No matter how busy or how noisy or how frantic, in the middle of my chest there is a quiet place that holds space for my missing child.
It was true last year in the craziness of my mother’s health crisis and it’s been so very, very true this past eight weeks full of anxiety, discomfort, challenge and unbelievable stress.
Read the rest here: The Loudest Silence
In a hurry, in a hurry.
That describes most of us these days, doesn’t it?
Always looking for the fastest way around the clogged intersection, the highway construction or the long line waiting to get a coffee at Starbucks.
But there are some things we can’t rush along.
Grief is one of them.
There are no shortcuts, no detours in this Valley of the Shadow of Death.
We long for a way to hasten past the deep, dark nights of sorrow and pain.
We beg God and anyone who will listen to show us the quickest route out of the miry pit of misery and missing.
It doesn’t exist.
Grief, like love, takes time.
I wrote this less than six months after Dominic ran ahead to heaven.
My heart had not yet fully grasped his absence and there was a lovely moment each morning when my sleepy eyes opened to a world where he was still in it.
Read the rest here: Today’s Gift
I’m no quitter.
I grew up with the mantra, “You can be anything you want to be if you want to be it badly enough” ringing through my childhood.
I added this one for my kids: “Failure is not an option.”
But I’ve got to admit, while both are great motivators when motivation is the missing ingredient, they are lies.
I cannot be “anything I want to be”. I can be the best me possible, but I cannot be anyone but me.
And failure-well, how do you want to define that? Is it failure when you have poured every ounce of energy into a person or a project and things just don’t work like you hoped they would? Is it failure when despite all the planning, pursuing and perseverance a heart can muster life takes a giant left turn you never expected?
One of my favorite but most exasperating memories of Dominic is when he was about six months old and would wake every morning close to 3 a.m. and refuse to go back to sleep. Now, judge me if you want to, but this whole “let them cry it out” thing was not in my parenting wheelhouse. With two other siblings and a small house, if he was crying for hours, it meant soon everyone would be awake.
So after nursing him and trying to get him to go back to sleep, I finally gave up and just went into the living room and let him play.
This went on for weeks-my body was so, so tired and I was frustrated beyond imagination.
Until I realized that I was burning more energy being upset over the inevitable than I was in just getting up and enjoying the one on one time with my baby.
So instead of fussing every early morning, I started getting up, making coffee, playing with him and then doing necessary chores while he prattled on with his toys.
I accepted what was out of my control and made the best of it.
That’s how I feel this side of Dominic running ahead to heaven.
I am not the person I used to be.
I cannot do all the things I used to do.
I need to acknowledge that. I need to let go of unrealistic expectations that only drive me to distraction and despair.
I’m freeing myself to lean into the life I have NOW by admitting it’s not the life I USED to have.
I’m not giving up.
I am letting go of excess emotional baggage.
But I’m holding onto hope with both hands.
I recently heard a young woman describe a Chinese grieving ritual on an NPR broadcast:
At her grandfather’s funeral, his oldest son was tasked with demonstrating the depth of grief and pain the father’s passing left behind. He stood before the casket, raised a clay bowl above his head and smashed it to the ground while loudly wailing.
The bowl was shattered into fragments too small and too fragile to be put back together in any semblance of what they once represented.
Read the rest here: Fragments
I cannot speak for others but in my case, it seems that I did not lose Dominic all at once.
In fact, I’m still losing him.
Bit by bit, a little at a time, nearly molecule by molecule, his mark on my life, my walls, my world grows smaller.
Of course the space he occupies in my heart is safe-a mother’s heart grows larger with each birth and never shrinks again!
But in the physical world, the observable world, the world outside the safe sanctuary of my own soul-his presence THERE is fading.
And that’s it’s own brand of grief that must be recognized, felt, mourned and laid to rest.
Every time Dominic SHOULD be here but ISN’T means another memory made without him, another photograph with a missing piece, another family milestone celebrated a bit more quietly because his booming laughter doesn’t join the chorus.
Every decision that would ordinarily involve consulting all four children’s schedules and desires is one more opportunity to count down two, skip one and go to my youngest. I never can remember that there are only three phone calls or texts to make. My heart hurts each time I don’t check in with Dominic.
Odd pieces of mail come in his name-leftover from mass mailing lists that have not yet been purged of deceased individuals. Still a little shocking, always sad, I carry it up the quarter mile to the house and lay it on top of the pile of other things that prove he once walked the earth.
Digging through the toolbox in the garage for a screwdriver and there’s that funny little part he took off a car years ago and tucked inside the drawer-just in case we could use it for something. I smell the grease and gas and feel him near.
Then my mind drags my heart back to reality and he’s gone again.
Dozens of moments make me miss him anew.
I’m not delusional.
I know he has run ahead to Heaven.
But my heart holds on to every shred of physical connection as long as it can.
And then he’s ripped from me all over again.
Most of the time I’m just kind of rolling along.
There are things to do, places to go, people to see, animals to feed.
I get up, get going and get on with it.
But there are some days that are what I call “Hard Stops” on this journey. They are the days that force my heart to take special notice of the fact that Dominic isn’t here.
Sometimes they are milestone days like birthdays or holidays or the anniversary of that awful knock on the door.
Sometimes they are events where he should be there-like seeing his brother one more time before he deploys half-way around the world.
These days make my heart measure the time since I last hugged his neck, heard his voice, saw his strong, square hands reach across the table for the salt shaker-and I am overcome with how long it has been!
Then my heart shifts to the months and likely years I will have to live with this aching empty place where he should be but isn’t and I fear I just can’t do it!
Many days I’m able to distract myself from the sorrow and to live with the missing.
But these “hard stop” days force me to face it head on. and it is overwhelming.
Every. Time.
So what do I do?
When my heart is overwhelmed, I take it to the Rock that is higher than I.
I run to the Refuge of my Faithful Father.
I turn my eyes to my Savior Who will redeem and restore.
I put my hand firmly in the hand of my Shepherd Who will not leave me in this Valley of the Shadow of Death.
And I pray for myself-and every heart having a hard time holding onto hope today-that we will feel the Father’s loving arms around us and that He will give us strength to stand. ❤
As a people-pleasing first born who hates conflict, giving in has always been easy for me. It’s only later that I wish I hadn’t.
So for most of my life, setting personal boundaries has been challenging.
But in the aftermath of child loss, healthy boundaries are no longer optional, they are necessary for survival.
So what are healthy boundaries?
Read the rest here: Healthy Boundaries in Grief
I’ve often been the person who refused to go along with some group’s plan to ignore a real issue and try to talk around it.
I usually begin like this, “I know it’s hard to talk about, but let’s be honest and…”
I’m even more inclined in that direction now. If my son’s instant and untimely death has taught me anything, it’s taught me that there’s no use pretending.
So I’m not going to pretend: Western society doesn’t do grief well.
I’m not sure that was always the case but like so many other unpleasant, sad and/or uncomfortable aspects of life, we’ve sequestered grief to separate buildings and specialists. We’ve tried to clean it up and clear it away from the everyday.
Like they say, “Out of sight, out of mind.”
If we can hide it, we don’t have to deal with it.
But I’m here to tell you, you WILL have to deal with it. One day, one way or another, death will come knocking at YOUR door. No one gets out of here alive.
So let’s talk about the elephant in the room.
Let’s stop ignoring death and grief and how one person’s departure for Heaven leaves others behind trying to deal with the loss, the pain, and the hole that missing life leaves in their hearts.
I know it will take effort to learn the language of grief. It’s a lost language and it will feel strange on your tongue.
The more you use it, the more you will realize that it’s really just the language of love with a slight accent. There are a few more pauses between words, a bit more emphasis in some places and less in others.
And when you don’t know what to say, it’s fine to admit that.
Just say, “I don’t know what to say, but I want you to know I care.”
Because that means you see the elephant too.
I hate mirrors. Not because I’m ashamed of my wrinkles or my fat hips. But because the face staring back at me now is not one I recognize.
I see someone who’s supposed to be me and can’t quite place her.
There’s a vague resemblance to the person that used to look me in the eye while I was brushing my teeth or fixing my hair.
But now, she is “other”, unfamiliar, strange in a “slightly off” kind of way.
Read the rest here: No Mirrors, Please!
thelifeididntchoose 