I first shared this in 2014 not quite a month after Dominic ran ahead to heaven.
His leaving has made me much more aware that what we read as “stories”where we can turn to the last page and know the ending, others lived in real time, with no ability to fast forward to the ending.
Read the rest here: Barefoot Over Broken Ground
There may be some mamas that don’t drill this into their children but if there are, they don’t live south of the Mason-Dixon line.
Every time there was back and forth in the back seat or on the front porch and Mama overheard, we were told, “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.”
Parents weren’t interested in policing every errant word out of the under 18 crowd’s mouth back in the day.
It was a simple (and effective!) rule: If what you want to say does not meet the criteria of T.H.I.N. K. (true, helpful, inspiring, necessary, kind) then
Read the rest here: If You Can’t Say Anything Nice….
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.
Read the rest here: Why Do We Turn Away?
When it first happened all I could think about was getting through a minute, then a day and then all the decisions and days leading up to a funeral or memorial service.
There’s no road map.
Even when others come alongside (and many, many did!) there’s just no easy way to navigate that part of the journey.
And then I realized that in addition to all the “regular” days that absolutely, positively break your heart, I had to forge a path through “special” days.
It was overwhelming!
Mother’s Day was especially challenging that first year. Our loss was fresh and we’d had to acknowledge and celebrate two graduations and a wedding was about a month away. How in the world could I honor my living children and also safeguard my broken heart?
We muddled through by having Mother’s Day at my daughter’s apartment co-hosted by some of her sweetest and most compassionate friends. Not a lot of fanfare, but good food, good company and a quiet acknowledgment of Dom’s absence but also my living children’s presence.
It was a gift.
This is my sixth Mother’s Day. Every year is different. Every year presents new challenges and every year things change.
Since discovering there is an International Bereaved Mother’s Day my heart has taken advantage of having a day to think about and honor Dominic and then another day to think about and honor my living children.
That helps.
I wrote this post three years ago but can’t really improve on it so I’ll share it again. I pray that each heart who finds Mother’s Day hard will lean in and take hold of the hem of His garment.
It’s really the only way.
Read the rest here: Mother’s Day as a Bereaved Mother
I had a very uncomfortable exchange with someone at church Wednesday night.
We have a light potluck dinner each Wednesday before Bible Study and I’m on kitchen duty. So I was uncovering dishes, adding spoons and getting things ready when conversation erupted around me about a “horrible wreck just up the road.”
I kept silent and tried to focus on the plastic wrap and aluminum foil but couldn’t help hearing the animated relaying of detail after detail until it reached a crescendo ending in someone declaring that, “Well, those people just drive too fast. They don’t even care about themselves.”
You might guess where this is going.
Yep. Couldn’t take it anymore so I said, “Most young people feel invincible. They think it won’t happen to them. If they knew they might really die and all that meant, they wouldn’t do it.”
Which kind of slowed them down but didn’t stop them.
So I asked, “Is the guy OK?” Wanting a simple answer not an account of grisly details.
Instead, the main speaker turned to me and began to share all he could remember in the brief time he had to take notes as he was crawling slowly by the accident scene. (I won’t recount them here to spare hearts but let’s just say for those of us whose child left for Heaven by road accident, it was entirely. too. much.)
I looked at him and said, “That’s enough.” He kept talking.
I looked at him again and said, “That’s enough. My son was killed in an accident.” He kept talking.
I finally raised my voice, called his name and said, “That’s enough! Stop talking!” He turned away like I had lost my mind.
I followed him a couple steps and said, “My son died in an accident. I don’t want to hear those kinds of details. Didn’t you see that I was crying?”
His response: “Well you asked. No, I didn’t see you crying.”
Walked away.
Everyone heard it but no one was listening. Everyone saw it but no one was willing to come alongside and put an arm around me. Everyone knows about my son but knowing hasn’t sunk in deeply enough to grow seeds of compassion.
I was shaking and wanted to leave right then but didn’t.
I’m not so tender now at five years that simply hearing about an accident upsets me. My mind goes immediately to the family and I breathe prayers for abundant grace and mercy. I never want others to feel they can’t share genuine prayer requests or concerns.
But I do not want details. I do not want a blow-by-blow nor anyone’s haughty opinion that it won’t happen to them or theirs because they “take precautions”.
I am utterly undone that after years of gently trying to help the people I worship with understand the tender places in a bereaved parent’s heart, several of them stomped all over mine.
I know words slip out. I don’t want anyone to walk on eggshells around me.
But I do want to be heard.
When I tell you that I need you to stop sharing something with me, please just stop.
Are you going to burst if you don’t let the words out?
Probably not.
But you might well break a bit of my heart if you don’t.
We’ve all been there-someone we love receives a terminal diagnosis, someone we care about loses a family member, her husband walks away from their marriage of twenty years, his addicted child hasn’t made contact in months.
The list is endless.
This life is hard and broken hearts abound.
What to do?
I’ve written extensively about the many practical ways a friend or family member can reach out and walk beside a wounded heart.
Choosing to offer compassionate companionship is the greatest gift you can give.
But there is another way you can help. You can carry the one you love to the Throne of Grace and intercede on his or her behalf with the One Who can be there when you just can’t.
I’ve learned the hard way that many situations are not fixable.
Read the rest here: How To Pray For Your Brokenhearted Friend
At first all I could feel was pain.
Pain of abandonment, of being misunderstood, of being pushed to the outside edges of groups that used to welcome me with open arms.
But as time passed, I began to understand.
My story scares you. You are utterly afraid that if child loss can happen to ME, it can happen to YOU.
You’re right.
It CAN happen to you.
And no one wants to be reminded that the one thing every parent fears is not nearly as impossible nor as predictable as we would hope it is.
From the minute we take that baby home from the hospital, safely tucked in the approved and properly installed car seat, we assume we can control the future. We think that if we eat right, get regular check ups, cover outlets and sharp corners, remove choking hazards and stuff that little mouth full of organic and healthful treats, it’s all good.
Except no one can account for random. No one can see undetected and unsuspected genetic defects. No one can predict or protect against every way a child might leave this life before his or her parents.
But we absolutely, positively do not want to think about that.
I don’t blame you.
I didn’t either.
So I understand why you distance yourself from me. I get why even my presence in a room is sometimes uncomfortable. I am not upset that you don’t add my name to the invitation list when the occasion is happy and you are afraid I might cast a shadow over the celebration.
I’m a walking advertisement for your worst nightmare.
You can afford to ignore it-and me.
I don’t have that luxury.
