I don’t cry nearly as much as I used to.
That kind of bothers me.
I don’t know if I’m just not as sad or if I’ve just used up most of my tears.
I think it’s a bit of both.
I DO still cry. And I try hard to remember that I do not need to be ashamed of my tears. I don’t need to apologize for them-even if they make some folks uncomfortable.
Read the rest here: It’s My Story and I’ll Cry If I Want To
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.
This was not my experience-all my children were adults when Dominic ran ahead to Heaven-but so many grieving parents want to know: Should I let my younger children see me cry?
How much is too much for them to witness, process and hear?
Do I need to shield them from the awful truth of how much this hurts? CAN I shield them?
It depends.
Read the rest here: Should I Let My Young Children See Me Cry?
I don’t cry nearly as much as I used to.
That kind of bothers me.
I don’t know if I’m just not as sad or if I’ve just used up most of my tears.
I think it’s a bit of both.
Read the rest here: It’s My Story and I’ll Cry If I Want To
I haven’t had a good gut-wrenching, chest-thumping ugly cry in awhile.
I had one yesterday.
Taking clothes off the line to bring indoors before nightfall, I was suddenly overcome with emotion.
I remembered Dominic’s graduation presentation in our back yard. I thought about my daughter’s wedding and how he was missing another important event. Then I pictured my grandson who would never know Uncle Dominic in three dimensions-only by flat photos and through our renderings of him.
Five years!
How can it possibly be five years since I last saw that face, hugged that neck, heard that voice?
And what has become of us in the meantime?
We are more
and less.
More compassionate, more deliberate in maintaining connection with one another, more focused on what really matters, more likely to cry in movies, more willing to drive or fly or walk or swim to get to the people we love. Five minutes of face-to-face makes it worthwhile.
We are less tolerant of petty grievances, less sure that bad things don’t happen to “good” people, less likely to sweat the small stuff and less inclined to assume we know another heart’s story when we first meet her. We don’t take anything for granted.
Walking into wedding weekend is another giant challenge. Full of beautiful things and special moments and wonderful friends.
But we all carry Dominic-his life, light and death-with us everywhere we go.
So I’m sure there will be moments when my heart shows up on my face.
I’m bringing a hanky. ❤
This past weekend was an emotional one.
My deployed son began his trek back home to his wife and newborn son.
My youngest son went on the bachelor trip with his soon to be brother-in-law and was incommunicado for almost 72 hours which always makes me nervous.
My daughter’s wedding is only a few weeks away and there is so much to do. Fun things. Things I want to do.
My companion animal and faithful sidekick died two weeks ago and I haven’t been sleeping nearly as well as I did before
It was the fifth anniversary of Dominic’s death and funeral.
I didn’t cry, but then I did.
And I couldn’t stop.
I just couldn’t stop.
How in the world can it be five years? I can’t explain it to anyone who hasn’t buried a child. But I keep trying. The giant chasm between what I thought life would be like and what it actually turned out to be is so wide that it’s impossible to comprehend. I’m living it and I can’t comprehend it.
I am trying so, so hard to participate.
I’m working at keeping grief at bay and leaning into the life I have without constantly comparing it to the life I thought I would have or the life I wanted instead. I’m purposing to keep my expectations low so I won’t be disappointed.
But it’s not working.
I think I’m just at the end of my personal resources. I think I’ve exhausted any reserve I might have had. I’m leaning into Truth and holding onto the hem of His garment.
I know it won’t always be this way.
The tears will dry up. They always do.
Tomorrow is a new day.
I’m approaching five years since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven and I’m pretty sure that most folks think I don’t cry anymore.
I don’t blame them really-I haven’t broken down in public in more than a year.
But I’ve still spent plenty of nights softly sobbing myself to sleep.
And when no one is looking, no one is listening and no one is close enough to notice, more than one tear has slid down my cheek during daylight.
I am no more reconciled to this life I didn’t choose than I was five years ago.
I know I cannot change it.
I endure it.
But I hate it.
This was not my experience-all my children were adults when Dominic ran ahead to Heaven-but so many grieving parents want to know: Should I let my younger children see me cry?
How much is too much for them to witness, process and hear?
Do I need to shield them from the awful truth of how much this hurts? CAN I shield them?
It depends.
May I first say that there is NO way to shield even an infant from the overflowing emotions, stress and strain of child loss in his or her family. If we stop and think about it, we know this. And older children may look like they aren’t paying attention, but they are.
So the question is not really, “Can I shield them” but is instead, “How do I help them understand what’s happening”?
Grief in this life is inevitable.
Allowing our children to watch us grieve helps them understand how it’s done. When we share openly, we give them tools and models for sharing too.
I think it’s important to be honest with even the youngest among us.
When a parent speaks of the deep pain of loss, expresses love for the missing ones and looks longingly at photos and mementos, he or she is saying to the watching child: “Love lives. Love is important. Love lasts even when our bodies don’t. I will always love you just like I love your brother (or sister).”
Young children will create their own script if adults don’t help them write one.
Because their minds are not fully developed, they will often connect odd bits into an unhealthy whole. Just as some children decide they are responsible for their parents’ divorce, some surviving siblings think that a random act of disobedience resulted in the death of a sister or brother.
And if a parent is modeling secrecy or a stiff upper lip, that child may never reveal her dark and weighty secret.
We can help our children by providing a safe space where they can express themselves freely without fear of correction or being silenced. It might get ugly. Our grief gets ugly. It’s part of the process.
But children should never become the burden bearers for adults.
Crying in front of your child is OK. Screaming, yelling, blaming and violence is not.
No child should feel threatened or unsafe in his own home. If you are out of control, THAT is the time to go to a room and close the door. Or call a friend to come get the kids so you have a few hours alone. Or send them outside to play. It is NOT the time to unload on your surviving child(ren).
I wish that grief was not part of life.
But it is.
How I deal with it, what I say about it, when and how I express it will impact my children for good or ill.
I want to offer them tools they can use and build resilience for what they may face in the future.
Letting them see me-especially the grieving me-is an important part of that process.
Honestly I have no idea why I don’t climb my stairs, lay down in bed and pull the covers over my head.
Well, really I DO know why: it’s the enabling grace of Christ Jesus in my life
But my flesh still wants to give up and give in.
Because there is NO LIMIT to the amount of pain a heart may have to bear on this earthly journey.
I feel awfully guilty sometimes for being overwhelmed by my circumstances when I hear of much more challenging situations that other hearts face.
I have to remind myself that comparison is unhealthy regardless of whether I’m stacking up pain or pleasure, blessings or trials.
Truth is, sometimes life just sucks.
I know that’s an unpopular assertion among church folks.
But it’s a fact.
God shows up and He showers grace. And His grace sustains me. Still, I feel ALL the pain.
Faith is not anesthesia.
I’ll be honest-I’ve had a summer full of hard things. I’ve greeted more than one sunrise with tears. I’ve ended more than one day worn out, worn down and utterly bereft of hope that tomorrow will be any better.
When I’m finally able to enter the bliss of dreamless sleep I manage a bit of escape until the day’s dawn drags my heart back to reality.
Of course the background noise of grief and loss never changes but goodness gracious how I’d love 24 uninterrupted hours of everything going right!
So far that hasn’t happened,
Seriously.
I’m getting kind of used to it.
I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,
the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed.
I remember it all—oh, how well I remember—
the feeling of hitting the bottom.
But there’s one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,
his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.
They’re created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He’s all I’ve got left.Lamentations 3:19-24 MSG
Thursday was the fourth anniversary of Dominic running ahead to heaven and I felt like I was doing pretty well.
Maybe 48 months of practice had paid off.
No ugly crying-just drip, drip, dripping tears leaking from the corner of my eyes that morning.
Lots of thoughts were going through my mind but none touched my heart so deeply that I was immobilized. In fact, my youngest son and I went to work on a project together.
Busy hands and all that, you know.
It was a beautiful spring day. Just like THAT day when my lawn filled with friends and family, shaking heads and sharing hugs.
Doing OK, making progress, making a difference.
So, so many sweet friends sent messages to let me know they were praying for our family. My phone was making happy noise all morning.
It spoke courage to my heart.
Until thoughtless words and random comments broke through defenses I didn’t even know I had built.
And there I was, overwhelmed. It was not at all how I expected to end the day and it got worse.
Not only did I fall asleep ugly crying, I fell asleep angry and discouraged.
I know this emotional roller coaster is absolutely normal. It is absolutely unavoidable. All I can do is hang on and ride it out.
Friday morning’s sunrise brought new hope, new strength and new resolve.
Even the worst day only lasts 24 hours.
I’m so, so thankful for that.
thelifeididntchoose 