death – thelifeididntchoose

Scripture Journal Challenge 2025: Grieving With Hope

’ve shared often in this space that when Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, one of the things I had to do was drag out everything I thought I knew about God, about how He works in the world and all the pat interpretations of familiar verses and hold them up to the cold, clear light of loss.

Today’s verses are some I had to think about carefully because they are so often tossed at grieving hearts like a magic cure for the pain of burying someone you love.

The church at Thessalonica was confused about some fundamental doctrines of the Christian faith. They were frightened they had missed Christ’s second coming and they were concerned about loved ones that had preceded them in death.

So Paul wrote this letter to remind them of truth and offer comfort in their emotional distress:

^13-17Now we don’t want you, my brothers, to be in any doubt about those who “fall asleep” in death, or to grieve over them like men who have no hope. After all, if we believe that Jesus died and rose again from death, then we can believe that God will just as surely bring with Jesus all who are “asleep” in him. Here we have a definite message from the Lord. It is that those who are still living when he comes will not in any way precede those who have previously fallen asleep. One word of command, one shout from the archangel, one blast from the trumpet of God and the Lord himself will come down from Heaven! Those who have died in Christ will be the first to rise, and then we who are still living on the earth will be swept up with them into the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And after that we shall be with him for ever.
¹⁸God has given me this message on the matter, so by all means use it to encourage one another.

I Thessalonians 4:13-18 PHILLIPS

This verse is quoted often to believers who have lost a loved one. At first, gently, sweetly–as an invitation to remember that God is in control, that He has a plan, that the grave is not victorious and that burying the body is not the end.

And, in the early days and weeks after the funeral, it IS comforting–I chanted it to myself like a mantra and it drew my heart from the brink of despair.

But at some point, this verse begins to feel like a rebuke–the well-meaning friend says, “Don’t you know, that Jesus followers don’t grieve like those who have no hope!”

And I turn, dumbfounded, to the person saying this, and wonder, “Have you buried a child?”

Have you grieved the too-soon, unexpected, violent end of your hopes and dreams without a chance to say, “good-bye”? Do you stand over the patch of dirt that now covers the buried body of your son and wonder how this happened? How can this be your life?

Do you wake up every morning and have that fraction of a moment where all is right with the world before your mind joins your eyes and reminds you that he is still gone?

Yes, I firmly believe that my son is now with Jesus.
Yes, I stand convinced that there will be a day when all tears are wiped away and I will be reunited with him.
Yes, I feed the hope in my heart with truth from Scripture and remind myself daily that the grave is not the end.

But I am made of dust.

I am human. I am full of the emotions that God placed in my heart.

He gave me the capacity to embrace and love the tiny life growing inside me before I could see it or feel it. He made my child leap in my womb when I listened to praise music. He positioned Dominic as the third-born child in our family and gave him unique gifts and abilities.

And now He knows that as long as I live, I will grieve the son that I lost. I will sorrow anew when others his age reach milestones–get married, have children–because not only did I lose the Dominic that WAS, I have lost the Dominic THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN.

I do “grieve with hope”–I breathe in the life-affirming and spirit-filling promise that the reality I am living is not the only reality there is. I lean into the Word of God and trust in, rely on and affirm the victory of Jesus Christ.

But I still GRIEVE. I cannot force my heart to ignore the pain and sorrow that has been laid upon it.

So I continue to live each day, doing the work that God has left for me to do, but walking a little slower, a little more bowed down.

For those of us carrying this burden of grief, the greatest gift is grace and mercy and kindness–we are doing the best we can.

Encouragement (lending courage to) must include acknowledging our daily struggle and the lifelong commitment we have made to battle on.

Ask us, listen to the answers and then hold our hand or dry our tears.

But don’t expect us not to cry.

QUESTIONS:

Do these verses help your heart? Why or why not?
What do you think it means to “grieve with hope”? Before your child left for Heaven did you have a different understanding of these verses?
Yesterday’s verses were all about how nothing can separate us from the love of God. Consider those and these together. One of the amazing benefits of studying the Word is that it feeds our souls and strengthens our faith. What insights have you received from this study?
Christian cemeteries are traditionally oriented toward the east in anticipation of this glorious event. I drive by where my son’s body is waiting for resurrection often since it’s just a mile from my home. I always speak this promise to my heart when I do. It’s a small way of affirming truth that helps me wait more patiently. Do you think about the cemetery as a final resting place or as a future resurrection site? What difference might reframing your thoughts make to your heart?

PRAYER:

Father God,

Thank You that we can grieve with hope. Thank You that we have assurance Your promises are true. Thank You that death for believers in Jesus is NOT the end.

My child’s grave is not his or her final resting place. It’s his or her future resurrection site. On that glorious Day when Christ returns, death will be defeated forever. What a reunion that will be!

When I am deep in despair, sorrowing at this temporary separation, help me hold onto that truth. Give me strength to endure and grace to finish well. Eternity awaits! Come Lord Jesus!

Amen

Grief Work 2025: Loss is Relentless

My family has opened our eyes to thousands of mornings knowing the one thing we would change if we could is outside our control.

When the world faced the pandemic these past years, it was a new and disturbing feeling for millions (billions?). We are still reaping the consequences of decisions taken during that time.

Eventually, though, most people’s lives have returned to a semblance of normal that makes allowances for the changes.

But some of us emerged on the other side of that season carrying the new and unrelenting burden of loss.

And nothing will ever be normal again.

re·lent·less

adjective

oppressively constant; incessant.

Synonyms: persistent, continuing, nonstop, never-ending, unabating, interminable, incessant, unceasing, endless, unremitting, unrelenting, unrelieved.

Grief Work 2025: Dealing With Anxious Thoughts

I no longer have to imagine the worst thing that could happen in the life of a mother-I know exactly how it feels.

And if I allow my heart to ponder that too often or too long, it consumes me.

So I am learning to take those anxious thoughts captive, learning to make them live in only a small corner of my mind instead of taking it over completely.

It takes effort and discipline, but it’s possible.

I don’t have to live the rest of my days a quivering mess– afraid of every sunrise, every phone call, every mile my family travels:

I confront my fear with facts: The absolute truth is that it is no more likely I will lose a child today than it was the day I lost Dominic. I’m not good at determining odds-if I toss a coin ten times and it lands on “heads”-I’m convinced that next time it HAS to be “tails”. But that’s just not true. EVERY time the coin is tossed, it has exactly a 50/50 chance of landing on “heads” or “tails” regardless of what happened last time. That’s not how it FEELS, but that’s how it IS.

I refuse to feed my fear: I don’t linger over news stories that play up danger or magnify the possibility of catching rare diseases. Do these things happen? ABSOLUTELY! But are they likely to happen to me or someone I love, probably not. I will not fuel the fire of fear that threatens to rage through my mind.
I take reasonable precautions: My family wears seatbelts. We take our vitamins and go to the doctor when we need to. We eat right and exercise. We don’t walk across streets without looking both ways. These were all things we did before Dominic’s accident and we continue to do them now. Not one of them would have made a diference that night but they help me feel better.

I limit my exposure to uncertainty: If I’m concerned about someone, I call or text. It’s that simple. I don’t have to live for hours wondering if they are OK. I’m careful not to infringe on my adult children’s lives by a never-ending series of contacts, but they understand my heart. We try to be mindful of letting each other know we arrive safely to our destination.
I exercise control in other areas of my life: Anxiety is a beast that grows stronger the more out of control I feel. I cannot keep my family absolutely safe-it’s not in my power to do so. BUT, I can control some aspects of life. So I do. Even cleaning out a messy junk drawer helps bolster my sense of control. Small, easy to complete projects feed the part of my brain that says, “You can do this!”

I limit caffeine and other stimulants: Increased heart rate, rapid breathing and sweaty palms are signs of anxiety. Caffeine can produce these effects even when I’m not anxious. If my body is feeling this way, my mind is quick to jump on board.

I practice distraction: There are times when I find myself feeling anxious despite my best efforts. When that happens, I am learning to distract myself. I find something to touch, smell, hear or taste that can help me regain composure. I count backwards from ten or twenty. I hum a song or recite a Bible verse. I add numbers in my head or do multiplication tables.
I live in the present: I have no idea what tomorrow holds. If I allow my heart to dwell on what might happen, I will be useless for today. So while I make marks on the calendar for appointments, I wake each morning determined to live right now.

Because, really, that’s all any of us has.

Grief In Real Life: It’s OK to Talk About Death

We wall off our world with words.

The ones we speak and the ones we swallow down so they don’t escape our lips.

But, as Mr. Rogers says, “Anything human is mentionable.”

Even death.

We don’t like to talk about death. It’s unpleasant and frightening and often divisive. We all know it’s coming-no one (except Enoch and Elijah) have left this world any other way. Yet the polite thing to do is pretend it doesn’t exist or at the very least, isn’t likely to happen any time soon.

But that serves no good purpose.

It stops us from having meaningful conversations with those we love as they approach the end of their days. It keeps us from making amends while there is still time, saying the things that need to be said, wrapping up loose ends and frayed relationships.

It stops us from listening to the bereaved. If we get too close and pay too much attention to the aftermath of loss then we have to think about what it really means to live on without someone we love.

And it has shaped a society in which those who grieve too loudly or too long are shushed and shamed.

Refusing to talk about death doesn’t make it disappear.

It only makes it harder to deal with.

The rest of the Mr. Rogers quote is this:

…and anything mentionable is 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

Learning the language of loss and lament is part of the healing process in grief.

We’ve never been very good in Western society talking about or dealing with death. So many hearts are hurting and have nowhere to go, no one to talk to, no safe refuge for their pain.

If someone trusts you with his or her feelings, receive it as a gift.

Make space for them to be honest about what they are experiencing.

Remind them that “Anything human is mentionable”.

And listen. ❤

I don't believe in best friends {discuss amongst yourself ...

Grief In Real Life: Why I Say, “My Son Died.”

Died.

It is a harsh word.

I understand completely that some parents don’t want to use it to describe their child and I respect that.

I have chosen to use it often (not always-sometimes I say “left” or “ran ahead to heaven”) because what happened IS harsh. I don’t want to soften it because there was nothing soft about it for me or my family.

It is heartbreaking, lonely, heavy, hard and utterly devastating.

As a believer in the promises of Scripture, I use it because I want to paint a stark contrast between hopelessness without Christ and the hope I have because of the blood of Jesus applied to my heart and the heart of my son.

Without that assurance, the hopelessness would continue for eternity.

But because of Jesus, while this reality is harsh, hard and heartbreaking, I have an eternity of rest, renewal and redemption to look forward to.

I think each of us finds our own path through this Valley and should say or use whatever word is best for our own heart.

This is simply one choice among many.

I’m so sorry that we need ANY words to describe our child’s physical absence in this earthly journey.

Your Child Is MORE Than Their Addiction

We talk about a lot of things as if they didn’t reflect a real person and a real life.

Addiction is one of them. And let me just tell you, every single number is a life and behind every single life is a family.

Statistics are easy to toss around until one of those numbers represents YOUR child.

My son was not an addict. He was a health nut. But he liked his motorcycle and never saw the contradiction between spending hours at the gym then putting that beautiful body on a fast moving, unprotected engine-on-wheels. A helmet was not enough to save him that night.

Addicts don’t start out wanting the life so many of them end up living.

Read the rest here: Child Loss by Addiction

Eleven Years Ago Today-A Moment for Others, A Lifetime for Me

Eleven years ago today I woke up knowing that at some point I’d close the lid on my son’s casket and never again see his face this side of Heaven.

For friends and family it was the moment when Dominic’s death was “over”. His story complete. His life appropriately marked and celebrated. It was the end.

For me, it was a beginning.

A beginning I did not want to embrace. But there was no going back, only forward, ever forward.

❤ Melanie

I used to look at tombstones in cemeteries and do the math between the dates.

I was most focused on how long this person or that person walked the earth.

I still do that sometimes. But now I do something else as well.

I look to the left and the right to see if the person who ran ahead left parents behind. My eye is drawn to the solitary stones with the same last name next to a double monument clearly honoring a married pair.

And then I do a different kind of math.

I count the years between the last breath of the child and the last breath of his or her mama.

Because while that first date marked an end for everyone else, for the mama, it marked the beginning of the rest of her life- a life she never imagined nor would have chosen.

Read the rest here: For You, a Moment; For Me, a Lifetime

Palm Sunday Reflections…Eleven Years Later

Many of you are aware Dominic was killed the Saturday before Palm Sunday in 2014.

I spent THAT day contacting friends and family who needed to know, welcoming the warm hugs and sad faces of folks driving up our long driveway to offer prayers and help, and just trying to breathe.

Waiting, waiting, waiting for my husband to get home from his job in California. Looking desperately for James Michael to make it here from West Virginia. Walking-because I couldn’t sit still-and weeping because I couldn’t contain the sorrow.

By Sunday everyone was under the same roof and we went to church.

Not because of some super-spiritual commitment to show the world we hadn’t lost our faith but because it was a habit and we had no idea what else to do as we waited for Dominic’s body to be released from the coroner’s office at the state capital.

I don’t remember much from that service. I have no idea what the sermon was about or what songs were sung.

I do remember that at one point the pastor asked the question, “If you could have any super power in the world, what would you choose?” and then went on to list a few, including the ability to turn back time.

My surviving children and I locked eyes. No question. THAT was what we longed for. Go back to the moment Dominic left his apartment. Warn him to stay home. Change the story.

I also remember a sweet friend who hobbled over on crutches (she had injured her leg) during worship to just put her arm around me and allowing me to lean into her, telling me with her presence that she was oh, so very sorry.

I can’t testify that after Dom’s funeral I was inclined to show up on Sunday to a space where (by my standard of suffering) folks sang songs about the sacrifice of worship without a clue.

I couldn’t take the pseudo closeness of people physically pressing in and asking me how I was doing when I had no idea. They meant well. They truly did. But it felt like pressure to provide an answer that would assuage THEIR fears that, faced with the same loss, faith would survive.

I can tell you that after eleven years I am headed to my local congregation this morning with a different perspective.

My heart still hurts marking these days. I’ve got to get past Resurrection Sunday and the Monday following before I’ve walked through it all, including his funeral and burial.

But my Shepherd King has been faithful to lead me with gentleness and mercy along this broken road.

He gave me rest when I needed it and pushed me to walk on when I didn’t want to but it was the right thing to do.

I’ve learned that while others may not know MY pain, they have their own and the comfort I’ve received from Jesus is mine to share with them.

I know I can’t turn back time and, in my heart of hearts, wouldn’t want to.

Dominic is experiencing the fullness of what we hope one day to see.

His joy is full.

Mine will be too-sooner than I think.

–

Eleven Years. Sigh…

The calendar is relentless. There’s no respect for seasons of mourning or grief anniversaries or weeks of sickness or unexpected early births of grandchildren.

The sun rises, the sun sets and another day is crossed off into history.

So somehow-without my permission-I find I’ve woken to mark the eleventh anniversary (do you call such a horrible thing an anniversary?) of Dominic’s death.

It’s humbling to realize I (and my family!) are not only still standing but flourishing. It’s horrifying to comprehend I’ve continued to live and breathe for 4018 days since Dominic left us.

Most days are pretty good.

Today is hard.❤ Melanie

When the numbness wore off (maybe around six months) I remember vaguely wondering what years down the road would feel like.

I tried to project the “me” of that moment into the future and imagine how I might deal with life changes, new circumstances, an empty nest, grandchildren (if there were any) and growing older alongside the heartache of burying a child.

But just as it’s impossible to comprehend how the addition of a child utterly transforms a family, it’s impossible to understand how the subtraction of one changes everything just as much.

We are all so very different than we would have been if Dominic were still here.

Life most likely wouldn’t be any more perfect because we would each grow and change, find common ground and find points of conflict, make new memories and drag up old hurts.

Still, none of us would carry the deep wound and traumatic injury of sudden and out-of-order death.

THAT is impossible to ignore. Even eleven years later it’s a red flag, a sticky note, an addendum to every family gathering and holiday.

So we carry on.

Like generations before us who have walked this world dragging loss behind them, we keep going. It shapes us but doesn’t limit us. It informs our views but isn’t the only thing that molds our opinions and frames our choices.

My faith in God’s larger and perfect plan helps me hold onto hope even as I continue to miss my son.

But today is a hard day and I don’t think that’s going to change as long as I live.

I’m getting better at remembering Dominic’s birthday in ways that honor who he is and the man he might have become. I can’t say I’ve figured out any good way to walk through the yearly unavoidable and unwelcome reminder of the day he left us.

I’m learning to allow the grief waves to simply wash over me without resisting them.

Eventually the hours tick away, the day is over and I find I’ve survived yet again.

Was It a Dream? The Gap Grows.

Tomorrow will be eleven years since Dominic left this life and entered Heaven.

I had someone ask me last week how I was doing and, surprisingly, I could honestly reply I was doing OK.

Today, not so much.

The gap between life lived AFTER and life lived BEFORE is growing and while I cherish every new memory, the old ones are fading.

My cousin asked me about that yesterday and I told her that sometimes it almost seems like a dream-a family of four children, growing, learning and striving toward what I thought would be a future knit together in love and shared experiences.

Oh, you say, “But you still have three children and now you have grandchildren!”

Yes, yes I do. I am thrilled and work hard to be present for them and for every important moment they celebrate or sad moment they struggle through or ordinary moment when we sit having snacks outside under the sun.

But this mama’s heart was enlarged to hold another child who is now forever absent.

And that space is always present and always empty.

Tomorrow I have foolishly agreed to participate in a church event.

I will show up and I will share the gospel with the little children whose upturned faces will remind me that even they are vulnerable to the awful curse of a fallen world.

Pray that I have the strength to be engaged.

Pray that seeds will be sown and lives will be changed.

Pray for those who already carry loss and for those who will face it in the future.

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