“After Florida shooting, phones rang unanswered where victims fell…”
That’s all it took to evoke wracking sobs.
I already knew that seventeen lives had been lost in tragic violence but those words brought it home.
Because Dominic was killed in the wee hours of Saturday morning April 12, 2014 and had plans the next day with friends, his unanswered phone was the first clue for many of them that something was dreadfully wrong.
My poor surviving children were forced to field call after call, text after text: “I was trying to reach Dom but he’s not answering his phone. Is something wrong?”
Yes.
Yes.
Something is most definitely, awfully, irrevocably wrong.
I still have that phone. It’s still connected even though it’s laid silent for nearly four years.
I can’t give it up.
I can’t bear the thought of someone else’s voice being on the other end of that number.
It was probably the last thing he held in his hand.
I wrote this on June 13, 2016 about the Orlando shooting but I could have written it this afternoon.
I had no idea that anything had happened until I got a message from a fellow bereaved mom that sent me scurrying for the facts.
So here we are again-more families have joined the ranks of those who mourn the too-soon death of children and loved ones.
There are not enough tears for this.
Let me begin by saying I purposely remove myselffrom the 24/7 news cycle that beats our ears and tries hard to hammer hearts into whatever shape a particular organization deems most meritorious.
So it is no surprise that I was unaware of the [Parkland, Florida] tragedy until well into the day on Wednesday.
And I don’t know what the pundits and politicians or social media gurus are saying.
I only know how it feels.
I know how it feels to have an officer come to your door and tell you that your child is never coming home.
I know how it feels to receive the devastating news that whatever you said the last time you saw or spoke to your child is the LAST thing you will ever have the opportunity to say to them.
I know how it feels to stand, dumbstruck and reeling, with the instant realization that your world has been wrecked beyond repair-To have to whisper to your heart, “you’ve got to make calls, make connections, make arrangements”.
Oh! My!
Why, why, why can we not as a nation simply step back and embrace those who have lost so much instead of standing on the ruins of their lives and posturing for ratings, rankings and political, social or moral agendas????
I wrote before, when commenting here on the incident at the Cincinatti zoo:
If we covered the stories of families who have lost children with the same zeal and creative journalism as we do the lives and deaths of endangered animals, that would change.
If the despair, heartbreak, brokenness and utter horror of bereaved parents’ lives were on display like the sickening piles of poached elephants and rhinos then at least we could have a discussion that was more informed and even-tempered.
We are a death avoidant culture-we splatter gore across the screen in video games and movies-but we DO NOT discuss the ongoing impact loss has on the ones left behind.
These lives are not numbers, they are not just names or a sweet little synoptic bio plastered on Twitter, Facebook or an AP newswire.
They are people-with families, friends and loved ones.
There is a single, appropriate response to this tragedy–deep mourning for the lives lost to hatred and violent action and prayer for the ones left behind.
I refuse to entertain the musings and posturing of ANYONE who does not first-and for an appropriate length of time-acknowledge the loss of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers-each a unique creation with an eternal soul.
Tears.
TEARS are what should be filling the airwaves, the streets, our altars.
I wrote this post last year and want to share it again.
Because the thing God speaks to me over and over and over in this journey is:
LOVE LASTS.
There is nothing I can spend my time, energy and resources on that will follow me into eternity and remain in the hearts of those I leave behind besides love.
It’s nice to get flowers or chocolate or balloons or cards that say, “I love you”.
But true love can’t be bought.
True love is marked by sacrifice, ongoing support, genuine compassion and willingness to do whatever it takes to “be there” for another person.
It means standing with someone even when walking beside them includes bearing the unbearable.
If you’ve ever dropped a treasured china cup, you will know exactly what I’m talking about.
Finding the bigger chunks is easy. But as you begin to put them in place thinking, “Oh, I can glue this back good as new”, you realize that tiny slivers necessary to make it whole are missing.
And you can look as hard as you want to, but you’ll never, ever find them.
Hearts are like that.
When a heart breaks, the pieces are scattered everywhere.
It’s pretty simple to locate the larger bits-although putting them back in place is much harder than gluing together a fractured cup.
But those tiny bits elude me.
At almost four years I’ve had lots and lots of time to sort through what happened-at least in an intellectual way.
But what surprises me every time, no matter how often I pick through the debris like an archaeologist, is that I cannot find all the pieces.
I have hunted hardest for the pieces to the faith I knew before my world was torn asunder.
I can’t find even a vague semblance of that old feeling that used to be my bosom buddy-that the blessing and favor of the Lord was resting on my family’s shoulders. I can’t reclaim the confidence that I had at least a rough idea of how God works in the world.
I don’t feel as if God has abandoned me-but I do feel as if He’s pushed me in a corner.
And what I have to do now (have had to do all along) is decide:
Do I trust even when I cannot see how it all fits together or do I abandon my faith?
I have decided to hold on.
I have decided that it was foolish for me to think I could comprehend God in the first place. My experience hasn’t changed HIM, it’s changed ME.
It revealed a flaw in my logic. It gave me a glimpse into the vast chasm between what I thought I knew and what I actually knew.
There are so many things that cannot be known. I have no idea why I once thought that number small.
Is this frightening? Yes.
But it is also helpful.
As long as I’m looking for answers to every question, I will remain unsatisfied and unsettled until I find them. Understanding that I CANNOT“know it all” frees me to lean into my faith.
When Jesus was about to leave His disciples, He gave them this assurance:
“I’ve told you all this so that trusting me, you will be unshakable and assured, deeply at peace. In this godless world you will continue to experience difficulties. But take heart! I’ve conquered the world.”
Most folks would count the date of death and maybe the date of burial or memorial service.
But a mama’s heart counts it ALL.
I count the day he left, the day I was first able to view his body, the days of visitation, the day of the funeral and burial.
I count the day we cleaned out his apartment.
I count the day I notified credit card companies he would no longer require their services.
I count the day I received the death certificate.
I count the day I got his posthumous diploma.
And every year these dates roll around again to remind my heart of the pain I felt then and to pierce it afresh.
So how does a heart survive all these grief anniversaries? How can I navigate the minefield of emotions and triggers that only I can see?
I believe the first step is to embrace them and not try to deny them.
I remember the horror I felt when I realized I had survived 365 days since the deputy came to my door when I was certain I wouldn’t make it through the first 24 hours. It did not feel like victory, it felt like betrayal.
How in the world could my broken heart keep beating if I truly loved my son?
I cannot, by force of will, fend off the feelings that are sure to invade my heart when it recognizes that another year has passed.
The most important thing is to have a plan, I think. That way it doesn’t slam you against the wall unawares. The feelings are impossible to outrun, but having a plan means you are anticipating them and in a kind of “fighting stance”.
The plan might be to go away or to go to the cemetery or other spot that evokes strong connection to your child. It might be an elaborate gathering that includes friends or family or just lighting a candle next to a photograph. Your heart may insist you stay in bed all day, covers over your head and wait out the ticking moments.
I think each family has to approach the day however makes sense to them. There is certainly no “right” way or “easy” way to do it.
I am sorry you have to do it at all.
Here’s the truth: evenTHATday will only last 24 hours. Just like the awful day when your child left you.
However you manage to survive is fine.
You are not abandoning your missing child if you don’t make a big public display. You are not forgetting him or her if you let go of some of these grief anniversaries over time-you are learning to carry the load. You are not a bad parent if you choose a getaway to distract your heart from the pain.
You are coping the best you can-choosing to carry on.
“Jesus saved me from a life of drugs and alcohol abuse!”
“The Lord healed my marriage and now we are best friends and ministry partners!”
“God gave me a child after a decade of infertility!”
But you know what we DON’T love?
We don’t love broken stories that can’t be tied up in strings of victory.
We rarely love the walking wounded.
Why? Probably because we really, really want to believe that Jesus+time+counseling+the right attitude fixes everything.
But it doesn’t. There are some things that will not be “fixed” this side of heaven.
There are some among us who bear sacred scars.
Not all scars ARE sacred. But if the person whose body and heart are wounded has offered up those wounds to Jesus as an act of praise and sacrifice they are sacred, holy, set apart for His use and His glory.
And we need to make space within His Body to bear witness to these also.
We need to honor the heart that has said, “I will not turn back even though the road is long and hard and has no rainbow at the end.”
When Thomas doubted the disciples’ claims of having seen a resurrected Jesus, he wanted the wounds as proof.
Jesus appeared and complied-allowing the doubting one to see that He had, indeed, risen.
He drew close to Thomas.
Jesus: Reach out and touch Me. See the punctures in My hands; reach out your hand, and put it to My side; leave behind your faithlessness, and believe.
Thomas(filled with emotion): You are the one True God and Lord of my life.
John 20:27-28 VOICE
John describes Jesus in Revelation:
And there between the throne (with the four living creatures) and among the elders I saw a Lamb (Christ) standing, [bearing scars and wounds] as though it had been slain
Revelation 5:6a AMP
Wounds are not shameful.
They are often the mark of endurance under trial.
If the Lord Himself is bearing witness to His suffering for all eternity by displaying the scars from His wounds, then should we not also welcome others to do the same?
When we receive with gladness those who bear sacred scars we honor the life of Christ in them. We bear witness to the power of His love to supply strength and passion to persevere.
We are raising up a testimony to the world that says, “He really IS enough!”
I wrote this last year because I realized that even three years (now it is four) after my son’s sudden departure, I was absolutely unwilling to wipe away the evidence that he had once been here.
I could not (cannot) bring myself to put his cup in the cupboard or in a shadow box or on a high shelf like a museum piece testifying to a long ago personality that is interesting but hardly pertinent today.
Because Dominic is STILL part of my life. Every. single. moment.
Just like my living children, his heart beats inside of mine.
Always.
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.
I remember as a young mother of four working hard to keep my kids safe.
Next to fed and dry (two still in diapers!) that was each day’s goal: No one got hurt.
It never occurred to me THEN to add: No one got killed.
Because the most outlandish thing I could imagine was one of them falling or touching a hot stove and us having to rush to the emergency room.
Then I became a mother of teens and one by one they acquired a driver’s license and motored away from our home.
That’s when I began to beg God to spare their lives.
One particularly frightening test was when all four went to Louisiana-my eldest driving and the rest in the van with her. I made them call me every hour and tell me they were OK. It was the first time I realized that I could lose every one of them in a single instant should they crash-all my eggs in one basket.
I was glad when that day was over. Although the irony is they were no “safer” at the end of those 24 hours than they were at the beginning.
Because what I know now, but didn’t know then is this: There is no such thing as“safe”.
Not the way we like to think of it-not the way we add labels to devices, seat belts to cars, helmets to everything from bicycles to skateboards. Of course we should absolutely take precautions!Many lives are saved by them every single day.
But. BUT…
Life is more random than we want to admit.And there is no defense against random.
There is no way to screen for every underlying physical abnormality, no way to drive so well you can stop the drunk or inattentive driver from plowing through a stop sign, no way to anticipate every foolish choice a young person might make that ends in disaster instead of a funny story.
My first response when Dominic died driving his motorcycle was that I wanted my surviving sons to sell theirs. They did so out of respect for me. Neither of them wanted their mama to have to endure a second knock on the door and the same message delivered twice.
I receive it as a sacrifice offered in love from them.
Because it was.
Since Dominic left us almost four ( now five!) years ago, I have had to deal with my desperate need to keep my living children safe.
And it is a real struggle.
Each child is involved in a career that includes inherent risk. None of them are foolhardy, but they are exposed-perhaps more than many-to potential bad actors and dangerous circumstances.
This branch fell just minutes after my son was standing in that spot splitting logs.
How I long for those days when I could tuck everyone in, turn out the lights and sleep soundly because all my chicks were safe inside my own little coop! How I wish the only danger I thought about or knew about was a bump on the head from hitting a coffee table!
How my heart aches for one more moment of blissful ignorance!
But I can’t live in some imagined water color past. I have to live in the world as it is.
So I remind my heart that safe is an illusion-no matter where we are. Life is not living if it’s only about preserving breath and not about making a difference.
I’ve strived and struggled for many things in my life-most of which have little eternal value.
I am striving now for the only prize that really matters, to enter the Presence of my Saviour and to hear, “Well, done, good and faithful servant”.
When the days are long and the nights are longer, I try to remember that.
“To win the contest you must deny yourselves many things that would keep you from doing your best. An athlete goes to all this trouble just to win a blue ribbon or a silver cup, but we do it for a heavenly reward that never disappears.” [emphasis added]
~ I Corinthians 9:25 TLB
I remember one particularly grueling semester in college. I had foolishly stacked five upper level political science classes on top of one another thinking that taking them together would be easier.
If you’ve followed the blog for long, you know I have Rheumatoid Arthritis. What you may not know is that it is not at all like the arthritis most people experience as they age. Instead of a gradual wearing out of joints due to use and, sometimes, injury, RA is the result of my body attacking itself.
I was 44 when diagnosed after both ankles suddenly swelled so that I could barely walk.
I’ve been living with it for over ten years.
It’s a chronic disease. It can be treated with greater or lesser success to modify and mediate symptoms, but it is always, always, always there. And it affects every aspect of my life-from getting dressed to driving a car.
I find that most folks just don’t understand that.
We are used to getting sick, going to the doctor and being prescribed a drug or treatment or even surgery and getting well (after some period of time).
But some things can’t be “fixed” and must simply be “managed” and endured.
Child loss is like that.
It cannot be fixed.
It cannot be healed.
It cannot be undone or ignored or sequestered so that it doesn’t impact daily life.
And that is hard for people to understand if they’ve never dealt with a chronic illness or other circumstance that defies remedy.
Every morning I walk down my stairs one step at a time like a toddler because my joints are too stiff to bend until I’ve been up for a few hours-that’s how I have to accommodate my arthritis.
Every morning I sit in my rocking chair and journal and talk to other bereaved parents before daybreak-that’s how I have to accommodate my grief.
Neither of these conditions is a choice.
Each of them happened TO me-not because of anything I did or did not do.
You are not abandoning your missing child if you don’t make a big public display. You are not forgetting him or her if you let go of some of these grief anniversaries over time-you are learning to carry the load. You are not a bad parent if you choose a getaway to distract your heart from the pain.
thelifeididntchoose 