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
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
God bless the inventor of Band Aids!
That little tacky plaster has soothed more fears and tears than almost any other invention in the world.
Skinned knee? Put a BandAid on it.
Bee sting? BandAid.
Tiny bump that no one can even see? Oh, sweetie, let me give you a BandAid.
Simply acknowledging pain and woundedness is so often all that is needed to encourage a heart and point it toward healing.
It’s the same in the world of emotional, psychological and spiritual wounds.
But we have yet to invent the BandAid for those.

Instead, frequently we ignore, refute, minimize and pass over the one in our midst who holds out a hand or a heart saying, “I have a boo boo.”
Believe me, I understand-so many of these wounds are incurable, they are uncomfortable to think about, hard to look at.
But often the only thing the hurting heart wants is acknowledgement, a moment of time, a face turned full into theirs, eye-to-eye and unafraid to remain alongside through the pain.
Just as a BandAid bears witness to the wound underneath, our compassionate presence can bear witness to the deeper wounds no one can see.
When we choose to lean in and love, to listen and learn, to walk with the wounded we give a great gift.

For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?
But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?
How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
No matter how tightly I strap on my armor, grief sends arrows through the tiniest unprotected chink and pierces my heart.
Read the rest of this post here: Not as Strong as I Look
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.

The events of this past week have thrown my body into a tailspin-like muscle memory acquired through repetitive action-I feel the terror of parents hearing the awful news that their child is gone.
It’s as if I am the one hearing the knock on the door.
As if I am the one absorbing the terrible blow.
And I know what they don’t yet understand-there is no wonder drug or magic pill that can erase the pain.
There is no miraculous cure for a broken heart.
I wrote this months ago, but this week has made it fresh again:
When Dominic was born by c-section, they placed the epidural too high and I was unable to feel my chest rise and fall even though I continued to breathe.
It was a frightening experience. I WANTED to keep breathing-because I wanted to touch this new life coming into the world and into our family.
But when the deputy brought the news that Dominic had been killed, it felt like I stopped breathing and my heart stopped beating-and I would have welcomed both.
I wanted to escape the pain that filled my heart, my soul, my bones.
I think most bereaved mothers will tell you they have absolutely NO IDEA how their bodies continue to live and carry this heavy burden.
I do it for those still here and, having felt the pain of being left behind, my mama heart wants to spare the ones I love as long as I can.
But rest assured, it is a daily struggle to decide to go on.

“Broken Hearts Still Beat”
BIRTH
I’m not breathing.
They assure me that I am.
My heartbeat thumps the truth for all to hear.
A welcome wail ushers his life into the spotlight of this wide world.
DEATH
I’m not breathing.
They assure me that I am.
My lungs draw air against my will and my better judgment.
An anguished cry marks the end of his earthly life.
I am breathing.
My body refusing to keep pace with my broken heart.
melanie desimone, november 7, 2014
Healing can’t be hurried.
Read the rest: No Rush
Let me begin by saying I purposely remove myself from the 24/7 news cycle that beats our ears and tries hard to hammer hearts into whatever shape a particular organization deems most meritorious.
So it is no surprise that I was unaware of the Orlando tragedy until well into the day on Sunday.
And I don’t know what the pundits and politicians or social media gurus are saying.
I only know how it feels.
I know how it feels to have an officer come to your door and tell you that your child is never coming home.
I know how it feels to receive the devastating news that whatever you said the last time you saw or spoke to your child is the LAST thing you will ever have the opportunity to say to them.
I know how it feels to stand, dumbstruck and reeling, with the instant realization that your world has been wrecked beyond repair-To have to whisper to your heart, “you’ve got to make calls, make connections, make arrangements”.
Oh! My!
Why, why, why can we not as a nation simply step back and embrace those who have lost so much instead of standing on the ruins of their lives and posturing for ratings, rankings and political, social or moral agendas????
I wrote before, when commenting here on the incident at the Cincinatti zoo:
If we covered the stories of families who have lost children with the same zeal and creative journalism as we do the lives and deaths of endangered animals, that would change.
If the despair, heartbreak, brokenness and utter horror of bereaved parents’ lives were on display like the sickening piles of poached elephants and rhinos then at least we could have a discussion that was more informed and even-tempered.
We are a death avoidant culture-we splatter gore across the screen in video games and movies-but we DO NOT discuss the ongoing impact loss has on the ones left behind.
These lives are not numbers, they are not just names or a sweet little synoptic bio plastered on Twitter, Facebook or an AP newswire.
They are people-with families, friends and loved ones.
There is a single, appropriate response to this tragedy–deep mourning for the lives lost to hatred and violent action and prayer for the ones left behind.
I refuse to entertain the musings and posturing of ANYONE who does not first-and for an appropriate length of time-acknowledge the loss of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers-each a unique creation with an eternal soul.
Tears.
TEARS are what should be filling the airwaves, the streets, our altars.

I am so very thankful for the hope I have in Christ.
I am dependent every moment on the strength of Jesus and the Word of God to point my heart to the eternal truth that my son is safe in heaven and that I will be reunited with him one day.
I honestly don’t know how a person who does not share my hope in the finished work of Christ can bear the burden of child loss.
But hope, strong as it is, and effective as it is, does not erase the pain.
It gives me the endurance to bear the pain.
It allows me to see past the pain to something better.
But I still feel the pain.
Hope is not anesthesia.
Hope does not dull my senses nor does it render my heart hard to the longing and missing and hurting of life without the son I love.

I believe in Christ.
I believe that “God so loved the world He sent His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life”. (John 3:16)
And often, when inviting someone to believe in Jesus I will explain that God loves them SO much, He gave up His Son, just to save them.
Only the hardest heart would think such sacrifice was small or insignificant.
If it was painful for the Father to allow wicked men to kill His Son, then it is painful to me for death to take mine.
It is unhealthy to ignore pain.

But when it comes to emotional pain, we sometimes shut people out or shut them down.
I submit that we diminish the power of the cross when we deny or minimize the presence of pain.
Believing that God is in control and Jesus lives does not undo grief’s storm-it is a lifeline that keeps my desperate and hurting heart from sinking under the waves.

One day my hope will be made sight. One day the faith I hold onto will be realized in full.

Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even though He knew that death would not win and Lazarus would walk out of the grave.
For now, I place my broken heart in the hands of the One Who made it because I know He knows my pain.
And I know that He longs as much as I do for the day when all will be redeemed and restored.
