child loss – Page 245 – thelifeididntchoose

No, It’s Not Fair

I don’t know about you but I absolutely hated the word “fair” when I was raising four little humans.

What seemed like a good idea when training them to share toys was soon turned into a weapon whereby they would shout, “But Mama! That’s not FAIR!!!”

Someone was going to get the last piece of cake or pizza or a tiny bit larger slice of pie. Someone needed shoes this payday but not everyone needed shoes. My daughter required certain items for her dance class, the boys didn’t need a thing.

To kids, “fair” meant even-exactly, precisely, even division of time, talent, money and attention.

But if I tried to turn the tables and suggest that it was one child’s turn to empty the bathroom garbage because another child did it last time, suddenly “fair” wasn’t such a great idea.

Because even young sinful hearts learn that making everything exactly even isn’t really what we want.

What we want is for the fates (and God! and Mama!) to favor US.

We want the bigger piece, we want to be excused from duty when it’s inconvenient or uncomfortable. We want, above all, not to suffer-even if the suffering is really not very painful.

As hard as it was to explain that life is. not. fair. to my young children, it has been harder still to explain it to my own heart in the wake of burying Dominic.

Seriously.

What IS fair?

Is it fair that my son shouldn’t die when the laws of physics kicked in as he left the road in a curve?

What about when those same laws mean another son lives?

Is it fair that my children were born in a land not decimated by war or famine-every one born by C-section in clean hospitals with adequate staffing and appropriate facilities?

No, life isn’t fair.

We live in a world marred by sin. It’s a broken world where sometimes people make foolish choices, sinful choices or simply reckless choices.

It’s a world in which disease ravages bodies-young and old-and hearts stop.

I will mourn what I’ve lost. I will weep for what I will never have.

But I will not whine about things not being fair.

I had nearly 24 years with Dominic. Not as many as I expected nor as many as I wanted. His life ended too soon from my perspective regardless of whatever Bible verse someone uses to explain it differently.

He was a gift. And though he is now gone from my sight, I will see him again.

Until then, I will work hard at being thankful and not resentful. One attitude brings life and the other only death.

I’ve had enough death.

I choose life.

Today Matters More Than You Think

As far as I know there’s no national holiday, no major event, no red-letter notation under today’s date.

But it matters.

It matters because life is made up more of ordinary days, ordinary moments and mundane choices than things that take weeks to plan.

I’ve had four years to consider what really matters when there’s no opportunity to make more memories.

These are the things I find most precious…

Laughter at the dinner table: One more inside joke, one more funny story from the day, one more unexpected burp or missing your mouth with a fork or cup-happy noise filling the room and echoing off the walls.

Random acts of kindness in my own home: I remember one day Dominic was working on his Trans Am under a shed in the yard. A storm blew up and rain was slanting in on top of him and his parts. Julian and I remembered an old tarp shed side lying around, ran and got it and had it up before Dominic was barely wet. I pass that shed every day and think about how we all just jumped in and made things work. Over and over and over. A legacy of compassion and love that warms my heart.

Phone calls and texts and messages about absolutely nothing: “Just checking in, Mom.” “I finished that paper.” “It’s supposed to rain today, need help out there?” The stuff of daily life, the grace oil that greases the wheels of human interaction. I can hear Dom’s deep voice booming in my head when I read them.

Goofy habits and pet peeves: Each one of my kids came down the steps in a distinctive fashion. I didn’t have to look up to know who was joining me in the living room each morning. Dominic was always marking rhythm by tapping his hand or snapping his fingers. Julian lumbered down because morning is not his friend. James Michael practically ran down (which actually resulted in a broken wrist once when he slipped!) and Fiona called out a cheery, “Morning, Mom!” when she neared the bottom. If I listen hard in the dark hours of early morning, I can almost hear each one once again.

Few of these things are caught on film-they only exist in my mama’s heart because when I was living them, they hardly seemed worth the effort to record them.

But these-THESE-are the “videos” I play as I drift off to sleep.

I’m thankful I wasn’t so absorbed in virtual reality that I missed storing them in my heart.

Everyday moments are the real keepers.

Pay attention.

You might not get a second chance.

[Mis] Perception

“I’ll believe it when I see it!”

That’s the standard, isn’t it? We trust our eyes to tell us the truth. We rely on our senses to winnow out the chaff of falsehood and leave us with the meaty grain of truth.

But what if my eyes aren’t as trustworthy as I think?

What if my perception is limited and unreliable?

Living in the south means long, hot summers.

In the middle of July I would sign an affidavit that it has to be at least 100 degrees outside and not much cooler inside unless I run my air conditioner to the tune of a huge electric bill.

But if I do a little digging, I find that the average high for July and August in my part of Alabama is only 90-91 degrees.

Now, that doesn’t mean there are no days hotter, but it does mean that my sense of interminable heat is inaccurate and untrue. As a matter of fact, the average temp begins to decline mid-August when we are all panting for fall to make its appearance.

My point is this: when I am sweating in the middle of summer, I’m not in a position to give you an accurate weather report.

All I know is that I am hot.

All I know is that I think I will be hot for days and weeks to come. All I know is that a cool breeze would be welcome but it doesn’t seem to be in the offing anytime soon.

I don’t readily perceive the tiny creep toward cooler temperatures that is happening right under my nose.

It’s been the same way in my grief journey.

Four years in and I am definitely in a better mental, emotional and spiritual place than I was even a year ago.

But if you had asked me at any point during that time if I could perceive a shift toward healing, I would have said, “not really”.

I was (and am) relying on my senses to tell me where I am in this process of embracing the life I didn’t choose. Yet they are easily overwhelmed by my daily experience-crying one day, laughing the next, undone by memories again, blessed by a friend’s text or phone call-filled to the brim with input.

I have a hard time sorting it out and looking objectively at what the data suggests.

When I can take a step back, I see that my heart has healed in some measure. I have enfolded the truth that Dominic is not here into who I am and what my life will look like until I join him in heaven.

And understanding THAT helps me continue this journey.

I don’t want to be stuck in the misperception that I can “never learn to live without my son”.

I am learning how to do just that.

I don’t like it. I will NEVER like it.

But I am doing it.

Little by little, in tiny increments, every day reaching out, reaching forward and making choices that promote healing.

It’s happening.

Even if I can’t see it.

Repost: No Magic

I was looking for it too, at first.

There had to be a secret path, a magic word, a hidden key that would make this awful child loss journey more manageable.

But there is none.

It seems unbearable to think ahead to the possible years of doing this hard thing. And it is- UNBEARABLE. If I look at the missing writ large across the rest of my life, I will crumble beneath the weight of it.

Read the rest here: No Magic

Wisdom From C.S. Lewis

C.S.Lewis was an amazing man who died one day before I was born and just three years after his beloved wife ran to heaven ahead of him.

In these later years I’ve often wondered how much grief played a role in his departure.

I have appreciated his books for decades. Shared them with others and spent hours reading The Chronicles of Narnia series to my children.

He is a family staple.

But he can be a bit hard to understand at times-his rich background studying literature informed his own writing style. So I often have to tease apart longer quotes to get at the meat of what he’s saying.

It’s always worth it.

I read A GRIEF OBSERVED in my 30’s as another in a long list of “Books You Should Read”. I gleaned a bit here or there that I thought might be of use later on.

But when Dominic ran ahead to heaven, it was the first book on grief I bought for myself and I read it like a starving man set down to a full table.

This passage, in particular, was helpful in understanding how my absolute trust in the FACT of ultimate redemption of my pain and sorrow did absolutely NOTHING to take away the pain and sorrow-it only made it bearable.

If a mother is mourning not for what she has lost but for what her dead child has lost, it is a comfort to believe that the child has not lost the end for which it was created. And it is a comfort to believe that she herself, in losing her chief or only natural happiness, has not lost a greater thing, that she may still hope to “glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” A comfort to the God-aimed, eternal spirit within her. But not to her motherhood. The specifically maternal happiness must be written off. Never, in any place or time, will she have her son on her knees, or bathe him, or tell him a story, or plan for his future, or see her grandchild.

~C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

My son is safe in the arms of Jesus. And that is a comfort.

And I, trusting in that truth and leaning into my faith in Christ, am also comforted that even here, in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, am safe in the arms of Jesus. I may FEEL lost, but I am NOT lost.

But-and here’s the experiential truth that separates those of us who experience the REALITY of child loss from those that IMAGINE it-my mother’s heart is denied the presence of my son for the rest of my earthly days.

All the things I had hoped for, dreamt of and expected to experience are robbed from me.

There is no remedy for that.

Absolutely none.

Repost: Will It ALWAYS Feel Like This?

I belong to several bereaved parents online communities and this question comes up again and again-it was the first thing I asked a bereaved mom just after Dominic ran ahead to heaven:

“Will this suffocating pain remain sitting on my chest, smothering the breath and life right out of me? Will I ever be able to stop crying? Will it ALWAYS feel like this?”

Read the rest here: Will It ALWAYS Feel Like This?

To The Ones Who Walk With Me: Thank You <3

I have never lived alone.

When I married at twenty I moved from my parents’ home to living with my new husband.

Within seven years of marriage, we had been joined by four precious children.

So even though I’m an introvert and crave quiet solitude, I’ve had precious little of it until the last couple of years.

Alone is good for many things. It makes space to hear from God and to hear one’s own heart.

It can be a respite from the noise of our crazy, busy and LOUD world.

But alone is not the best way to walk the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

If I isolate myself from others in this frightful place, darkness can overtake me. My mind can embrace futility and hopelessness and convince my heart that there is no reason to push on.

There are songs that were never meant to be sung alone, valleys that were never meant to be walked alone. Grief is one of those valleys. And weeping is one of those songs.

~The North Face of God

Thankfully, I’ve not been alone on this journey.

I’ve had beautiful family and friends who refused to leave me. I’ve met amazing, brave bereaved parents who, even in their own grief, have lifted me up and spoken courage to my heart.

And God–even on the days when we haven’t been on speaking terms–has not abandoned me.

His faithful love endures forever. His promises will not fail. My name (just like Dominic’s!) is graven on His hands.

But He uses people to remind a heart of these promises and His love.

I will never be able to repay the people who have been “Jesus with skin on” to me!

They are a gift,

a treasure,

a precious ointment to a wounded heart.

❤

Repost: They Don’t Know What They Don’t Know

I remember the first couple times I ventured out in public after Dominic left us and the flurry of activity surrounding his funeral was over.

I felt naked, afraid and oh, so vulnerable.

The tiniest misplaced word or random glance could undo me and I burst into tears.

They Don’t Know What They Don’t Know

Life. Suspended.

Grief … gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness.

~C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

It is really impossible to convey the bizarre nature of life after traumatic loss to anyone who has not lived it.

And yet, here I am, trying my best to do just that.

I guess I always hold out hope that at least one heart will be affirmed in his or her experience or one heart will be made aware of how to offer compassionate companionship to someone they love.

Since Dominic ran ahead to heaven my family has operated in two worlds: one where every heartbeat taps out a rhythm of, “he’s not here, he’s not here” and another where we live, breath and move as we have always done.

But there are things I’ve had to lay aside for these past four years. Things that used to consume time, talent, resources and energy that I just. could. not. do.

Before Dominic ran ahead I was a list making fool. I was a manila folder maniac. I was a put-things-in-their-place person.

That ended when Dom left us.

From that day forward, I have hung on by a thread.

I’ve managed by assigning things to piles or see-through plastic bins stacked mile high in the room that used to be his. If forced to locate an important document, it takes hours or days to find it where before I could put my finger on it in minutes.

I feel like these years have been both a horrible journey and a giant parentheses in the story of my life.

While forced to carry on and meet every necessary obligation, every ordinary daily, weekly, yearly chore-it’s been kind of a dream.

I am just now beginning to reclaim some of the long-neglected corners of my house, my heart and my life.

I’ve hauled out the manila folders again. I’m organizing some of the piled up papers so that I can once again lay hands on them in a timely way.

I cleaned my covered porch of years of dust, bugs, tools and random items so I can sit outside and enjoy the spring breeze.

I’ve purchased hanging baskets of flowers to brighten the front entrance and am remembering to water them (a giant leap forward!).

I’m writing more cards, sending more birthday greetings and making more personalized gifts for friends and family.

I still feel like I’m moving through dense fog some days but the corners are lifting and I occasionally see the sun light around the edges.

My life has been profoundly changed.

My life will always be informed by my loss.

But I am slowly learning to live this new way, with this new me and to be productive once again.

Sterkte: The Empowering Strength of God in Me

Yesterday was four years since the day we buried Dominic. I can barely comprehend it. It’s a terrible thing for a mama’s heart to watch the seasons change and think, “I need to change the flowers on Dominic’s grave.”

But I do it.

It’s one of the last things I can do for this child of my heart.

Sterkte.

I didn’t even know this word when we buried Dominic.

But I wish I had.

Because “sterkte” expresses precisely the supernatural strength and courage that filled my heart, mind and body as I stood for the hours of visitation, sang the worship songs, listened to friends, family and our shepherd/pastor give a message and invitation to a packed sanctuary, then filed out ahead of my son’s casket.

Sterkte literally translates “strength” or “power” but culturally means much more.

It means bravery, strength, fortitude and endurance in the face of fear and insurmountable odds through the empowering strength of God in me.

The morning of Dominic’s funeral-nine long days after his accident-I posted this on Facebook:

“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior.”
~Habakkuk 3: 17-18

Years before, in another dry but hardly tragic season, God had imprinted those verses on my heart. Even if-even if- there was no way through but through, I was determined to trust God and to lean in and hold onto hope.

I had no idea how that choice would be tested in the coming days, weeks, months.

I had no idea that even now, four years later, I would have to hold on just as hard, wake each morning and make that choice once again, refuse the whispers of the enemy of my soul that spread seeds of doubt and confusion.

But in my own strength, all the determination in the world would be for nothing.

I am not strong enough or brave enough to stand.

It’s sterkte that held me up that day four years ago when my son’s body was lowered into the ground and dirt shoveled on top. It’s sterkte that keeps me upright today when tsunami waves of grief still wash over me and sobs escape. It’s sterkte that gives me strength to hold onto hope and lean into truth and keep marching bravely into a future that may yet hold more heartache.

Habakkuk committed to praise God no matter what happened.

He understood sterkte. It was his lifeline.

After his declaration of purpose, he gives the reason why:

The Lord God is my Strength, my personal bravery, and my invincible army; He makes my feet like hinds’ feet and will make me to walk [not to stand still in terror, but to walk] and make [spiritual] progress upon my high places [of trouble, suffering, or responsibility]!

~Habakkuk 3:19

The Lord God is my Strength.

The Lord God is my personal bravery.

The Lord God is my invincible army.

He is the reason I’m still standing.

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