bereaved parent – Page 219 – thelifeididntchoose

Bifurcate \ˈbī-(ˌ)fər-ˌkāt, bī-ˈfər-\

Bifurcate: 1. to cause to divide into two branches or parts; 2. my life.

Before Dominic ran ahead to heaven I led a fairly unified life.

Our family was unusually close, our goals closely aligned, we shared the same faith, had developed routines and even all liked creamy peanut butter.

That changed when Dom left us-suddenly I was forced to live with one foot HERE and one foot THERE.

I didn’t get to choose, it was decided for me.

Paul’s words took on new meaning and great relevance:

We know that if our earthly house—a mere tent that can easily be taken down—is destroyed, we will then live in an eternal home in the heavens, a building crafted by divine—not human—hands. ²Currently, in this tent of a house, we continue to groan and ache with a deep desire to be sheltered in our permanent home ³because then we will be truly clothed and comfortable, protected by a covering for our current nakedness. ⁴The fact is that in this tent we anxiously moan, fearing the naked truth of our reality. What we crave above all is to be clothed so that what is temporary and mortal can be wrapped completely in life. ⁵The One who has worked and tailored us for this is God Himself, who has gifted His Spirit to us as a pledge toward our permanent home.

2 Corinthians 5:1-5 VOICE

Groan–YES!

Deep longing can only be expressed with low, gutteral sounds-there are no words!

I am in this earthly tent but want desperately to be free of it and clothed with the eternal-where joy unspeakable will reign and sorrow and death will be no more.

So this Lenten journey is helpful to me-it acknowledges the struggle between flesh and spirit. It encourages my heart to walk by faith and not sight, to grab hold of that which counts forever and let go of that which is doomed for destruction.

The truth is, all of us who follow Jesus lead a bifurcated life.

It’s simply that some of us can ignore that truth. Until death touches our bodies or our families, we can pretend that the earthly tent’s not so bad, that it might be somewhere we’d enjoy staying quite awhile.

I am not at all thankful for Dom’s death. I will never be thankful my son left us in the prime of life, full of promise and without saying good-bye.

But I am thankful that I am unavoidably confronted with the truth that this life is fleeting, this world is only a moment and this body temporary housing for my eternal soul.

Paul goes on to write:

In light of this [our understanding that our life here is temporary], we live with a daring passion and know that our time spent in this body is also time we are not present with the Lord. ⁷The path we walk is charted by faith, not by what we see with our eyes. ⁸There is no doubt that we live with a daring passion, but in the end we prefer to be gone from this body so that we can be at home with the Lord. ⁹Ultimately it does not matter whether we are here or gone; our purpose stays fixed, and that is to please Him.

2 Corinthians 5: 6-9 VOICE

My eyes see one thing, but my heart knows another.

The Inestimable Value of Rest

It’s not the same as just doing nothing.

Sitting still doesn’t guarantee that the mind remains quiet or the spirit settled.

I know, because sometimes I’ve been forced to stay perched in a chair like a toddler in time out and it was not restful.

At.

All.

But the other day I did spend time in my favorite rocking chair, cozied up to a heating pad with my cat companion

and wrote

and wrote.

It was wonderful! And it restored my soul.

I haven’t enjoyed something like that in several months. Things to do had crowded my schedule, places to go and people to see or talk to had used up nearly every waking moment.

I let rest-genuine, soul-restoring rest-be pushed aside in hopes of making progress on a never-ending list of necessary tasks.

What I failed to take into account was that the more weary I became, the less effective my efforts and the less enthusiastic my attitude-not to mention my rebellious body!

I don’t know why I push harder when I shouldn’t be pushing at all. Because when I don’t build rest into my schedule, I’m sorely tempted to give up and give in-every little thing becomes a struggle!

The most productive people know when to take a break. The highest yielding fields remain untilled from time to time.

Life is hard and if I’m going to make it on this long and laborious journey, I’ve got to learn to take my own best advice:

Why Do We Turn Away?

The news goes out over Facebook, over phone lines, over prayer chains and everyone shows up.

Crowds in the kitchen, in the living room, spilling onto the lawn.

It’s what you do.

And it’s actually the easiest part. Lots of people, lots of talking, lots of activity keep the atmosphere focused on the deceased and the family. The conversation rarely dips to deeper waters or digs into harder ground: “Where was God?”; “Why him?”; “Why do ‘bad’ things happen to ‘good’ people?”

But eventually the busyness and noise gives way to stillness and silence.

That’s when the harder part starts.

The long hours of nightime darkness that invite questions that demand answers. The quiet hours of daylight that insist on playing a home movie of the years that went before. Forcing me to wrestle. Tossing me in the ring of trying to reconcile this tragedy with my worldview.

And many people turn away from the spectacle.

Even good, loving, Christ-following friends find it hard to stick around and watch.

Because it challenges their worldview too.

It makes them wonder if what they have always believed about God is true. It makes them fearful that if it could happen to my son and to me, it could happen to their child and to them. Ir raises questions, they’d rather not answer.

And they don’t have to answer them-YET-because their lives haven’t been turned upside down and inside out.

So they run.

They stop calling, they stop coming and they keep their distance in public spaces.

It hurts.

A lot.

It’s human nature to avoid pain. No one marches headlong into suffering. Empathy requres energy. Compassion demands opening your heart to the hurt hiding inside someone else’s.

I understand, truly I do.

If I could find a place where sorrow and longing couldn’t find me, I would stay there forever. But I can’t. I have to carry this load, I have to face the tough questions, I have to work hard to give my heart a chance.

It is so much easier when others come alongside. I feel so much stronger when others choose to call courage to my broken heart. I find great comfort in knowing that someone is willing to risk their own comfort to bear witness to my pain and struggle.

Please don’t lower your eyes and hide. Raise them and help heal.

I know it’s hard and you don’t have to, but please don’t turn away.

Light Years

Part of my Lenten observance includes reading the book of John.

The words are not new to me, I’ve read them over and over-probably dozens of times in the past 30 years. So I decided to use a different translation this time around in order to shake out some new insights and cause me to pay closer attention to what God might have for me right here, right now.

The very first reading did just that:

Before time itself was measured, the Voice was speaking.

    The Voice was and is God.

2 This celestial Word remained ever present with the Creator;

3     His speech shaped the entire cosmos.

Immersed in the practice of creating,

    all things that exist were birthed in Him.

4 His breath filled all things

    with a living, breathing light—

5 A light that thrives in the depths of darkness,

    blazes through murky bottoms.

It cannot and will not be quenched.
John 1: 1-5 VOICE
What struck me fresh was verse 5-“A light that THRIVES….BLAZES….It CANNOT and WILL NOT  be quenched.”
So many times I think of light as barely fighting back darkness.  I carry my flashlight to check on the horses and its piercing beam burns through to give me limited visibility.  It FEELS like darkness wins and I push it back only a little.
But what this rendering of John 1:5 declares to my heart is this:  The light of Christ isn’t fighting the darkness, it thrives in the darkness.  It’s in the darkness that its power is revealed.
It’s the darkness that makes light undeniably present.
Darkness can and will be vanquished.
But the True Light will last forever.
I know very, very little about astronomy.  But I do know this:  Light generated eons ago is still traveling through space.  Light doesn’t end.  It goes on and on and on.
So even though this part of my life is dark, even though I may have trouble discerning the Light, the darkness hasn’t quenched it.
The Light is coming.
It’s no battle of equals.
The darkness doesn’t stand a chance.
Summer meadow park on sunset

Repost: Move Over, Make Room for the Broken

I used to position myself at the end of the pew, just in case someone I’m not too comfortable with might come along and try to sit down.

It saved us both that awkward conversation where they ask if they can join me and I say “yes” with my mouth but “no” with my body language.

Read the rest here: Move Over, Make Room for the Broken

Which Weighs More?

Remember the childhood riddle, “Which is heavier, a ton of bricks or a ton of feathers?”

It was great fun to catch someone giving the wrong answer.

Because, of course, a ton is a ton is a ton. Weight is an absolute measure.

But it takes fewer bricks to reach that quota although it takes just as much strength to lift the burden.

One thing I’m learning in my grief journey is that there are so many people carrying a load.

I find my compassion radar has been fine-tuned to hear even the faintest whisper of hurt in someone’s voice, to see the tiniest gleam of a tear, to notice the smallest stoop of shoulders or the beginning of a frown.

And while some of us have had our ton of pain and sorrow delivered via bricks-suddenly, forcefully and overwhelmingly dumped-others have acquired their ton over a lifetime of disappointment, struggle and testing.

They both weigh a ton.

And they both require great strength to carry.

It’s a challenge to resist the urge to rank my experience on a continuum of pain.

Although I bridle when people compare their loss of a pet or job to my loss of a child (as I wrote about here), I do try to extend grace when others expose their own wounds.

I want to comfort other people with the comfort I have received. Not only the comfort from Christ-which is the ultimate comfort-but also the comfort I’ve received from wise friends and caring sisters-in-loss.

I want to be a listening ear, a compassionate heart and an outstretched hand.

I want to be a witness, a fellow traveler on the journey, an encourager.

Grief

is grief

is grief.

A ton is a ton is a ton.

I Want to Get It Right

There are lots and lots of things in life where the distance between “good enough” and “perfect” really doesn’t matter.

I don’t aim for hospital corners while making my bed.

I cook without recipes-adding this or that until the taste suits me.

If I walk 8,567 steps or 10,291 steps I am not going to stress about it.

BUT-there is one thing I absolutely MUST get right.

My understanding of God-Who He is, Who Jesus is-matters for ever and ever.

I want to get it right.

I want to hear from the Holy Spirit and understand God’s Word. I need to figure out the basics even if I can’t fill in all the details because what I believe about Jesus Christ determines whether or not I will join my son in heaven.

I admit that I still struggle with reconciling God’s sovereignty and God’s goodness. I haven’t come up with an easy answer for why bad things happen in the world-often to people who don’t seem to “deserve” it.

But I am absolutely convinced that God is in control.

He is the Creator and Sustainer of this world. He rules and reigns from a place of power and glory and might. He did not make us and then leave us to our own devices. He is active, here and now.

I trust in God’s faithful, enduring love.

It certainly doesn’t always look like what I think love should look like. It includes allowing pain and heartache, dark nights and deep valleys.

Some He saves from the fire and others He gives over to tyrants.

But He also pursues me,

woos me,

strengthens me,

and sustains me.

He does not leave me to my own devices nor abandon me to my sin. He has provided a way where there was no way. His own Son’s blood is the Perfect and Enduring Sacrifice that gives me access to the Throne of Grace.

And I am convinced that the work He began in me-the work He began in Dominic-He is faithful to complete it.

I don’t get to see the finished product yet.

It’s frustrating, frightening and painful to wait for it to be revealed.

But I believe with my whole heart that it will be one day.

Repost: You Don’t Have to Pretend

It’s OK to not be OK.

If you are grieving, you are not responsible for making others feel better about YOUR pain.

Read the rest here: You Don’t Have to Pretend

Sacred Spaces

That place where you hung your jacket, tossed your shoes, left your backpack-it’s still here.

Foolish, really, to hold space for someone who will never need it again.

But it belongs to YOU and leaving it bare means that it is still yours.

And it is- Still. Yours.

Just like the end chair at the dining room table-the one you fought over as a teen when you and your brothers would pick at and elbow each other until I finally had enough and moved you there.

No one sits there now.

Who could ever fill it?

Upstairs bookcases hold notebooks, text books and random memorabilia from your trips abroad and trips around the country.

Small testimony to a large life. Little reminders of a huge presence.

Sacred spaces-set apart from everyday use-for the purpose of holding memories,

holding presence,

keeping you with us.

The most sacred, most intimate-the space in my heart-where you burrowed in before you were born. Where you left your rhythm and laugh and a giant hole. As near as my breath, as far away as the stars.

I refuse to fill them in,

to let them go,

to allow the creep of daily life to erase your stamp on who I am and who you are.

The emptiness speaks volumes.

I won’t silence it.

Daily Battle: Tempted to Give Up

So many things raced through my mind in the first five minutes of hearing the news:

Oh, God! Is it true? (I have to authenticate his identity);

How do I tell everyone? (I have to make phone calls);

What do you do when your child dies? (I have no idea how to plan a funeral);

and on

and on.

Of course, that doesn’t touch the FEELINGS flooding my heart.

I don’t really have words for that, even now.

But as the days of crazy activity and people everywhere gave way to the weeks and months of silent sorrow, all I wanted to do was to give up and give in.

What was the point of carrying on if it meant carrying this weight of sadness until I was also in the grave?

At first, my motivation was to help my husband and children through these crisis moments. My training gave me tools to give them words and ways to frame the pain. Hours of home “therapy” drained me but also gave me a sense of purpose and direction.

It was a couple of months into this journey when I faced my first test: I suffer from a gastrointestinal condition that predisposes me to catastrophic GI bleeds. Combined with the medications I take for RA, I woke one morning to find I was losing large amounts of blood.

It was nearly welcome news.

As weakness overtook my body, I could feel the lure of simply drifting away into eternity. I was tempted to lie down on the bed and allow my heart rate to decrease, my blood pressure to dive and my soul to break free from this body of death.

But I didn’t-because I could not knowingly add to my family’s heartache.

No one was home so I drove myself to the emergency room and was admitted to the ICU. Several days and units of blood later I came home, restored to life but not unburdened of grief.

And so it goes. Each day brings its own temptations.

I will be honest: I am still motivated more strongly by love of my family than a sense of mission or purpose this side of burying Dominic.

Perhaps that is sin. I don’t know.

But for right now, that’s enough.

Every day, even almost three years later, I wake up and must choose to go on.

I’m not suicidal!

I’m willing to stick around. But I am no longer afraid to die.

I can say, like Paul, “To live is Christ, to die is gain”.

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