compassion – thelifeididntchoose

Twelve Years: Broken Hearts and Broken Lives

I woke one morning to a frantic voice mail left overnight when my phone was on sleep mode which silences all but my few “favorites” from ringing through.

A precious young woman from my family’s past was reaching out because she knew I was a safe person. I wish I had been able to talk to her when she needed me most but I was left with the only option available: call her back and leave a voice mail message.

It’s a poor substitute for being there when someone is hanging on by a thread.

It made me think of the dozens of ways my children and I have learned to “be there” for broken hearts and broken lives.

It’s an easy yes for any one of us when someone calls and says, “Can you talk?”.

Even when it’s inconvenient or worse, we answer the phone and allow that heart to spill its contents until there is some relief and possibly some way forward.

Some days I’m tapped out.

I may not haul feed bags or lift boxes but my heart is wrung dry by mid-morning.

Hours long telephone conversations in which there is no real answer and no way to untangle complex webs of addiction or family history or personal trauma leave me needing a nap.

I try to take a break when I need to and come back fresh when I can.

In this Season of Sorrow I have a little less to give.

But I am committed to helping other broken hearts limp along toward healing for as long as I am able.

So many have helped me.

I want to share the gift.

Twelve Years: Reflections, Regrets and Reality

I’m writing this today as springtime sunlight floods my window and the scent of grass and growing things wafts in the breeze.

I still feel the stir of life when the days grow longer and the laying hens gift us with eggs every twenty-four hours.

But for twelve years now my heart drags itself into the light bearing a burden of darkness.

In the early years it totally eclipsed any promise spring might portend. Birdsong only reminded me of my son’s silent voice. Flowers smelled like death. The appearance of fresh growth highlighted the passage of time and the timelessness of missing Dominic.

It took a long while to learn how to be alive and also acknowledge the awful reality and sadness of death.

Now I can watch the faithful chickadee family (generations of them) who perch on a garden torch singing praise to the rising sun. I marvel when a daring chipmunk races to retrieve some tasty tidbit while keeping a watchful eye for my outdoor cats. I count the hours as the sun makes its path outside my kitchen window from darkest dawn to midday and beyond.

I put on and take off the garment of grief many times each day.

I regret springs spent doing anything other than reveling in the beautiful life of my beautiful children. I wish I had understood then what I understand now: Life is short, no matter how long it lasts.

Then a lovely memory pops into my mind and I know I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. We DID spend days playing and laughing and learning together.

It’s a battle, this remembering.

I don’t always have time to indulge my heart.

But for this season, this day, I’m giving myself permission.

Holy Week 2026: Living Between the Crucifixion and the Resurrection

It is tempting to forget that there were three long days and nights between the crucifixion and the resurrection beause the way we observe this season rushes us past the pain to embrace the promise.

But it’s not hard for me to imagine how the disciples felt when they saw Jesus was dead. It was neither what they expected nor what they prayed for.

There were many points in the story when things could have gone a different way:

When taken by the religious leaders-surely, they thought, He will explain Himself, they will let Him go.
When taken before Pilate-Rome will refuse to get involved with our spiritual squabbles, Pilate won’t authorize His death.
When presented to the crowd-no Jew would rather have a wicked murderer released instead of a humble, healing Rabbi.

At every turn, every expectation they had for a “happy ending” was dashed to the ground.

Read the rest here: Living Between the Crucifixion and the Resurrection

Holy Week 2026: Why Good Friday Matters as Much as Resurrection Sunday

On the one hand Death is the triumph of Satan, the punishment of the Fall, and the last enemy. Christ shed tears at the grave of Lazarus and sweated blood in Gethsemane: the Life of Lives that was in Him detested this penal obscenity not less than we do, but more. On the other hand, only he who loses his life will save it. We are baptized into the death of Christ, and it is the remedy for the Fall.

Death is, in fact, what some modern people call “ambivalent.” It is Satan’s great weapon and also God’s great weapon: it is holy and unholy; our supreme disgrace and our only hope; the thing Christ came to conquer and the means by which He conquered.

~C.S. Lewis, Miracles

Bury a child and suddenly the death of Christ becomes oh, so personal.

The image of Mary at the foot of the cross is too hard to bear.

Read the rest here: Remember: Why Good Friday Matters as Much as Resurrection Sunday

“How are you doing?” “Not as well as you might think.”

For over ten years this space has been a lifeline to me.

When I first started writing here it was, honestly, a way for me to express feelings and thoughts that were unwelcome in my social and personal circles.

I thought that if I wrote them down for the world to see, maybe some friends (and most especially) extended family, might read them and gain a bit of insight into the long, lonely road of grieving a child.

A couple of weeks ago I confessed that I didn’t have it in me anymore.

So many responded with kind comments and encouragement. Thank you, Thank. You. THANK YOU!

The break has been good in one respect-it gave me a little more freedom to just experience my life and less pressure to turn that experience into something I could share.

Here I sit, not on the DATE of Dominic’s running ahead, but on the DAY (the Saturday before Palm Sunday) of his running ahead and I am not really OK.

I feel like most of 2025 was like 2013-a year of promise.

The year before Dom went to Heaven, I turned 50. As an ardent student of Scripture, I had claimed that year as a Jubilee. All my children would be college graduates, one would be married and they were pursuing their own paths-each successful in their own way. I would finally be able to be more than a mother and free to follow my own ambitions.

April 12, 2014 changed that.

Last year also felt like a kind of freedom.

After over ten years of carrying this burden, I launched an official ministry and was doing things I had only previously dreamed of. Four amazing mom retreats, speaking engagements, book studies, monthly support meetings, the blog, sharing on podcasts and gaining additional credentials in grief counseling all meant I was beginning to live forward once again.

Then my dad had a devastating stroke.

I spent three months just trying to reach equilibrium for an almost 90 year old man who was way too involved in way too many things. If you haven’t had both the privilege and burden of caring for an aging parent, let me tell you it is so. much. more. than you can imagine. Even with every good intention and forethought, running two households is hard.

I had two days between leaving Papa’s home (praying the caregiver who was coming in three days a week would manage half of what I had when there 24/7) and heading to Texas for the too-early birth and ultimately tragically short life of my granddaughter, Holly.

Christmas was made jolly for the grandboys but the adults were just there for the show.

January 4, 2026 was the second day the earth stood still for our family.

Except that it doesn’t. The world keeps spinning and people keep going and somehow, miraculously, our broken hearts continue to beat.

I won’t type every event since then but suffice it to say nothing has slowed down, no provision has been made for deep rest, reflection and the silence that gives any of us the time to process loss and the questions it raises.

So here I am at the Saturday before Palm Sunday once again.

And I am not as well as I might have thought this far into the journey.

I’ve gained all the necessary tools to hold on and to make it to the next morning, trusting the sunrise to bring new mercy and trusting Jesus to help my heart.

But I’m exhausted.

I don’t want to discourage anyone who is earlier in this journey.

I am stronger and better able to carry the load-if I wasn’t, I would not have survived this past year of additional burdens. I only desire to be as honest as possible. so, honestly, today (and probably this entire week) I’m not feeling very strong.

Grief continues to shape who I am and how I interact with the world.

I can’t pretend it doesn’t.

Navigating Grief: Trauma Rewires our Brains

No matter how a child leaves this earth, it’s traumatic.

And trauma rewires our brains.

The “fight or flight” response that had previously been reserved for truly life-threatening situations gets woven in with memories and feelings and our bodies remain on high alert.

So before we know it, all kinds of ordinary, daily, and definitely not life-threatening situations evoke rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, anxiety and fear. And the absolutely reasonable response is to get away from those things that make us feel that way.

So we do (or try to!).

We find ourselves running away from people who love us, who want to help us but who just might not understand why we’re running. We cocoon in our homes, in our own bodies and try to find that one safe space where fear and anxiety can’t find us.

But there is no such absolutely safe space.

Trauma rewires our brains, it’s true.

They can be rewired again.

So many good therapies are available for those of us who suffer in silence. Many are based on using physical cues to help a brain learn to distinguish between truly dangerous and only the memory of dangerous.

It is possible to venture out in the world again, to reach for and sustain connection, to lean into company instead of shying away.

Don’t stay hidden, afraid and alone.

Find a trained trauma counselor

Ask for help.

Navigating Grief: Today is a Gift

“Today is a gift, that’s why they call it the present.” ~unknown

Do we treat each day as a gift from a loving God, a present wrapped up in His grace and goodness, to be opened with joy, used with care and set lovingly on the shelf of life when done?

Or do we bear it as a burden?

I’ll admit not all days are equal.

Some ARE burdens.

No one (I don’t think!) loves going to the dentist. Few of us are keen on doing taxes or taking tests or slogging through the rain to work or school.

Some of us have much heavier burdens as we wake to an empty bed, an empty heart or an empty bank account.

But even these awful days are a gift.

Why?

Because God’s mercies are new every morning. The rising sun brings fresh opportunity to rest in, rely on and relish God’s grace, goodness and promised strength.

And every new day means we have more time.

More time to love the people we love, more time to find new people to love, more time to do the good works which God in Christ has planned for us to do.

We wake each morning to the same 24 hours given every other soul on this planet. It’s ours to choose.

How will we spend it? Will we fill it with foolish things? With important things?

Here’s how I do it:

Put the significant and essential things in first. Time with the Lord, time with family, time with my own thoughts. (Orienting my heart and mind to what truly matters first thing makes the rest of the day so much better.)
Then the necessary. Work, school, chores, appointments, cooking and meals. (No way around having to do these things, but I can still choose to fit them in AFTER the most important and valuable ones.)
Finally, the incidental things. Facebook, television, window (internet) shopping, binge watching Netflix. (So hard to discipline my heart to focus on what will truly make a difference instead of distracting myself with the trivial.)

And surprisingly I manage most days to get it done (even checking social media).

Life is not an emergency, although I often live as if it is.

I careen around the corner of hour after hour like I’m driving a car out of control, begging someone to make it stop.

I can make it stop.

I can take my foot off the accelerator, park it and decide where and how fast I’m going to drive tomorrow.

Every single day is an opportunity to choose.

I can start fresh and make time for the things that are truly important.

If I want to.

Navigating Grief: Surviving Grief Anniversaries

There are more than you might think.

Most folks would count the date of death and maybe the date of burial or memorial service.

But a mama’s heart counts it ALL.

I count the day he left, the day I was first able to view his body, the days of visitation, the day of the funeral and burial.

I count the day we cleaned out his apartment.
I count the day I notified credit card companies he would no longer require their services.
I count the day I received the death certificate.
I count the day I got his posthumous diploma.

And every year these dates roll around again to remind my heart of the pain I felt then and to pierce it afresh.

So how does a heart survive all these grief anniversaries? How can I navigate the minefield of emotions and triggers that only I can see?

I believe the first step is to embrace them and not try to deny them.

I remember the horror I felt when I realized I had survived 365 days since the deputy came to my door when I was certain I wouldn’t make it through the first 24 hours. It did not feel like victory, it felt like betrayal.

How in the world could my broken heart keep beating if I truly loved my son?

I cannot, by force of will, fend off the feelings that are sure to invade my heart when it recognizes that another year has passed.

The most important thing is to have a plan, I think. That way it doesn’t slam you against the wall unawares. The feelings are impossible to outrun, but having a plan means you are anticipating them and in a kind of “fighting stance”.

The plan might be to go away or to go to the cemetery or other spot that evokes strong connection to your child. It might be an elaborate gathering that includes friends or family or just lighting a candle next to a photograph. Your heart may insist you stay in bed all day, covers over your head and wait out the ticking moments.

I think each family has to approach the day however makes sense to them. There is certainly no “right” way or “easy” way to do it.

I am sorry you have to do it at all.

Here’s the truth: even THAT day will only last 24 hours. Just like the awful day when your child left you.

However you manage to survive is fine.

You are not abandoning your missing child if you don’t make a big public display. You are not forgetting him or her if you let go of some of these grief anniversaries over time-you are learning to carry the load. You are not a bad parent if you choose a getaway to distract your heart from the pain.

You are coping the best you can-choosing to carry on.

And that makes you awesome and brave.

Navigating Grief: Why Does Coffee Make Me Cry?

Oh, the early days, weeks and even years of grief!

I was a giant walking nerve.

Every sight, sound, smell or even touch that reminded me of Dominic evoked a wave of sorrow that almost always ended in tears.

I cried in the grocery store, walking past Bath and Body Works in the mall, driving down the road when certain songs came on the radio, tidying up drawers and finding a long lost and forgotten something that Dominic tucked away for later.

Sometimes I just wanted to scream, “Don’t you know my son’s not here??!!”

But of course I couldn’t do that and walk around in society.

So the triggers were an outlet for that pent up energy, angst and sadness.

It was awful.

Especially when what I set out to do was something I really needed to do. I’d leave the house with a list of places to go, things to buy and people to see but often return having done only a fraction of it.

I’m better at it now.

I’ve grown stronger and am more skilled at carrying the burden of the disconnect between my heart and other hearts who haven’t experienced deep pain and loss.

I’ve learned how to fix my eyes on some distant point if cornered by a well-meaning friend asking how I am but not really wanting to hear about how Dominic’s death continues to impact our family.

I press my fingers together hard in an attempt to stop the sorrow rising up and threatening to undo me until I can escape to the bathroom, a quiet corner or my car.

And I’ve learned not to be ashamed of the tears that fill my eyes and slip down my cheek despite all my best efforts no matter where I am.

Navigating Grief: Hardly the Time for Being Taught

It seems to be the nature of humans to listen with an ear to respond rather than an ear to hear.

I’ve done it myself.

Jumped right in with all kinds of suggestions designed to “fix” someone else’s problem.

Or worse, heaped my own experience with something more or less (often less) similar onto an already overburdened heart.

I hate that tendency in myself and I’m working hard to try to change it.

Image result for listen to respond listen to understand

Those who feel compelled to just say SOMETHING often bombard grievers with platitudes, comparisons to their own grief or just empty, frivolous words that require we either stand there dumbfounded or find a gracious way to exit the conversation.

It’s especially painful for a broken heart when a well-meaning someone decides THIS is the moment for a theology lesson.

“God has something planned for you in this” or “God will use this for good”. (Romans 8:28-29)

“We don’t grieve as those without hope!” ( I Thessalonians 4:13)

“All our days are numbered.” (Psalm 139:16)

I get it-death is a heavy subject and the death of a child isn’t something anyone wants to talk about, contemplate or be forced to wrestle with. So it’s often easier to simply say something-anything-do your duty and walk away.

But it is hardly helpful.

Deep grief as a result of unbearable loss is not a teaching moment.

It’s an opportunity to listen well, think carefully about if or when you need to say anything and simply offer compassionate companionship to a broken heart.

Grieving felt hardly like the time for being taught, at least initially. Early grief was my time for pulling out of my past those truths that I had already learned — out of my ‘basement — so that I could begin to assemble them together into something even more meaningful to me than before. It was the time for understanding that even though I had always believed in heaven, it now looked to my perceptions to be more real than this world. It was the time when, even though I already believed in God’s control of the world, I now felt dependent upon him being sovereign over it for all my hopes. It was the time for realizing that even though I already believed that Christ conquered death, I now longed to see death die.

Lianna Davis, Made for a Different Land

Category: compassion