At first everyone talked about him.
It’s what people do just after a person leaves this world and leaves behind only memories.
It comes natural before the unnatural fact of child loss settles in and begins to make everyone uncomfortable.
But at some point after the funeral and way before the tears dried up, people stopped feeling easy mentioning his name.
Read the rest here: Help! My Family Won’t Talk About My Missing Child.
I wrote this post six years ago after my mother joined Dominic in Heaven. Her passing reminded me once again (as if my heart needed reminding!) that there ain’t nothing easy about death.
Six years later and I’m no more willing to pretend it’s anything but awful even as I’m resigned to admit there’s nothing I can do about it.
I miss you both so very much.
Melanie
I remember the moment I realized I was going to have to summarize my son’s life into a few, relatively short paragraphs to be read by friends, family and strangers.
It seemed impossible.
But as the designated author of our family I had to do it so I did.
Read the rest here: Ain’t Nothing Easy About Death
“Those who wait for Me with hope will not be put to shame.”
Isaiah 49:23c NLV
We love stories of overcomers. We invite testimonies that end in victory.
We applaud members of the Body who have a “before” and “after” tale of how Jesus plus willpower took them from the dust of defeat to the pinnacle of spiritual success.
But we hide the strugglers and stragglers in the back pews.
If suffering lingers long, whether or not it is in the hands of the one who suffers to do anything about it, we cringe and pull back and hope they go away.
We don’t offer them the pulpit or the Sunday School hour to speak of how Christ continues to be the hope to which they cling.
Because deep down, we think there must be something wrong with them, something wrong with their brand or quality or strength of faith. If they only got it “right”, they too, would have the victory.
We would rather shush the suffering than face the tension between God’s goodness and His sovereignty.
We shame them to silence by implying they have nothing to share until they are able to wrap their story with a perfect spiritual bow.
We add insult to injury when their need for help exceeds the allotted three weeks or six months or whatever arbitrary deadline we impose on the prayer list and our patience.
But maybe what God has for me and others who suffer long is not a victorious tag line that can be slapped on a photo or shared on social media.
Maybe it’s only in the continued press of suffering that God reveals Himself in ways the non-suffering never see.
Maybe a dash to declare victory is actually rushing past what God has for us in deep pain and ongoing struggle.
Maybe waiting in hopeful expectation for what God is doing and will do in me and through me IS the victory.
We wait for Yahweh;
He is our help and shield.
For our hearts rejoice in Him
because we trust in His holy name.
May Your faithful love rest on us, Yahweh,
for we put our hope in You.
Psalm 33:20-22 HCSB
Today my heart hurts more than usual.
It’s my mama’s birthday-the sixth one we will celebrate without her here to blow out the candles.
It’s also the sixth anniversary (do you call it that?) of the day Papa had to call an ambulance to rush her to the hospital.
She never came home.
The first couple years after her death were hard. Mama’s death plunged me back into deep grief for her and for Dominic. It tapped the wound that had begun to scar over a bit and the feelings I’d learned to push down bubbled back to the surface.
I finally sleep through the night again most nights. For much of the first two years I woke two or three times in the dark to vividly awful dreams-my family in peril and no way to help them is the theme over and over and over.
Now it’s only every so often.
I know other motherless daughters.
Somehow knowing Mama isn’t available on the other end of the phone or sitting in her chair, waiting for me to come through the door at the farm, makes me supremely vulnerable.
One less generation between me and whatever the world might throw at me.
I know she is healthy and whole, happy and full of joy in Heaven. I know she’s reunited with her own mama, her siblings and Dominic.
On good days, that’s enough to make the missing bearable.
But on days like today, when we should be celebrating another year together but can’t, it doesn’t help all that much.
I miss her.
I miss Dominic.
I miss the me that used to be ignorant of what death steals from the living.
Happy Birthday in Heaven, Mama. We’ll be there soon.
I used to tell my children that they would not wake up one day and be a certain kind of person on their eighteenth or twenty-first birthday if they were not working to be that person right now.
And I remind myself that I won’t suddenly be a better version of me just because I cross the threshold of senior citizenship.
Age doesn’t magically transform anyone into a better self than that which they have been practicing to become.
If I am kind and gracious and loving today, then I will most likely be so tomorrow.
If I am bitter and spiteful and petty right now, my heart won’t open wide just because of a birthday that ushers in a new decade of life.
I am crafting a legacy every. single. day.
People will remember me for who I am, not who I wish I had been.
If you think that time makes a difference to a mama missing a child who ran ahead to Heaven without her, you don’t know as much as you think you know.
Time does not heal all wounds-especially the kind that shatter a heart into a million pieces.
It takes time for the wound to scar over, but it doesn’t undo the damage.
So if you are wondering why your coworker still takes the day off on his child’s birthday or the anniversary of her child’s homegoing, I’ll let you in on a little secret: Years disappear when those milestones loom large.
Read the rest here: It’s Been Years-What’s Wrong With You?
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.
Read the rest here: Stick Around: Help Another Heart Hold Onto Hope
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Child loss is not a hammer in the hand of God.
He didn’t “take” my son so He could mold me into the person He wants me to be.
But He will use this pain and sorrow if I run to Him.
Sometimes I resist but His Father heart is steadfast in its love toward me.
God doesn’t give up and decide I’m “too much trouble” or “too far gone”.
NO!
He’s the Faithful Father watching and waiting with open arms for the Prodigal to return.
He will weave even the darkest and most tangled threads into a beautiful, redeemed tapestry if I let Him.
He’s the God who stays.
Always.
Forever.
Amen.
I don’t know about you, but since my son ran ahead to Heaven, I’m ultra-aware that every encounter might be the LAST encounter.
That has its pluses-I’m careful when I deal with touchy subjects, I make sure to tell my people I love them, I try not to leave in a huff.
But it has its minuses too.
When things go sideways (and they do!) or someone just isn’t willing to listen to my point of view or I am offended by theirs and can’t manage to cover my feelings, regret and guilt consume me.
That’s not helpful or healthy, though.
I have to remember I’m human just like everyone else. Bereavement hasn’t changed that.
❤
Everyone struggles.
Everyone makes mistakes.
Everyone wishes, at one time or another, that he or she had done better, spoken more softly or loved more fiercely.
But we are human and can’t get it right all the time.
So if you, like me, have had a less-than-stellar recent record dealing with those you love, those you meet and those you pass on the street or in your car, accept this truth:
You are absolutely, positively NOT perfect.
And that’s OK.
Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start over.
If apologies are in order, make them.
If hugs can set things straight, hug away.
And if only time can soften a heart then be prepared to wait.
At first grief felt only like sorrow and longing and brokenness.
Then it felt like confusion and anxiety and despair.
A little further along this journey it mostly felt like apathy.
Now it feels like love.
It’s the same love that helped me hold on when I was face first in the toilet every morning for seven months. Morning sickness with Dominic lasted nearly the whole pregnancy! With two young children already in our home, it was one of the hardest seasons of my life.
It’s the same love that demanded they bring me my baby when they whisked him away due to “concerns” after birth. Twenty-four hours later, c-section or no c-section, I told the nurse I’d be marching my butt down to the nursery if they didn’t bring him to me right away. (It was a different time-no real “rooming in”.)
It’s the same love that worked with my frustrated little boy to make his words sound clear and correct. Slow down, hit the hard consonants, be precise in how you form your lips. He grew up to give the undergraduate address when he graduated from UAB in front of thousands.
It’s the same love that listened when he told me his troubles, his fears and his dreams. So, so many nights he’d come in, flop down backwards on my bed and proceed to talk until I was just about to drift off to sleep.
It’s the same love that held his hand as people walked by expressing condolences.
It’s the same love that kissed his cold cheek before they lowered the casket lid. Told him, “Good-bye” and walked upright from the sanctuary.
I refused to dishonor his brave life by giving in to my personal fear.
Grief is really just love.
Dominic has been my son since he sat safely in my womb.
He’s still my son.
My love is not diminished because I can no longer touch him.
Love lives.
Forever.
thelifeididntchoose 