A precious sister-in-loss created this image.
It’s my theme song.
And the message of my heart.
Read the rest here: Monday Musings: Mercy
Category: compassion
Amazing *FREE* Opportunity for Bereaved Parents
If you are a bereaved parent and can fly,
drive
or walk to Hot Springs, Arkansas October 6-7
you will want to make the journey.
April Wendland, a bereaved mama with a heart to reach others with hope and love has organized a conference just for us.
And it’s *FREE* to bereaved parents.
From the website:
“THROUGH THIS VALLEY is a faith based conference designed BY bereaved parents, FOR bereaved parents.
We know the deep pain. We know the longing.
We know the questions. We know the heartache.
But we’ve also found some healing. We’ve found some peace for our hearts.
We’ve found some answers.
And we understand the Healer in new & grateful ways.
It is our desire to share what we’ve learned with other bereaved parents who are searching for answers. And being together with others who have gone through similar experiences somehow gives us all a little more strength & comfort too. You are not alone. There is hope. This conference will change the lives of those who have open hearts & ears to hear.
There is no charge to the bereaved parents for the THROUGH THIS VALLEY conference.
All speakers, attendees & most staff are bereaved parents.”
I’m going.
Wanna join me there?
Click here for more information or to register: Through This Valley
I Get It-I Really DO Get It.
I write a lot about what bereaved parents (me!) wish others knew or understood about child loss and this Valley we are walking. And I am thankful for every person outside the child loss community who chooses to read and heed what I write.
But I want to take a minute to tell those of you who are not part of this awful “club” that I get it-I really do get it–when you need to put distance between yourself and me or other people walking a broken road.
We all love to think that life is a never-ending ascent toward bigger, better and more enjoyable moments.
Our children are born and we think only of their future, not their future deaths. We plan for retirement never imagining that some dreadful disease may keep us from enjoying that nest egg we so carefully set aside.
So when my son died-or your friend’s daughter died-it was an affront to the way you want to think about how the world works. It’s an unavoidable reminder that we are not in control, no matter how many plans we make.
Trust me, if I could, I’d run away from it too.
I’d turn down the other aisle in the grocery store to avoid coming face-to-face with tears. I’d take me out of my own Facebook newsfeed so that the sad posts of recycled photos didn’t upset my morning coffee. I’d change my pew or enter the sanctuary from another door to make sure I didn’t run into me and have to say something when I had no idea what to say.
I’d let days, weeks, months slip by between phone calls and then convince myself that really, I wasn’t ignoring my friend, I was “giving her space”.
I really, really do get it.
I am a reminder that no one is immune to tragedy. I am a walking, talking advertisement for the unpredictability of life.
My life is your worst nightmare.
And who wants to face that?
*If you would like to join with me in ministry to bereaved parents and their families, you can make a tax-deductible donation using this link:
Bereaved Parents Month Post: Shake Off the Shame
Shame is a shackle as sure as any chains forged from iron.
And it often finds its home in the hearts of those who bury a child.
Bereaved parents may feel shame for lots of reasons:
Read the rest here: Shake Off the Shame
Bereaved Parents Month Post: It’s Complicated
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.
“How many children do you have?”
A common, get-to-know-you question lobbed across tables, down pews and in the check-out line at the grocery store. But for many bereaved parents, it can be a complex question that gets a different answer depending on who is asking and where we are.
Read the rest here: It’s Complicated
Bereaved Parents Month Post: Bereaved Parent’s Wish List
This list is adapted from a friend’s Facebook post (with permission) and a list published by Children’s Hospital of Colorado.
BEREAVED PARENT’S WISH LIST:
1. I wish my child hadn’t died. I wish I had my child back.
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that my child was important to you also.
Read the rest here: Bereaved Parent’s Wish List
At Least?
“At least you had him for 23 years.”
Yes, but I thought I’d have him for my whole life!
“At least you still have three other children.”
Yes, but which one of yours would you choose to do without?
“At least you know he’s in Heaven.”
Of course that brings me comfort and hope, but it doesn’t take away my pain.
A wise friend once said that any comment to a griever that begins with “at least” needs to remain unsaid.
It’s especially true for those of us grieving our child.
Because there is no “at least” in child loss.
NONE.
Practice the Pause
Oh, how I need to learn to practice the pause!
I’m getting better, but still react when I should reflect.
I need to do this EVERY time.
Lord, help my stubborn heart slow down and give me grace to yield and allow You to melt it, mold it and make it more like Your own! ~ ❤
Bereaved Parents Month Post: What Grieving Parents Want Others to Know
I wrote this post December, 2015. It hadn’t been long since I joined an online community of bereaved parents and began to see that I wasn’t the only one who had friends and family that misunderstood child loss.
I was spending a lot of time in my life trying to help others comprehend, just a little, what it felt like to bury a child.
Trying to give them a tiny taste of how this pain is so, so different than any other I had experienced. Begging them to toss the popular ideas bandied around that grief followed “stages” and was “predictable”.
I re-share every so often because it seems to help, a little. I’m re-sharing today in honor of Bereaved Parents Month. ❤
People say, “I can’t imagine.“
But then they do.
They think that missing a dead child is like missing your kid at college or on the mission field but harder and longer.
That’s not it at all.
Mountains and Mole Hills
There’s a saying in the South, “You’re making a mountain out of a mole hill”.
It’s supposed knock sense into someone who is overreacting to a small and easily resolved problem. Most of the time it works-stepping back and gaining perspective is a good thing.
But I find that this side of Dominic’s leaving, many, many things that were mole hills before are MOUNTAINS now. Because my faith in my own ability to handle things has become so very small, nearly any challenge feels like a never-ending ascent up the mountain.
I used to be the person who crossed “t’s” and dotted “i’s”.
Shoot-my whole wedding was organized on 3×5 index cards kept in a tiny filing cabinet (long before online wedding sites!). I still have that little metal box and can recite who received an invitation, who responded, who attended, what gift they gave us and when I wrote the “thank you” note.
Not anymore.
If I don’t put my truck keys in exactly the same spot, I will never find them. And panic sets in about 60 seconds after I realize I don’t know where they are.
Everyday hiccups are absolutely exhausting and larger issues are downright debilitating.
It reminds me of a move my family made from Atlanta, Georgia to Denver, Colorado when I was twelve.
Denver is known as the “Mile High City” because on the first step of the capital building it is 5,280 feet above sea level. My sea-level body had to work hard to live that much closer to the sun.
The first year was a real challenge because the red blood cells that had been sufficient to carry oxygen to my brain, vital organs and tissues at near sea-level, were woefully insufficient to carry enough oxygen to my extremities a mile closer to the sun. Eventually my body caught up to the new reality and made more corpuscles.
I’m afraid my mind, heart and spirit have yet to catch up to THIS new reality of life after child loss.
I am quickly struck down and discouraged when what SHOULD be a mole hill rapidly turns into a MOUNTAIN.
Regardless of what it looks like or feels like to anyone else, it IS a mountain to ME.
And that takes so much energy to scale. It requires so much discipline to face. It wears me out and uses up my resources so that I’m left depleted, panting and oh, so tired from the effort.
I wish I could help those outside the child loss community understand just how much it takes for me and everyone like me to do what has to be done.
We aren’t being lazy or overly emotional or “making too much of nothing”.
We live in a different world than the rest of you.
Our air has less oxygen.
Our bodies have to work harder to do what comes easily to the rest of you.
I promise we are trying. But willpower can’t make up for the resources we just don’t have.
thelifeididntchoose 