After publishing the last post, there has been interest on some private grief support sites to create our own version of the #metoo hashtag sweeping social media.
We tend to talk among ourselves, lamenting the lack of understanding that losing a child changes everything.
So here it is, folks. Our opportunity to stand and be counted. Our chance to have our voices heard.
Let’s speak up.
Let’s refuse to be shamed into silence.
#Iknow
In the wake of revelations that Harvey Weinstein built his media empire in part, by harrassing (and worse) women who worked for him, there is a Facebook wave of “me too” posts by women and men who have also been harrassed, molested or assaulted.
It is empowering.
Because when hundreds, thousands and tens of thousands raise their social media “hands” to be counted, suddenly the lonely heart hiding in the corner realizes they are NOT alone.
I am thrilled that the secrecy and shame of sexual misconduct by men against women is being dragged into the light. That is where it belongs.
I want to do the same for child loss. I want to do the same for grief. I want to start a bold campaign where mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, grandparents and others say, “Me too!”
My heart hurts too.
My life is NOT the same and will NEVER be the same without my loved one’s companionship on earth.
I STILL look for him to come through the door on holiday weekends. I still long to CALL her and share good news or talk over my day. I CANNOT give up his old clothes or put away her toys or bundle up his belongings for charity.
I have to suck in my breath when a quick glance at a passing stranger tells my heart, “THERE HE IS!”
But my head says, “No, that can’t be him-he’s GONE.”
Songs-all kinds of songs-provoke memories, feelings, tears. Dry it up. Keep the fake face smiling. Look forward, don’t let them see.
There are thousands of us. Thousands. of. us.
Who will stand and raise their hand and SHOUT, “Me too!”?
Grief is isolating.
Even in our immediate family, differing grief styles, personalities and gender can separate us from one another in our sorrow.
And out in the world, well-THAT separation is as long and tall as the Great Wall of China.
But I’m here to tell you that you are NOT alone.
I felt so very alone after Dominic ran ahead to heaven. I only knew a couple of bereaved parents and their losses were many, many years prior to mine so they were at a different place. Although they reached out, I didn’t have the courage or words to access their wisdom.
I live in a very small community and though I expanded my search to the nearby larger cities, there were only two grief groups I could find and neither exclusive to child loss.
In addition, I wanted a group founded on and looking toward the promises of God in Christ. I was already discouraged, disheartened and on the verge of hopelessness-I couldn’t bear to have that part of my experience reinforced without the counterbalance of hope in Jesus.
I read, read, read.
And those books helped so much. But they still lacked the give and take I needed. I longed for a safe space to share my heart and have others share theirs. I wanted to be able to ask questions and hear how other bereaved parents handled similar feelings, fears and situations.
I needed community.
It was 17 long months before I found it through While We’re Waiting support group for bereaved parents.
What a breath of fresh air!
Even though the closed group is peopled by broken hearts there is understanding and compassion and HOPE. Those further along in this journey speak courage to the hearts freshly shattered. Tender, vulnerable moms and dads know that HERE they are SAFE.
Last week I attended and spoke at the Through This Valley conference for bereaved parents held near the While We’re Waiting Refuge.
I got to meet some of the very special people who have helped me on this journey. It was a preview of Heaven-hearts united in love for one another and love for our Savior.
Lots and lots of tears. But lots and lots of hugs. Lots and lots of sorrow over missing our children. But lots and lots of joyful anticipation that we WILL be reunited.
You are NOT alone, dear heart.
There is a community of parents waiting to embrace you.
None of us would have chosen this painful path yet we choose to walk together on it.
Come, join hands with others who will speak courage to your heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lord, when one of us hungers, make it our instinct to feed.
When one of us is displaced, make it our instinct to share our home.
– Common Prayer
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even if you think you are the Lone Ranger-riding the hills and vanquishing enemies all by yourself, you aren’t. Heck, HE wasn’t alone either (thus my confusion over his name).
Every single one of us has people in the background making life as we know it possible.
And when life as we know it takes a sudden left turn, all those “invisible” people become oh, so important.
It happened when Dominic ran ahead to heaven. The eleven days between the knock on the door and his funeral were filled with friends, family and even strangers who came by, brought meals, cleaned my house, made phone calls, and did all the things I just. couldn’t. do.
These last weeks have been the hardest season since Dom left us. When I got the phone call Mama was being life-flighted my heart dropped to the floor. Having been there once before, I was not at all ready to revisit the awful pain of loss.
So I gathered what I needed, made a few phone calls of my own and my children and I raced down to be with her and my father.
Thankfully, the ending to THIS story, though hard, isn’t tragic.
After the first eleven days in hospital and only a few at home before a second hospital admission, Mama is back at home getting stronger.
Things are different. Changes are required.
But she is smiling and beautiful. Still with us.
Hallelujah!
But in order for me to stay with my folks for 27 of the past 31 days I have had to call on and depend on the help of others.
For me to leave MY responsibilities at home, someone else had to pick them up. Horses and goats and dogs and chickens don’t feed themselves. The church deposit has to be made each week.
My husband has graciously accepted that our communication is limited and sporadic. What used to be long phone calls every day turned into short bursts and quick texts that let him know I was OK and still breathing.
My youngest son, Julian, laid aside his own project of remodeling his first home to pick up all the things I normally do around the farm-no complaints and no questions asked. He is patient with me when my tired brain can’t think of words while trying to give him yet another chore that needs done.
My daughter, Fiona, finishing a tough last semester in RN school, as well as working and putting in required clinical hours, has called to check on me and her grandmother, offered excellent medical tips and helped me ask for the things we need for Mama. She shoots me funny memes and encouraging texts that provide laughs to boost my immune system and bolster my courage.
My eldest son, James Michael, has squeezed in a weekend visit to my parents’ house in between helping his AF base recover from Hurricane Irma and a hundred other responsibilities as the Public Health Officer for a large command. He drove the tractor and helped bale hay. He brought flowers for Mama and BBQ ribs and sweet tea for me.
My friends at church have graciously given me space and taken up slack so that I didn’t have to worry about my duties as treasurer. No pressure and no tacky comments-only love and understanding from folks who KNOW how important family is.
My very special friend, Laura, sent me back from my brief three day stint at home a couple weeks ago with helpful herbal tinctures to brace my body for stress and hard work. And she always listens without trying to fix me.
Dominic’s example as a strong advocate gave me the backbone to stand and insist that Mama get the care she needed when in hospital and at home. I could hear him say, “Don’t let them get by with that!” to my often trembling heart.
And many, many of my parents’ friends and our extended family have phoned, sent notes and stopped by to encourage my heart and theirs.
People keep saying, “You are doing a good thing for your parents”.
I appreciate that. But I want them to know that I am not doing it alone. It goes back in a long chain to those who choose to take up the slack I leave behind when I drive out my lane.
I would not be free to help if others didn’t choose to help ME be free.
So I want to give a loud and public shout out to each one that has done this hard and necessary work in the shadows.
You are amazing.
I love you.
I admit I’m not much of a gatherer.
Oh, I love my Sunday School class and my church family. I enjoy the occasional family reunion or wedding. But, on the whole, I tend to stick to small groups instead of large crowds.
And that tendency has been amplified since Dominic ran ahead to heaven.
So I totally understand why a bereaved parent might be reluctant to come to a CONFERENCE full of STRANGERS.
But please listen to my heart, not just my words: this is NOT your average gathering.
April Wendland (a bereaved mother herself) and a very special team of people have worked hard to put together a two-day event that will speak courage to broken hearts.
You won’t be surrounded by people who glance sideways when the tears roll. You won’t feel out of place when the tears turn to sobs.
Because we’ve all been there-we are STILL there.
There is no substitute for hearing (perhaps for the first time), “Me too! I feel that way too!”
If you have never had the blessing of sharing space with other hearts that know exactly how you feel, then please, please, please try to come!
And it’s FREE!
Courage is going to flow through the building. Love will overwhelm your heart. Grace and mercy will spill forth like water from a fountain.
Come be encouraged, strengthened and filled with hope for this journey. ❤ ❤ ❤
Here’s the link: Through This Valley Bereaved Parents’ Conference
Friday, October 6th-Saturday, October 7th
Legacy Church, 3540 Central Ave., Hot Springs, Arkansas
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.
And I remember the phone calls, cards, texts and Facebook messages from friends and family who truly wanted to encourage my heart but often chose the wrong words and pierced it instead.
I took offense. Often.
But about a month or so into this journey, as I explored the edges of my pain and had time to think about how utterly different and unknowable it was without experiencing it, I realized that all those barbs were completely unintentional.
No one was aiming to hurt me. They were walking in the dark and stepping on my toes because they couldn’t SEE, not because they desired to cause me pain.
I was just as clueless before it was ME who buried a child.
So I learned to extend grace-to look behind the words to the heart offering them.
Because they don’t know what they don’t know.
And I hope to God they never do.
I may get jeered by my fellow bereaved parents but I’m committed to honesty so here it is: there is no hierarchy of grief and loss.
Now, am I saying that losing a dog is the same as burying a child? Absolutely not! I’ve written about that here.
But what I am saying is that grief, sorrow, loss and heartbreak comes to us in all shapes and sizes. And what may be small to me may be huge to someone else.
In the past weeks I’ve been exposed to a number of people who were waiting for those magic minutes of visitation allowed for intensive care units.
Each one had a story.
Each one had a cross to bear and a complicated life they were trying to maintain outside the additional stress and strain of a loved one hooked up to tubes and heart monitors.
None of them revealed (to me at least) that they were bereaved parents.
But I could clearly see pain, sorrow, grief and weariness etched in their furrowed brows. I could hear exhaustion in their voices as they placed phone call after phone call to update people that wanted to know how things were going but couldn’t make it to the hospital. I noticed hope spring to life in each heart when the clock ticked toward the assigned visitation window and how they leaned forward willing those last seconds to fly by faster.
I knew they were hurting. It didn’t matter if they hurt as much or less than me. There’s enough pain to go around in this life.
It isn’t a contest.
And I realized that because of my great grief and sorrow, I had a gift to share. I could reach out and take a hand, listen to a story, hug a weary shoulder empathetically, gently and without judgement.
I understand the weight of hard things.
I know by experience that life can change in a single breath. I carry both the ongoing burden of missing my son and the traumatic memory of life changed instantly by a knock on the door. It’s made me stronger in ways I would not have chosen.
I will not squander that strength.
I will put my shoulder to the harness alongside my fellow humans and offer to help carry some of their burden. I will extend my hand to the stumbling, strengthen the heart of the hurting and offer a listening ear to the one who has no one to talk to.
I cannot undo what I know. I cannot undo what has brought them here or may take them to places THEY don’t want to go.
But I can be present.
I can refuse to turn away because I think their grief is small in comparison to my own.
I can choose love.
My fellow bereaved mother and blogger, Kathleen Duncan, recently wrote that she felt she was done writing about grief.
It’s been a little over four years since her son Andrew ran ahead to heaven and, as she explains:
I think I’m done.
I think I’m done writing about death. Writing and thinking about death, grief, and pain doesn’t help me anymore. And it may be detrimental for me to spend time writing about those topics. ~ Kathleen B. Duncan
Both our sons were killed instantly in an accident (although the details are different) and both were vibrant young men pursuing what they loved when they left this life.
That got me to thinking since I’m only a few months behind her in my own grief journey.
Because my experience seems to be very different from hers.
I still find writing not only helpful, but healing. And while I think of many things in addition to grief, I still think about grief often-not only my own, but that of others. Not only the grief of bereaved parents, but of all the suffering, broken people I meet or hear about each day.
The feeling is different, but it remains.
At first my grief was so overwhelming and the sorrow loomed so large that it was constantly before my eyes. Everything I saw, heard, experienced or felt was filtered through tears. The world was a blurry place and life was unbearably hard. Every day I labored to lift my head from the pillow and roll my body from the bed. Every morning I remembered afresh that Dominic was not here, that my family circle was broken, that another 24 hours loomed large and lonely before me.
It’s definitely not like that anymore.
But, for me, what’s changed is the location of my sorrow and sadness, not the FACT of it.
Now, instead of being in front of me, my sorrow has bored its way into my bones. It rests deep inside the core of who I am, woven into the fabric of me.
I think of it like I think of being a mother.
My “baby” is 25 years old. But if I hear a plaintive “Mama!” in a store, I instinctively turn to see where the desperate or needy child may be. I can’t resist even when my head tells me that whoever it is, isn’t MY responsibility.
My heart responds because “Mama” is an unchangeable part of my identity.
I don’t cry every day. I don’t only see, feel or hear things through a veil of tears anymore. But bereavement has changed me forever. It remains part of the way I experience the world.
I appreciate Kathleen. I hate that we are part of the same “club” where the dues are higher than anyone would willingly pay but I love the precious community of loving parents who are willing to share their journeys through blogs, closed groups and published books.
And I am blessed by honesty, transparency and authenticity-whatever that looks like.
For me, that’s to continue writing about my grief journey. For someone else, maybe not.
There’s room for everyone because what calls courage to MY heart might not call courage to yours.
I suspect that just as our children are unique, the circumstances surrounding their deaths unique and we are unique, so will be our grief experience. 
If, as a believer in Christ, I abide in Him and am filled with His limitless love, why do I portion it out in such a miserly fashion?
I often act as though it were MY personal treasure house and that to give love freely diminishes my supply.
What foolishness!
God’s love is eternal and bottomless and as a conduit of that love He invites me to lavish love on others without fear of running out.
What does God’s love look like. It has hands to help others, it has feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like.
~Augustine
Love is never wasted!
I want to love without limits and without fear, trusting God with my heart because He is the One Who fills it.
thelifeididntchoose 