happiness” was as foreign to me as living on Mars. Possible, maybe, but highly improbable and not something I wanted to pursue.
Before death walked through my door, I didn’t find it necessary to parse the difference between happiness, contentment and joy.
Now, I find it absolutely critical.
Happiness is a feeling that everything is going my way-sunshine and roses, no uncomfortable circumstances, no insurmountable challenges. If I’m honest, even before child loss, I wasn’t always happy. It’s easy to idolize my “before” life into somethin it was not.
Contentment, on the other hand, is a settled trust in God’s goodness, mercy and love regardless of my current circumstances. I, like Paul, can LEARN to be content when I focus on the eternal story the Lord is writing that will proclaim His glory for ever and ever. I have to remind my heart every day of truth-even when it doesn’t want to hear it.
Joy is a burst of sweetness and delight-like biting into a perfect strawberry or being greeted with a slobbery kiss from a toddler who has stood by the window, waiting for your arrival. I can choose to make much of these moments or overlook them.
Eleven years on this road, while I find happiness elusive and contentment a work-in-progress, I find looking for joy rewarding.
I live on acreage that is mostly native grasses and weeds. Sometimes when I look out at the rough, uncut vista all I see is a raggedy mess. It is so unlike the tidy, mowed, landscaped lawns I grew up with as a child.
But when I WALK through the fields and look closely, there are dozens of different wildflowers tucked amid the weeds.
That’s how I’ve come to think of life after my son ran ahead to Heaven.
Life itself isn’t what I want or how I thought it would be- not predictable or beautiful (by my earlier standards of beauty). But there are STILL beautiful moments, relationships and events that I can treasure.
I’ve learned to focus on those and hold them close.
Most days are pretty good now but this habit continues to feed my soul.
When a particularly hard day comes, it helps me from falling so far down the rabbit hole of despair that I can’t climb back out.
May the Lord help all of us find the beauty and blessing that remains even as we miss our children and look forward to seeing them again in Heaven.
Another bereaved parent shared this “Litany of Trust” in one of our closed groups the other day.
It reminded me of the many quotes, verses and choruses I typed or wrote out and taped all over my house in the early days after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
My own head and heart were filled with doubt, sorrow and pain and I knew that if I didn’t keep truth in front of my eyes, those lies would take over and squeeze out any hope hiding in the corner.
I STILL have several of these reminders tacked up because there are days…
So I wanted to share this beautiful catalog of all the ways Jesus, our Great Shepherd King, delivers us from futile and unfruitful fear:
Many of us who grew up in non-liturgical churches (myself included), might be dismissive of repetitious prayers. But there is both beauty and power in repeating truth to our hearts and souls.
Paul said, “But how can they call to him for help if they have not believed? And how can they believe if they have not heard the message? And how can they hear if the message is not proclaimed?” (GNT).
He was speaking specifically about the gospel but isn’t the whole Bible full of Good News?
When we proclaim it aloud and anew, we are literally strengthening the inner man (or woman!).
May we take hold of the truth and every tool that helps our hearts cling to Hope.
My life is filled with lots of different kinds of people.
Because of this ministry, I message or talk to bereaved parents every day but I also message and talk to friends and family who have no clue what living with child loss looks like.
I learn something from all of them.
I try to be open to support and encouragement even when it comes from unlikely sources.
I remember the first early, very tender, very emotional days, weeks and months when I felt like a walking nerve. Any stray word or look was likely to bring tears to my eyes and drive me into seclusion for hours.
I couldn’t imagine that anything anyone who hadn’t walked this path could say would be helpful.
How could it be when they just. didn’t. know?????
And yet…over time, my heart softened by pain and sorrow and I realized that while others may not know my particular brand of suffering, they are often carrying a burden as well.
Even if the size and shape of their load is different than mine, they are learning from the journey and some of their wisdom might help me just as some of mine might help them.
Self-care, good boundaries, safe friends who allow us to share openly when we are struggling, grace, helpful, healthy habits-all those things are useful regardless of what we are going through.
If I close myself off and refuse to share life with anyone who isn’t situated precisely as I am in this life I didn’t choose I will miss oh, so very much!
I love, love, love the deep friendships I’ve formed with other bereaved parents (although I hate, hate, hate the way we found one another).
Online groups, the community around this blog, at retreats and through book and Bible studies, these parents form the foundation of strength and encouragement that has helped my heart hold on to hope.
But I also have beautiful nonbereaved friends who listen to my stories, share my tears and fears and who have walked and continue to walk beside me on this rocky road.
So don’t overlook or undervalue support regardless of where it comes from.
Look around.
Listen closely.
You might just be blessed more than you think.
If your heart is struggling and longing for companionship, here are some online communities that might be just what you’re looking for:
Heartache and Hope: Life After Losing a Child (closed group)
My heart hurts every time a name is added to this awful “club” no one wants to join.
One more family knows our pain.
One more family has an empty chair at holiday gatherings.
But I am thankful for the moms and dads that share their hearts in bereaved parents’ groups. I’m thankful for the safe space to speak honestly about what this life feels like and the challenges that greet us in this Valley.
A fellow waiting mom, Brenda Ehly, shared this on her personal Facebook page. I asked her if I could post it here and she graciously gave me permission:
“So, every now and then, I am asked, ‘How are you?’
Just in case any of them meant, ‘What is it like to be grieving a child during the holiday season?’ let me try to explain:
First, imagine you have stepped into a bear trap.
It hurts.
A lot.
Sadly, it’s a magical bear trap, that you will never be able to remove. (That’s your initial loss). Weirdly, after awhile, you sort of (not exactly) get used to it.
Now, imagine that at completely random intervals, a large bear suddenly appears, and, mistakenly thinking that you’re the one who’s been setting bear traps in the forest, repeatedly punches you in the nose.
Hard.
This bear throws one heck of a punch. (This is what happens when you go shopping at the grocery store and Andy Williams croons, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!” at you).
So, is it all miserable, all the time?
Absolutely not; every now and then, an adorable, enchanted raccoon brings you a tall mocha and a blueberry scone, and that is very nice, because even if you’re stuck in a magical (and excruciatingly painful) bear trap, a tall mocha and a fresh scone are still welcome and refreshing.
I first shared this years ago when I was reflecting on half a decade of living without one of my children beside me. I’ve now had more than another half decade to think about why or IF I’ll continue to write.
Every so often I take a day or two to consider whether I want to keep posting. I have to admit sometimes that I wonder if I bang the same drum for too long it will sound loud and obnoxious to some people’s ears.
But then I get a message or a comment from someone fresh on this journey and they feel seen, heard, validated and safe.
So I write on.
And I find that writing brings clarity and comfort to my soul. I still have things to say and I hope what I say still brings some small measure of light, love, life and hope to other hearts.
❤ Melanie
I was one of those people years ago who set her sights on starting and maintaining a blog.
I thought I would post a few times a week and share anecdotes about my family and critters, insight into daily living and inspiration from Scripture and interesting quotes.
No, not THIS blog-the other two I started and quickly abandoned to who-knows-where in cyberspace.
Trouble was that the subject matter, while near and dear to my heart, wasn’t personally compelling enough to keep me disciplined and actively writing.
If someone had said, “Pick any topic to write about”, child loss wouldn’t have been in the first million choices.
No one CHOOSES child loss (Thus the name of the blog: The Life I Didn’t Choose).
But untold numbers of parents EXPERIENCE it every year. This very day, parents somewhere got a knock on the door or a phone call or sat next to a hospital bed as life slipped slowly from their child’s tired body.
Since I was already journaling and had walked this Valley for nearly a year and a half, it dawned on me that the ramblings I’d put down might be helpful to another heart. So I started THIS blog in September, 2015.
And I’ve been here ever since.
I’m not in the raw, breathless place I once was. But grief and loss are part of every breath I take, part of every moment I experience.
I miss Dominic. I still consider death an enemy. Every day I hate what was stolen and long for what was. I mourn the changes grief has wrought in my family. I wish things were different. I discover new ways loss impacts my life and new ways of coping with it.
So I keep writing.
I don’t want anyone to feel alone in this journey. I don’t want anyone to think there’s no way to survive. I don’t want a single broken heart to doubt that God is here and that He will help you hold onto hope.
I’ll spill my heart out in words until the words are exhausted.
thelifeididntchoose 