I have to keep telling myself that no matter how it looks right now, this is not the end of the story.
Every morning I’m reminded by the “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” of my early rising roosters, that the light is coming….
Read the rest here: Crowing in the Dark
The months roll by, the calendar pages turn, soon school will be back in session and you are still not here.
Sometimes I think I have figured out how to do these days that remain between now and when we will be together again.
And sometimes I realize that I haven’t.
Today is one of those days.
I miss you.
I love you.
I can’t round a corner without thinking of you and wishing this was not my life.
But it is.
So I’ll keep on keeping on. Just like you would want me to.
Just like you would do.
Even when it’s hard.
And some days it is so very hard.
One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.
Read the rest here: It’s Complicated
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?
Has it shaped the way you think about life and how you conduct yourself today?
Are you a different person NOW because that happened THEN?
Now magnify that to an impossibly greater degree and you might have an inkling of how child loss impacts parents and their families.
I will never “get over”, “move on”, “cease feeling sorrow” or “forget what happened”.
My son is my son as long as my heart still beats. If he were living, he would be part of my life. Death hasn’t changed that.
I am learning to live with loss, learning to bear up under its unceasing pressure and learning to carry on and keep going.
I am different than I was and different than I would have been if Dominic hadn’t left us.
But only heaven can undo this injury, only Christ in eternity can fully redeem this pain.
C
I’m not the same me I was two years ago.
I no longer look with confidence down the driveway as friends and family pull away, certain that we will see one another soon.
I whisper, “Be safe” when we part, but know that they are not the keeper of their days and that “being safe” doesn’t mean everyone escapes deadly peril.
Read the rest here: A Different Me
It’s OK to not be OK.
If you are grieving, you are not responsible for making others feel better about YOUR pain.
You have suffered a great wound and you carry a heavy load.
You are allowed to express sorrow and longing. It’s what people do.
It’s what we have to do if we are going to make it through this dark valley.
Find a safe person and let. it. out.
Bottling it up inside only drags me deeper under the waves. Hiding my tears doesn’t save me from sorrow, it only makes me ashamed and anxious.
And there is nothing shameful in grieving my missing child.
Great grief is the price I pay for great love.
I’m not advocating pitching a fit in public.
It’s good to be sensitive to other people, and I want to extend the same courtesy and kindness to others I would like to have extended to me.
BUT–when sorrow rolls over me like a tidal wave, I do not have to hide to preserve the comfort of others.
And I won’t.
One of the reasons I write is to share my grief experience with others.
I realized when tossed into the ocean of sorrow that of all the things I had heard about or read about, surviving child loss was never mentioned.
Oh, someone might comment that so-and-so had LOST a child, but then the conversation quickly moved on to more comfortable topics.
But if we don’t talk about it, we can’t learn to live through it.
Silence doesn’t serve anyone well.
I agree with Mr. Rogers:
Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.”
― Fred Rogers
During the course of my lifetime I have seen many topics dragged from behind closed doors out onto the stage and under the public spotlight.
Frankly, some of them could have remained in darkness as far as I’m concerned.
But there is something still taboo in polite conversation–something hushed with awkward silence should it ever be spoken aloud in a crowded room–mention GRIEF and eyes drop to the floor or someone hastily throws an arm around you and says, “There, there–it’s going to be alright.”
I don’t blame them. Remaining in the presence of great pain is uncomfortable.
In my growing up years I don’t remember anyone speaking about death and grief for longer than the time it took to go to a funeral home visitation and stand by the grave as the casket was lowered in the ground.
What came AFTER the loss–not a word.
We need to talk about it. We need to educate ourselves about it. Because, like my EMT son says, “No one gets out of here alive.”
You WILL experience grief in your lifetime.
I pray the people you lose are full of years and ready to go–that you get to say “good-bye” and all the important things have been said and done so you aren’t left with extra emotional baggage in addition to the sorrow and missing.
But you never know. Neither you nor I are in control.
And even in the one place where it would seem most natural to talk about life and death and grief and pain–our churches–it still makes those who are not experiencing it uncomfortable.
Yes, there are grief support groups. And, yes, they are helpful in ways that only a group made up of people who understand by experience what you are going through can be.
But much of life is spent rubbing elbows with folks unlike ourselves, with parents who know the fear of losing a child but not the awful reality.
And just a little bit of openness, a little bit of education and a little bit of understanding would make such a difference.
We don’t want pity.
We aren’t looking for special accommodations that single us out and mark us as “needy”.
But we long for understanding and compassion and the opportunity to tell our stories.
Last week’s headlines were full of heartache: first the attack in Orlando and then the tragic tale of toddler and alligator.
So many parents and others bearing so much grief.
As is the way of things, this week the mentions will be fewer.
And in a month or so, as the nation turns its collective attention to campaign coverage, these stories will move further and further to the background.
Most mentions will be in the context of larger “issues”-individuals largely forgotten. .
But each person lost represents others who will mourn them for the rest of their lives.
Hearts of parents grieving their child will ALWAYS require special care:
Please, please, please don’t look for the moment or day or year when I will be “back to my old self”. My old self was buried with my son. I am still “me”–but a different me than I would have chosen.
Read the rest here: Loving the Grieving Heart
I can’t pretend to understand exactly what it feels like to be a father who buries a child. I’ve only been able to watch from the outside as my husband absorbed the impact of that great wound.
But I can tell you this: for dads, like moms, each holiday is another mile marker on the road of grief.
It is another poignant reminder that things are not as they were-they are not as they should be.
Many men keep the hurt bottled up inside, don’t talk about it, don’t seek out fellow bereaved fathers, and don’t cry as much as their wives.
It is easy to forget and overlook the ongoing pain of child loss for fathers-especially when outward signs are few.
But I promise you-that dad in the pew on Sunday-he’s hurting.
That man shaking hands and joking-he remembers.
He hasn’t forgotten that one of the special people that called him “Daddy” is no longer around to do it.
Tell him you remember too.
Speak his child’s name and share a special memory.
Acknowledge the pain. Let him express his grief.
And honor him as a father to ALL his children-those that walk the earth with him and those that don’t.
When my kids went anywhere, I would always ask them to send a text just to let me know they had safely arrived at their destination. They honored that request (most of the time!) and it eased my mind.
My mama heart wanted to know they were OK.
My living children still send me texts when traveling. It’s an easy way to relieve anxious thoughts and I appreciate it.
But my son, who has made the last great journey, is silent.
And that’s exactly what I expected.
I think Dominic is so enthralled with the beauty of Heaven, with the communion of saints gone before and with the fullness of joy at the right hand of his Savior that he does not look with longing at the life he left.
He is in possession of the promise. He knows fully, even as he is fully known.
At present we are men looking at puzzling reflections in a mirror. The time will come when we shall see reality whole and face to face! At present all I know is a little fraction of the truth, but the time will come when I shall know it as fully as God now knows me!
I Corinthians 13:12 PHILLIPS
He has the ultimate assurance that God is faithful and that His lovingkindness endures forever. Dominic (if he even thinks of it at all) has no concern that the same Savior who rescued him won’t also rescue me.
“You must not let yourselves be distressed—you must hold on to your faith in God and to your faith in me. There are many rooms in my Father’s House. If there were not, should I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? It is true that I am going away to prepare a place for you, but it is just as true that I am coming again to welcome you into my own home, so that you may be where I am. You know where I am going and you know the road I am going to take.”
~Jesus ( John 14:1-4 PHILLIPS)
My faith has been tested in ways I never thought it would be. And it has been, and continues to be, HARD.
Now faith is the assurance (title deed, confirmation) of things hoped for (divinely guaranteed), and the evidence of things not seen [the conviction of their reality—faith comprehends as fact what cannot be experienced by the physical senses]
Hebrews 11:1 AM
The same God who made a donkey speak and sent ravens to feed Elijah can use the birds of the air and the beasts of the field to encourage me.
And He does- I have found a dozen perfect bird’s nests since Dominic left us. I believe they are signs from my Savior, not my son-tokens of hope sent to bless my broken heart from the Father who loves me.
God still speaks-He makes Himself known through His Word, through people, through nature and in still, small whispers to my heart through His Spirit.
He doesn’t answer all my questions. But I don’t feel abandoned.
Dominic is with Jesus and Jesus is with me.
Jesus Christ is always the same, yesterday, today and for ever.
Hebrews 13:8 PHILLIPS
I don’t feel close to Dominic at his grave. I go to honor him, to give voice to his memory but the essence of who he was and who he still is, lies in my heart and in the hearts of those who loved him and love him still.
And the witness of that enduring love is the sign to which I cling.
Faith is to believe when you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.
~Augustine
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