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?
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.
❤
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
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.
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.
If, as a culture, we don’t bear witness to grief, the burden of loss is placed entirely upon the bereaved, while the rest of us avert our eyes and wait for those in mourning to stop being sad, to let go, to move on, to cheer up. And if they don’t — if they have loved too deeply, if they do wake each morning thinking, I cannot continue to live — well, then we pathologize their pain; we call their suffering a disease.
We do not help them: we tell them that they need to get help.~Cheryl Strayed, Brave Enough
Stuck in grief”-it’s a theme of blog posts, psychology papers and magazine articles. The author usually lists either a variety of “symptoms” or relates anecdotes of people who do truly odd things after a loved one dies. “Complicated grief” is a legitimate psychiatric diagnosis.
But who gets to decide?
What objective criteria can be applied to every situation, every person, every death to determine whether someone is truly stuck in grief?
Read the rest here: Stuck or Unstuck in Grief? Who Gets to Decide?
Barbara Bush, who died Tuesday, said she didn’t fear death. That may be because the 92-year-old former first lady faced it before, in the hardest way imaginable.
~Steve Hendrix, Washington Post article 4-18-18
Barbara Bush was many things-wife, mother, First Lady, spokesperson for literacy and charitable foundations.
She was bold.
She was sometimes blunt.
But she was always brave.
Early in her marriage to George she faced what no parent ever wants to endure. Her (then) only daughter, Robin, was diagnosed with leukemia in the days when cancer was barely understood and often not even spoken aloud.
Because their family had the means, and because Barbara was committed to fight for her daughter, they flew to the East Coast and endured months of treatment that only delayed Robin’s death, but did not cure her.
They returned to their Texas home a family minus one.
I’ve thought a lot about the many, many years Barbara lived after that terrible blow. I always do the math whenever any famous person who has buried a child follows their heart home to Jesus and reunion.
While there are days when I am utterly overwhelmed by the fact I may live for many decades with the burden of missing my son, days like today-when I have the bold, brave witness of Barbara Bush’s life to encourage me-I think I just might make it.
I long for my life to be just such a witness.
I want to live well and fruitfully in the years I have left.
I want to leave a legacy of love for those that come behind.
I want to be brave.
The death of a child is so painful, both emotionally and spiritually, that I truly wondered if my own heart and spirit would ever heal … I soon learned that I could help myself best by helping others … it wasn’t until Robin died that I truly threw myself into volunteer work. That precious little girl left our family a great legacy. I know George and I care more for every living person because of her. We learned firsthand the importance of reaching out to help because others had reached out to us during that crucial time.
~Barbara Bush (1925-2018)
You cannot possibly know that scented soap takes me back to my son’s apartment in an instant.
You weren’t there when I cleaned it for the last time, boxed up the contents under the sink and wiped the beautiful, greasy hand prints off the shower wall. He had worked on a friend’s car that night, jumped in to clean up and was off.
He never made it home.
So when I come out of the room red-eyed, teary and quiet, please don’t look at me like I’m a freak.
Grief and Grace:What I Need from Friends and Family
Thursday was the fourth anniversary of Dominic running ahead to heaven and I felt like I was doing pretty well.
Maybe 48 months of practice had paid off.
No ugly crying-just drip, drip, dripping tears leaking from the corner of my eyes that morning.
Lots of thoughts were going through my mind but none touched my heart so deeply that I was immobilized. In fact, my youngest son and I went to work on a project together.
Busy hands and all that, you know.
It was a beautiful spring day. Just like THAT day when my lawn filled with friends and family, shaking heads and sharing hugs.
Doing OK, making progress, making a difference.
So, so many sweet friends sent messages to let me know they were praying for our family. My phone was making happy noise all morning.
It spoke courage to my heart.
Until thoughtless words and random comments broke through defenses I didn’t even know I had built.
And there I was, overwhelmed. It was not at all how I expected to end the day and it got worse.
Not only did I fall asleep ugly crying, I fell asleep angry and discouraged.
I know this emotional roller coaster is absolutely normal. It is absolutely unavoidable. All I can do is hang on and ride it out.
Friday morning’s sunrise brought new hope, new strength and new resolve.
Even the worst day only lasts 24 hours.
I’m so, so thankful for that.
Child loss is not a single event.
Of course the moment when the last breath leaves a body is noted and duly recorded because the law requires such. I can pull out Dominic’s death certificate (what an ugly thing to have to say about my child!) and it reads: Time of Death: 1:10 a.m. April 12, 2014.
But I didn’t know about it until 4: 15 that morning when the deputy rang the bell.
So for me, his death came then.
For family members away from home it happened when I called them.
Others found out later that day or the next.
Yet hearing the words and swallowing them down deep where my heart could comprehend them were two different things. I think it wasn’t until I saw his body that it truly dawned on me he was not coming back. This was not a dream or a mistake or happening to someone else. It was very, very real.
That was just the beginning.
I continue to experience loss every time there is a moment when Dominic SHOULD be here but he isn’t. Every time one of his peers gets married, has a child, makes a career move, celebrates a promotion-I think, “Dominic would be doing this if he were still here.”
When our family gathers for photos and the gap where he should be standing is closed in by another body, squeezing his presence from the record of our lives, my heart sinks. I smile-that’s what you are supposed to do for pictures-but my mind is working double-time to keep the tears in check.
My living children touch base with me nearly every day-a habit they had before Dom left us but one reinforced by the knowledge that no one wants to regret the phone call or text they didn’t make. But just like the photographs, his absence is highlighted by their intentional presence.
When extended family ask for updates on my kids, I have to mindfully skip Dominic and land on Julian. They don’t notice the tiny pause but my heart marks the place and mourns the lack of news for my third born.
I know for other people Dominic’s death was a date on the calendar.
This realization was very painful at first because my wound is so deep and my sorrow so great. I’ve made peace with that now. I understand why folks can move on and forget. The loss happened-past tense-and their lives are full of new people, new activities, new connections and commitments. That’s how it should be.
But for me, the loss is an everyday event. It continues to happen. It will continue to happen.
I’m not “dwelling” on my son’s death anymore than I am “dwelling” on my living children’s lives.
They are my children.
Loved and remembered-every one.
ALWAYS.
