
Relentless


The church at Thessalonica was confused about some fundamental doctrines of the Christian faith. They were frightened that they had missed Christ’s second coming and they were concerned about loved ones that had preceded them in death. So Paul wrote this letter to remind them of truth and offer comfort in their emotional distress:
And regarding the question, friends, that has come up about what happens to those already dead and buried, we don’t want you in the dark any longer. First off, you must not carry on over them like people who have nothing to look forward to, as if the grave were the last word. Since Jesus died and broke loose from the grave, God will most certainly bring back to life those who died in Jesus. I Thessalonians 4:13-14 MSG
This verse is quoted often to believers who have lost a loved one. At first, gently, sweetly–as an invitation to remember that God is in control, that He has a plan, that the grave is not victorious and that burying the body is not the end.
And, in the early days and weeks after the funeral, it IS comforting–I chanted it to myself like a mantra and it drew my heart from the brink of despair.
But at some point, this verse begins to feel like a rebuke–the well-meaning friend says, “Don’t you know, that Jesus followers don’t grieve like those who have no hope!”
And I turn, dumbfounded, to the person saying this, and wonder, “Have you buried a child?”
Read the rest here: Grieving With Hope
Sometimes I wonder why in the world am I so exhausted?
Why does it drain me to go to the grocery store?
Why do I have to gird my loins as if going into battle to make a phone call or a doctor’s appointment or to handle the normal, pesky details of living?
THIS. This is why: Every single thing I do or say is complicated now. No simple answers, no easy, breezy interactions with strangers.
I weigh every word, strategically plan each stop on my shopping route and choose carefully when and where to meet a friend for lunch.
Nothing is simple.
One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.
“How many children do you have?”
A common, get-to-know-you question lobbed across tables, down pews and in the check-out line at the grocery store. But for many bereaved parents, it can be a complex question that gets a different answer depending on who is asking and where we are.
I decided from the beginning that I would say, “four” in answer to that query.
But that doesn’t always get me off the hook. A follow-up of, “Oh, what do they do?” means that I have to make a decision: do I go down the line, including Dominic in any kind of detail or do I gloss over the fact that one of my children now lives in heaven?
Read the rest here: It’s Complicated
There’s a common bit of advice in grief circles: Fake it until you make it.
It’s not bad as far as it goes and can be pretty useful-especially just after the initial loss and activity surrounding it.
Like when I met the acquaintance in the grocery store a month after burying Dominic and she grabbed me with a giant smile on her face, “How AREyou?!!! It’s SO good to see you out!!!”
I just smiled and stood there as if I appreciated her interest, a deer caught in headlights, silently praying she’d live up to her talkative past and soon move on to another target.
Faked it.
Boom!
BUT there comes a time when faking it is not helpful. In fact, it’s downright dangerous.
Read the rest here: Can’t Fake It Forever
There is something about winter mornings that invite me to linger long in my rocking chair with my cup of coffee. It’s cold and outside chores can wait a bit.
When I sit here, my mind wanders to many things-mostly days gone by when my busy household would have made these long, slow mornings impossible.
And I miss it. All of it.
Especially the beauty of an unbroken family circle.
I try to hold onto the precious moments as long as I can.
We live in a noisy world.
Music, television, voices and the hum of electricity tunnel into our brains and distract us from hard questions and painful circumstances.
We live in a busy world.
If I’m not in motion, I am getting ready to be.
It is tempting in my grief to try to stuff life full of noise and busyness so I can ignore the pain and emptiness of missing my son.
Read the rest here: The Silent Joy of Memory
My first instinct as a mother and a shepherd is always, “How can I help?”
I routinely set aside my own needs for the needs of others. Not because I’m so selfless but because that’s how I’m made-I’ve always had the heart of a caretaker.
That’s not a bad thing, most of the time.
But if taking care of others means NOT taking care of myself, then in the end, I’m of no use to anyone. When I allow every bit of energy-emotional, physical, psychological and spiritual-to drain away until there’s nothing left, I am unable to meet my most basic needs, much less the needs of others.
I’ve written before that grief puts a hole in my bucket. It guarantees that no matter how much is poured in, I’m never truly full.
I’ve also written about setting boundaries and trying to preserve margin as I walk this Valley. I have to create space between me and the people around me if I’m going to make it through.
But there are some other steps I can take to help ensure my heart is strong enough for the journey. It’s not always about what I don’t do.
Sometimes it’s about what I choose TO do.
Here are some ideas for self-care in grief (or really ANY hard place in life):



Grief is a lifelong process-a marathon, not a sprint.
Maintaining space to do the work grief requires and engaging in activities and health habits that help me do that work is the only way to endure.

One of the things I absolutely LOVED about having four kids was the way they pinged off one another. There were evenings when the comments were flying so fast I could barely keep up. Sly looks, secret texts, funny faces and friendly punches made up most of our times together.
That’s how families are-each person is just a little “more” when surrounded by folks that love and understand him or her.
When Dominic left us, we didn’t only lose HIS companionship, we also lost the part of each of us that was reflected back from him.

And just as each one of us had a unique relationship with him in life,we have a unique relationship with him in death.
Sure he was brother to all his siblings.
But he was a younger brother to the older two and older brother to our youngest. He was a middle son but a third child. He was close to his sister who shared his love of musical instruments, bonded with his younger brother over cars and butted heads with his older brother when he felt like he was bossed around.

Dominic and I were both political junkies and loved to debate policy and current events. We listened to NPR and compared notes.
He enjoyed talking sports with his dad and trying out different guitars and sound effects pedals as they jammed to the radio.
So how we remember him, what we miss, what we long for and what we hold onto is a reflection of the different way we interacted with him.
How much and how loud we express our grief is also a combination of our relationship with him and our innate personalities.
Sometimes that is helpful-like when one of us can sit and listen to another because we are not so emotional at the moment. Sometimes it causes frustration or even conflict when one or more of us feels that we need to DO a certain thing to remember Dominic and one or more of us is uncomfortable doing that very thing.
We’ve got to respect our differences, embrace them, make room for them even in this Valley.
We ALL miss him. That’s something we can agree on.
We ALL would give anything to have him back.
And we are ALL in this together, even in our unique expressions of the same pain.
Grief is a family affair as much as life is.
We learn, we grow, we adapt.
And together we survive.

Last October I attended my first group event for bereaved parents.
I really didn’t know what to expect. Was I going to be overwhelmed with sadness upon seeing so many other brokenhearted parents? Would I be cornered and forced to share my story with strangers? Would I come away refreshed or worn out?
What I discovered was that I was surrounded by other people who “got it” and who were not interested in putting any kind of pressure on me to be or say or do anything I didn’t want to. Sure there were tears, but there was laughter as well. And I was able to hug necks of online friends that have been so very supportive and loving.
It was good.
It was helpful.
It is something I will do again.
As a matter of fact, I’ll be doing it again THIS February 23-25th in Amory, Mississippi.
A fellow bereaved mom, Hope Lee, owns and operates a Christian Camp named in honor of her daughter, Abby (Abby’s Acres Christian Camp). She felt the Lord leading her to organize an intimate weekend getaway for bereaved moms and, after offering it to locals first, has now opened it to the public.
We will have some teaching/sharing/discussion sessions as well as free time and organized crafts.
It’s a wonderful opportunity to meet other moms whose experience may help you in your journey. It will definitely be a safe space to let your hair down and take your mask off.
Depending where you are in this journey the thought of a weekend away with other bereaved moms may be either terrifying or exciting.
But may I encourage you-whether terrified or excited-to listen to the Spirit? If He is pushing you to step out in faith, do it.
I promise you won’t regret it!
Spaces are limited so call the number today and reserve your spot.

Address (for navigation purposes): Abby Acres 50771 Old Hwy 25S Amory, MS 38821
Phone number: 662-574-8445
I must remind my heart every day that Jesus Himself declared the blessing in mourning. I must remember that there is comfort available at His feet. Not in running from my pain, but in embracing it and trusting Him to redeem it.
What blessing is there in mourning? What comfort in distress? What good can come from pain and brokenness?
Good questions.
Honest questions.
Questions I have asked God.
Read the rest here: Blessed are Those Who Mourn?
It’s always a delicate balancing act when I’m with my living children and missing Dominic. I never, ever want to elevate their brother to a level that says I love him more than them-because it isn’t true.
I didn’t love him more when he was living and I don’t love him more now that he’s dead.
But I do love him differently.

I can no longer DO things for him. I can’t buy him a special Christmas gift, send him a thoughtful text when he’s having a tough day, make his favorite dish because he’s coming home for the weekend.
I can only testify to the love I continue to carry in my heart and to the impact he made on my life.
THAT’S why I won’t hide my tears.

I won’t pretend that some things don’t sting, some moments don’t overwhelm my wall of defense against the grief waves that pound relentlessly against it, some smells or sights or memories don’t bowl me over and knock my heart to its knees.
Because not only am I testifying to the love I have for Dominic, I’m also testifying to the love I have for each of my children.
They can see with their own eyes that death will never sever the ties I have with them nor cut the bond of love that stretches like a silken cord between my heart and theirs.
