Think back on the most awful thing that has ever happened to you.
Does it still hurt? Do you still carry scars from where it pierced your soul and broke your heart?
Can you forget it? Really, really forget it?
Read the rest here: When Will You Be Over This?
I had no idea that the last time I spoke with Dominic would be the LAST time I spoke with him.
How could I?
He wasn’t hanging on to life by a thread, threatened with a deadly disease nor involved in risky behavior. So I wasn’t weighing my words like I might have if the last time I saw him was in a hospital bed or after springing him from rehab.
No, it was just another casual evening “check in”, another random exchange that ended with, “See you tomorrow. Love you.”
Except tomorrow never came for Dominic even though it surely came for me–with claws and fangs and growling horror.
For some bereaved parents the last words they exchanged with their missing child were awful. They may have been angry or dismissive. They may have been distracted and forgot to say, “I love you.”
And even for us whose words were kind, there is this nagging sense that if we had only known (but how could we?) we would have said something profound, something that would be worth hanging onto if they were hanging onto anything in those last moments before breath left their bodies.
But I honestly believe that our children-in the Presence of Jesus-are not reciting anything that happened before they reached their beautiful eternal Home.
ALL of my mistakes and sins were nailed to the cross.
That is why there is therefore NO condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. I know it doesn’t take away the feelings of condemnation or guilt, but if Christ’s sacrifice is sufficient (and it IS) then my feelings are lying.
My relationship with Dominic was filled with love, laughter, affirmation and acceptance.
He knew that then and he knows that now.
I have to remind my heart of the facts until it can hear and embrace them.
And when it forgets, I remind it again.
I’m gonna just tell you right now: If you let your mind wander to the days, months and possibly years ahead you will drown in sorrow.
The only way to make this journey is step by step.
This one moment, this one breath, this one memory bringing tears to my eyes. I don’t receive the strength for another moment until I live through this one.
But each moment bravely faced speaks courage to my heart for the next.
Some days I feel empty of hope. Some days it takes every ounce of will to get out of bed. Sometimes I lie there and think, “Can’t I skip today?”
It’s a genuine temptation.
And then a still, small Voice speaks to my heart and says, “I’m here. You don’t have to figure it all out, just make the first step.”
So I do.
I’ve studied it many times over a lifetime-beginning with fun “coat of many colors” crafts in preschool and ending with an emphasis on remaining faithful in trials.
Joseph’s story is typically told from his point of view.
But I’ve never considered it from Jacob’s perspective. Until now.
Because on Jacob’s side of the door, Joseph was gone, gone, gone-beyond reach, out of sight, nowhere to be found.
All the while Joseph was very much alive, God was working and Joseph would (ultimately) flourish and Jacob would (ultimately) be reunited with his son.
There was no way for Jacob to know this so, of course, he was heartbroken:
Then Jacob tore his clothes, put on sackcloth and mourned for his son many days. All his sons and daughters came to comfort him, but he refused to be comforted. “No,” he said, “I will continue to mourn until I join my son in the grave.” So his father wept for him. Genesis 37:34-35
Jacob’s grief was real. His loss was devastating. His heart was shattered and there was no substitute for the son he was missing.
I understand that now.
I glossed over these verses in the past-rushing to the “happy ending” promised a few chapters later.
But Jacob didn’t have that option.
He was living these years-one day after another, one foot in front of another, one sunrise, one sunset-never knowing he was making his way toward reunion with a living son.
I share Jacob’s heartbreak.
My son is out of reach, out of sight, unavailable to my arms and eyes.
But I have something Jacob didn’t have-I know the end of the story. I have the Bible and its promise that this life is not all there is, that while this body dies, the soul lives on eternally.
And for those who choose Jesus, the soul lives for ever and ever with Him.
Hallelujah!
While I too, mourn deeply for Dominic, there IS comfort.
I cannot ignore the pain of separation, but I will hold steadfast to the promise of reunion. I cry for what has been lost, but cry out for faith to cling to what will ever be.
This earthly journey is dark, but there is assurance that light will triumph.
Oh, how my heart hurts!
Deep down where no one can touch it-it aches for my missing child, the family I used to have, the lost opportunities, the missed moments.
And there is no cure.
Yes, there is a Balm in Gilead-there is hope in the Person of Jesus Christ.
And it soothes the pain, takes the edge off, makes it bearable.
But it does not take it away.
I’m sorry if that tosses grit in the works of your theology. I’m sorry if that makes you a little afraid that if this happened to you, the pain might last a lifetime.
I wish some of the books I’d read, the movies I’d seen, the sermons I’d heard had dealt more honestly and openly with the topic of loss, grief, heartache and unchangeable circumstance. Most of them minimized the crisis and moved straightaway to the victorious ending. That’s a convenience and device unavailable to us who are living with the reality day to day.
I can’t turn a page and get to the finale.
I can’t wrap up my experience in three points and a tidy tag line.
So as the ache began to settle in, I questioned my faith. I questioned my relationship with Jesus. I questioned my sanity and my strength and my sadness.
What was wrong with me????
Why can others move through and move on????
And then I reexamined the published stories and realized that the arc presented as going from devastation to declaration of God’s goodness was very selective.
If I wanted to, I could craft my narrative the same way.
I am definitely better than I was. Definitely more confident of God’s working in this Valley than I was. Definitely more convinced that God will redeem and restore than when I first faced the fact my son was dead.
But it is still a battle.
It is still a choice that I have to make every day. It is still something I hold onto IN SPITE of my hurting heart. My hope has not replaced the pain. It lives alongside it and sometimes overshadows it-but the pain is still there.
I can not pretend that “all is well” any more than I can claim I understand when Paul writes I am “seated in the heavenlies with Jesus”.
God sees it all in the “right now”.
I am trapped in time.
Yes, these things are true. But I do not experience them as true right now.
So in the meantime, I wait to see with my eyes what has been promised to my heart. And the distance between now and then leaves a gaping wound that hurts.
It’s simply the truth.
How do you speak of the unspeakable?
How do you constrain the earth-shattering reality of child loss to a few syllables?
How do you SAY what must be said?
I remember the first hour after the news. I had to make phone calls. Had to confirm my son’s identity and let family know what had happened.
I used the only words I had at the time, “I have to tell you something terrible. Dominic is dead.”
Over, and over, and over.
Until others could pick up the chant and spread it to the ends of the earth.
And then silence.
Such a deep wound requires silence. Because there are no words for the ache inside a mother’s heart, the pain that burrows into her bones, the sorrow that sucks the breath from her body.
It was some months before I found a community of bereaved parents who began to give me a vocabulary for my experience.
And it was more than helpful, it was liberating!
As I began to speak aloud what was hidden inside, it broke chains I didn’t realize held me hostage.
As long as my feelings are secret, they trap my heart and mind in an endless cycle of regret, fear, sorrow, pain and anxiety. When I speak them aloud, I can recognize them and fight them and overpower them. And when I share them, I find that I am not alone.
Others come alongside and say, “Me too!” Validation makes me stronger. Understanding makes me brave.
I hate the fact that my son is dead.
I hate the pain that his death has inflicted on me and on my family.
There are days I wish I could run away and hide, that I could pretend this never happened, that I could undo the broken that permeates my life.
But I can’t.
There’s no way through but through. I have to face the awful truth, I have to consider the ways it is changing me and remaking who I am.
I need words to process the pain because that’s how I can disarm its power over me.
It’s tempting to try to ignore the hard parts of our stories thinking that we are getting away from them.
But we aren’t.
The harder the season, the more profound the wound or bitter the struggle the more time it takes to process.
The first step is learning the words and finding community in which to speak them.
Here are links to three online communities for bereaved parents:
While We’re Waiting-Support for Bereaved Parents
Heartache and Hope: Life After Losing a Child
TCF-Loss of a Child (The Compassionate Friends)
If you have lost a child and are looking for a place to learn the language of grief and loss, a safe space to share your pain with others who understand it, see if one of these groups might be the place for you.
Bifurcate: 1. to cause to divide into two branches or parts; 2. my life.
Before Dominic ran ahead to heaven I led a fairly unified life.
Our family was unusually close, our goals closely aligned, we shared the same faith, had developed routines and even all liked creamy peanut butter.
That changed when Dom left us-suddenly I was forced to live with one foot HERE and one foot THERE.
I didn’t get to choose, it was decided for me.
Paul’s words took on new meaning and great relevance:
We know that if our earthly house—a mere tent that can easily be taken down—is destroyed, we will then live in an eternal home in the heavens, a building crafted by divine—not human—hands. 2 Currently, in this tent of a house, we continue to groan and ache with a deep desire to be sheltered in our permanent home 3 because then we will be truly clothed and comfortable, protected by a covering for our current nakedness. 4 The fact is that in this tent we anxiously moan, fearing the naked truth of our reality. What we crave above all is to be clothed so that what is temporary and mortal can be wrapped completely in life. 5 The One who has worked and tailored us for this is God Himself, who has gifted His Spirit to us as a pledge toward our permanent home.
2 Corinthians 5:1-5 VOICE
Groan–YES!
Deep longing can only be expressed with low, gutteral sounds-there are no words!
I am in this earthly tent but want desperately to be free of it and clothed with the eternal-where joy unspeakable will reign and sorrow and death will be no more.
So this Lenten journey is helpful to me-it acknowledges the struggle between flesh and spirit. It encourages my heart to walk by faith and not sight, to grab hold of that which counts forever and let go of that which is doomed for destruction.
The truth is, all of us who follow Jesus lead a bifurcated life.
It’s simply that some of us can ignore that truth. Until death touches our bodies or our families, we can pretend that the earthly tent’s not so bad, that it might be somewhere we’d enjoy staying quite awhile.
I am not at all thankful for Dom’s death. I will never be thankful my son left us in the prime of life, full of promise and without saying good-bye.
But I am thankful that I am unavoidably confronted with the truth that this life is fleeting, this world is only a moment and this body temporary housing for my eternal soul.
Paul goes on to write:
In light of this [our understanding that our life here is temporary], we live with a daring passion and know that our time spent in this body is also time we are not present with the Lord. 7 The path we walk is charted by faith, not by what we see with our eyes. 8 There is no doubt that we live with a daring passion, but in the end we prefer to be gone from this body so that we can be at home with the Lord. 9 Ultimately it does not matter whether we are here or gone; our purpose stays fixed, and that is to please Him.
2 Corinthians 5: 6-9 VOICE
My eyes see one thing, but my heart knows another.
It’s not the same as just doing nothing.
Sitting still doesn’t guarantee that the mind remains quiet or the spirit settled.
I know, because sometimes I’ve been forced to stay perched in a chair like a toddler in time out and it was not restful.
At.
All.
But the other day I did spend time in my favorite rocking chair, cozied up to a heating pad with my cat companion
and wrote
and wrote
and wrote.
It was wonderful! And it restored my soul.
I haven’t enjoyed something like that in several months. Things to do had crowded my schedule, places to go and people to see or talk to had used up nearly every waking moment.
I let rest-genuine, soul-restoring rest-be pushed aside in hopes of making progress on a never-ending list of necessary tasks.
What I failed to take into account was that the more weary I became, the less effective my efforts and the less enthusiastic my attitude-not to mention my rebellious body!
I don’t know why I push harder when I shouldn’t be pushing at all. Because when I don’t build rest into my schedule, I’m sorely tempted to give up and give in-every little thing becomes a struggle!
The most productive people know when to take a break. The highest yielding fields remain untilled from time to time.
Life is hard and if I’m going to make it on this long and laborious journey, I’ve got to learn to take my own best advice:
The news goes out over Facebook, over phone lines, over prayer chains and everyone shows up.
Crowds in the kitchen, in the living room, spilling onto the lawn.
It’s what you do.
And it’s actually the easiest part. Lots of people, lots of talking, lots of activity keep the atmosphere focused on the deceased and the family. The conversation rarely dips to deeper waters or digs into harder ground: “Where was God?”; “Why him?”; “Why do ‘bad’ things happen to ‘good’ people?”
But eventually the busyness and noise gives way to stillness and silence.
That’s when the harder part starts.
The long hours of nightime darkness that invite questions that demand answers. The quiet hours of daylight that insist on playing a home movie of the years that went before. Forcing me to wrestle. Tossing me in the ring of trying to reconcile this tragedy with my worldview.
And many people turn away from the spectacle.
Even good, loving, Christ-following friends find it hard to stick around and watch.
Because it challenges their worldview too.
It makes them wonder if what they have always believed about God is true. It makes them fearful that if it could happen to my son and to me, it could happen to their child and to them. Ir raises questions, they’d rather not answer.
And they don’t have to answer them-YET-because their lives haven’t been turned upside down and inside out.
So they run.
They stop calling, they stop coming and they keep their distance in public spaces.
It hurts.
A lot.
It’s human nature to avoid pain. No one marches headlong into suffering. Empathy requres energy. Compassion demands opening your heart to the hurt hiding inside someone else’s.
I understand, truly I do.
If I could find a place where sorrow and longing couldn’t find me, I would stay there forever. But I can’t. I have to carry this load, I have to face the tough questions, I have to work hard to give my heart a chance.
It is so much easier when others come alongside. I feel so much stronger when others choose to call courage to my broken heart. I find great comfort in knowing that someone is willing to risk their own comfort to bear witness to my pain and struggle.
Please don’t lower your eyes and hide. Raise them and help heal.
I know it’s hard and you don’t have to, but please don’t turn away.
Part of my Lenten observance includes reading the book of John.
The words are not new to me, I’ve read them over and over-probably dozens of times in the past 30 years. So I decided to use a different translation this time around in order to shake out some new insights and cause me to pay closer attention to what God might have for me right here, right now.
The very first reading did just that:
Before time itself was measured, the Voice was speaking.
The Voice was and is God.
2 This celestial Word remained ever present with the Creator;
3 His speech shaped the entire cosmos.
Immersed in the practice of creating,
all things that exist were birthed in Him.
4 His breath filled all things
with a living, breathing light—
5 A light that thrives in the depths of darkness,
blazes through murky bottoms.
It cannot and will not be quenched.John 1: 1-5 VOICE
What struck me fresh was verse 5-“A light that THRIVES….BLAZES….It CANNOT and WILL NOT be quenched.”
So many times I think of light as barely fighting back darkness. I carry my flashlight to check on the horses and its piercing beam burns through to give me limited visibility. It FEELS like darkness wins and I push it back only a little.
But what this rendering of John 1:5 declares to my heart is this: The light of Christ isn’t fighting the darkness, it thrives in the darkness. It’s in the darkness that its power is revealed.
It’s the darkness that makes light undeniably present.
Darkness can and will be vanquished.
But the True Light will last forever.
I know very, very little about astronomy. But I do know this: Light generated eons ago is still traveling through space. Light doesn’t end. It goes on and on and on.
So even though this part of my life is dark, even though I may have trouble discerning the Light, the darkness hasn’t quenched it.
The Light is coming.
It’s no battle of equals.
The darkness doesn’t stand a chance.
thelifeididntchoose 