It comes up over and over in support groups for bereaved parents:
Am I normal?
Am I doing alright, coping well, making progress?
Do others struggle to get through a day even months or years after losing a child?
I want to reach through the computer screen and hug each one.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
You. are. NOT. alone.
Labels and categories can be helpful. When cruising the grocery aisles I’m thankful for the signs that point the way to “vegetables” or “baking needs”.
But labels can be harmful when applied to people.
Thankfully public discussion rarely includes some of the ugly words I heard growing up.
And that’s a good thing.
It means we are free to talk about the things that really matter without having to clear the hurdle of offense.
This trend has yet to take hold in wider circles when speaking about or speaking to bereaved parents and other hurting people.
From the outside looking in, we tend to classify struggling hearts as either “strong” or “weak”. We apply standards based on our own experience and background to determine whether or not a particular soul is “handling it well” or “crumbling under the stress”.
The problem with labels for hurting people is that it puts extra pressure on them and lets those around them off the hook.
You probably mean it as a compliment when you say, “You are so strong”.
But I know it’s not true-I’ve gotten very good at holding it together in public and at saying all the right things when I meet folks on the street.
I can look you in the eye, recite answers to the question of , “How are you doing?” by focusing on the current status of my surviving adult children. What you probably won’t notice among the well-rehearsed lines is I never share my heart-I never tell you how I FEEL.
If I opened that vault there’s no telling what might spill out.
You walk away confirmed in your opinion that I am doing well, that I no longer need any active encouragement or ongoing prayer. I’m off the “ministry list” because I am past the point of crisis and doing just fine.
Or you may see me at a vulnerable moment and think, “She’s weak” or “She’s really struggling”.
I AM weak and I DO struggle.
If you are tired of hearing about the ongoing struggle, how tired do you imagine I am living it?
If you wish I would “get over it”-how much more do you think I wish it never happened?
You may give up because it’s too much trouble to keep reaching out. You may tuck me in the basket of lost causes because you think I’m not committed to keep trying.
It’s easy to draw a line in the sand and decide that you will go thus far and no farther in extending help or encouragement or grace because you CAN walk away.
But I am not a lost cause.
Each day Jesus meets me in my weakness and brokenness and gives me the strength I need to carry on.
And He often does this through people-people who choose to walk alongside and not label me or my journey. People who are committed to continue even when they are tired of helping carry the burden and sick of hearing my story.
Grace–abundant grace-given and received is what makes life livable.
Love, not labels is what I need.
It’s what everyone needs.
As much as I hate the mashup of Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas that assaults my senses every time I walk into a store, it IS a reminder that, like it or not, the holidays are coming.
I wrote these posts a few weeks back so that grieving parents and their families could begin to think about and make plans for year-end celebrations.
I know it’s hard-it continues to be hard for me as I approach the third (!) set of holidays without one of my children at the table.
But it is harder without a plan.
So here are links to the posts. I pray they are a small help for heartbroken mamas and daddies:
Grief and Holiday Plans: Working Out the Details
Grief, Holidays and Hard Conversations
Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family
Practical Ideas for Dealing with the Holidays after Child Loss
The doctor I see every six months or so for my rheumatoid arthritis always fusses at me.
One of the routine questions is, “How’s your pain level?”
I usually say, “About a three.”
And then she looks at my hands and my feet-at the swollen joints and twisted toes-and shakes her head.
But here’s the deal: sure they hurt, sure I can’t do all the things I used to do, sure I have to do many things differently than I did them when my hands and feet were unaffected by this disease-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.
I don’t really know how to do anything else.
And that’s how it is with this grief I lug around-it’s heavier some days than others-but I’m STILL moving and doing what needs to be done.
This is not the life I thought I would be living, but it’s the life I have.
So I make accommodations for my sorrow just like I make accommodations for my hurting hands and crooked toes.
I am not in control of everything, but I can control some things.
I would not have chosen this life for myself, but I can make choices that help make it bearable.
Those hours before I planted one last kiss on my son’s forehead, I held his hand.
I nodded at the people filing past to pay their respects with my arm tucked behind me, desperate to cling to my child.
And I’m still clinging.
I will not let him go.
I don’t care how many days or months or years march on taking me further from the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand or the brightness of his smile-I refuse to release my grasp.
It’s hard for someone who has never buried a child to understand why we who have are compelled to speak about them, to post pictures of them, to air our great grief and share our great hope of reunion.
I didn’t have a clue before it was me.
But this is all we have.
There will be no new experiences, no fresh memories, no photos marking higher achievements or life passages.
So I will hold onto Dominic as a little boy who was so stubborn he would sit in the floor and cry in frustration because he couldn’t yet crawl.
I will hold onto Dominic as a young man who could argue anyone under the table until they gave in because, right or wrong, he wasn’t giving up.
I will hold onto Dominic who taught himself how to play the drums and pounded away when I took my daily walk so that it wouldn’t be too loud for my ears.
I will hold onto Dominic who talked his way into a program that admitted few students even though he had missed the first semester of classes.
I will hold onto Dominic who could fight like a banty rooster when he was mad but be as tender as a mother hen with someone who was hurting.
I will hold onto Dominic who would have never wanted this for me, who would have done anything he could to prevent this great sorrow resting on my shoulders.
I refuse to let go.
Because he is my son.
There is no past tense for a mother’s love.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.
~children’s rhyme
Shattered beyond repair-that certainly describes my broken heart in the first days, weeks and months after Dominic’s leaving.
I felt like Humpty Dumpty.
The pieces were too small to find, much less glue back together in anything resembling wholeness.
And the essence of the “old me”-the person that existed before loss-was spilled onto the ground, leaking strength and life and joy into the dry earth.
Humpty Dumpty had no hope-the king’s men and horses were powerless to breathe life into the lifeless bits and pieces that were left.
But I don’t have to depend on the king’s men or the king’s horses.
I have access to the King Himself.
I am not separated by a veil from the Mercy Seat.
I can come boldly before the Throne of Grace and pile my broken life on the Altar of Hope.
Now that we know what we have—Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God—let’s not let it slip through our fingers. We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help.
Hebrews 4:16 MSG
The One Who made me can remake me.
He IS remaking me.
I have no illusions that the cracks won’t show.
But I am trusting that my new fragility will make me both more grace-filled and more grace dependent.
We think leaves fall when we turn the calendar page to Autumn months.
Piles of red, gold and orange land beneath trees that grow increasingly barren until one day they are truly naked.
But leaves begin to fall as early as July-hardly noticed because they drift down lonely, one by one.
No one is looking for them then.
And green grass grows tall to hide them.
We think people live to the fullness of years. They begin in spring and pass through all the seasons before the cold winter claims them.
But some survive only one season, or two–never enjoying the fruitful harvest of the latter years the younger years of hard work are meant to produce.
Unlike early falling leaves, early deaths are perceived and acknowledged.
Shocking and unexpected, people gather round to discuss the tragedy, the sorrow and the lost future of one who dies young.
But then they go away-caught up in the seasons of their own lives.
And the green grass grows tall to hide the ones who left too soon.
No one is looking for them anymore.
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.
Please don’t corner me and ask, “What’s wrong?” Or worse-please, please, please don’t suggest I should be “over it by now”.
If you were reading a novel or watching a movie, you’d show more grace.
You would nod in understanding as the main character made choices that reflected the pain of his past. You would find his behavior perfectly predictable in the context of a life lived with a broken heart.
I can’t control what makes me cry. I can’t stop the memories flooding my mind or the pain seizing my heart.
I might be OK one minute and the next a blubbering mess. Grief doesn’t mind a schedule.
But there are some things you can do to help:
I admit that I never thought of any of these things until it was MY son missing.
But now I think about them all the time–not only for my sake, but for the sake of others like me. I try to walk gently and kindly, extending grace and love.
And honestly, that’s really all I want from anyone else-grace, abundant grace.
I will be weepy when it’s inconvenient. I will react when you can’t fathom why. I will stay away when you want me to come near. I will make choices you don’t understand.
I am truly sorry.
But child loss is not something I chose for myself, it was thrust upon me.
I am walking this path the best I know how.
When you extend grace and love me through the roughest places it makes all the difference.
This journey is a marathon, not a sprint.
If I keep my eyes focused on the miles I’ve yet to trod, I can be discouraged and tempted to give up.
But if I think about the miles I’ve covered and the progress toward healing that has occurred, I can gain strength to keep on going.
It’s hard.
That’s not going to change.
I have mountains yet to climb. I won’t always be victorious-I’ll suffer setbacks.
But today, I’m celebrating several small victories:
I spent two hours laughing hysterically with a friend over lunch.
We were so loud and having so much fun that the wait staff was undoubtedly convinced we had enjoyed a liquid lunch although we didn’t drink anything stronger than water. And it felt GOOD.
I am teaching again.
Since I was a little girl lining my dolls up for pretend school, my heart has been inclined toward teaching. Through the years I’ve taught Sunday School, seminars, parenting classes, speech classes and my own children from kindergarten through high school. But it’s been awhile-a long while since I’ve had the energy to be the focus of a room full of people. It’s just a small class on Sunday nights, but it’s a start.
I cut my hair.
Now, you are wondering how is that a victory? But in the throes of despair after Dominic left us, I vowed that I would never cut it. Because (this is the biology nerd in me) my hair contained the only cells in my body that would not be shed and renewed. I wanted this physical part of me that existed when he was still here as a reminder of just how long it had been since I hugged him or heard his voice. But the other day I knew it was time. So before I could lose my nerve I did it. And I’m glad. He would definitely approve!
I baked shortbread for my mother’s birthday.
Family celebrations are still very hard. When we are together, the hole where Dominic should be is that much more apparent. And shortbread was one of the only things that could tempt my fitness fanatic son to break training and indulge his sweet tooth. So I haven’t made it since before he left us. But it’s Mama’s favorite too. And I’m learning to experience these memories wrapped up in doing things we did BEFORE as a blessing instead of only as a painful reminder that Dominic is gone.
You may be very fresh in your grief. You may despair of ever making headway toward healing. You may FEEL like you will ALWAYS be held under the tidal wave of sorrow.
It does seem that way for a very long time-longer for some people than others and definitely longer than we would hope.
But please be encouraged!
Your victories will look different than mine, but they will come. If you face the pain and do the work grief requires, you can begin to heal.
No, you will never be the same.
I’m not.
I don’t want to be.
Burying a child has taught me many things for which I am grateful and the pain I carry is a testimony to the love I have for my son.
But I am learning to live again.
One small victory at at time.
This is the fourth in a series on making plans for the holidays after loss.
Yes, it’s early and no, you might not want to think about them-it’s really hard to imagine Thanksgiving and Christmas without the child you love. BUT, the days will come whether we want them to or not. Here’s some help to navigate them.
If you missed the first three posts you can find them here:
Grief and Holiday Plans: Working Out the Details
Grief, Holidays and Hard Conversations
Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family.
It cannot be overstated: holidays are extremely hard after loss. Every family gathering highlights the hole where my son SHOULD be, but ISN’T.
There is no “right way” or “wrong way” to handle the holidays after losing a child.
For many, there is only survival-especially the very first year.
These days also stir great internal conflict: I want to enjoy and celebrate my living children and my family still here while missing my son that isn’t. Emotions run high and are, oh so difficult to manage.
So I’m including some ideas from other bereaved parents on how they’ve handled the holidays. Many of these suggestions could be adapted for any “special” day of the year.
Not all will appeal to everyone nor will they be appropriate for every family. But they are a place to start.
If you have decided to make a Holiday Journal, consider printing these ideas to put inside or copying out the ones that might be helpful for you.
Skip it.
Consider traveling for the holidays.
Change how you do meals.
Let others do the planning/cooking/communicating.
Make new traditions.
Commemorate your child:
Keep the same traditions:
Whatever you choose to do or not do, know that there’s no wrong way or right way.
Be gentle with yourself-this is a hard road. And a long one.
Photo credit: State Farm via Visual hunt
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