You know, I don’t expect those outside the Body of Christ to have good theology-that’s like expecting me to be able to explain thermodynamics.
Ain’t gonna happen-it’s outside my scope of understanding and practice.
I do expect those who have spent a lifetime reading Scripture, studying Sunday School lessons and listening to sermons to know better.
But many don’t.
Read the rest here: Exploding the Myth: God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can Handle
I talk about Dominic “running ahead” but it feels like I‘m leaving him behind.
I know he’s the first to Heaven and I know I’ll join him, but my daily experience is that I am the one moving forward and he is the one stuck somewhere, unable to catch up.
I absolutely HATE that his footprint on my life grows smaller with each passing day, each new memory made without him, each event at which his smiling face makes no entrance.
I can’t stop the accumulation of bits and pieces that make it harder to spot his unique contribution to the collage of my life.
I am in no danger of forgetting him.
That’s not what I fear.
But bringing what he still is to me into a conversation, into view for others to see and appreciate is getting more difficult.
When I mention him, people don’t know whether to be sad or happy, question my sanity or rush past hoping I’ll change the subject.
There’s just no natural seque between the living and the dead.
And it hurts my heart to watch the gap grow wider.
I have never subscribed to the theory that the Christian life is free of pain and suffering.
But there are some who do.
Christian bookstores are filled with titles touting the path to joy and happiness, the way to wealth and material success.
Read the rest here: Sparrows DO Fall
Maybe you can relate: It is easier to do without if what I want isn’t close enough to tempt me.
I don’t shop if I don’t want to spend. I don’t get donuts if I don’t want to eat sugar. I don’t have soda in the house if I don’t want to drink carbonated soft drinks.
It’s much harder to deny my desires when what I long for is within reach.
Read the rest here: Life at the Intersection of Desire and Self-Control
I never thought it possible to love you more than I already did.
But I do.
Your brother’s untimely departure has opened my heart in a whole new way to the glory that is your presence. It has made me drink you in like water in the desert.
No more do I take even a moment for granted. Never again will I be “too busy” to listen to you, to hug you, to greet you on the porch when you decide to make your way back home.
I promised you when that deputy came to the door we would survive.
And we have.
I promised you that I would never raise Dominic onto a hallowed pedestal that obliterated his orneriness and only kept track of his laudable qualities.
I pray I have lived up to the promise.
We are changed-every one of us.
I am so very proud of you for continuing to live. It would have been easy to give up. It would have been easy to “live for the moment” and give in to hedonism.
You haven’t done that.
You have had to carry more weight than you should. I am so very anxious to see how you take this awful pain and weave it into your own stories-how this dark thread helps define who you become and how you choose to impact your world.
You have lent me your strength when mine was waning.
You have checked on me and loved me and borne patiently with me and with one another when it would have been easier to walk away and try to create a life outside this place of brokenness and vulnerability.
I am always cautious when ascribing feelings and words to our departed Dominic-it’s easy to make him say or feel whatever is most convenient since he’s not here to dispute it. But I am certain of this: while he would never, ever have wanted us to bear this awful burden, he would be so, so proud of the way we have supported one another in doing so.
Like always, our family has closed ranks and lifted together the weight that would have crushed us individually.
It’s who we are.
It’s who we have always been.
*I am absolutely convinced that Dominic is very much ALIVE today in the presence of Jesus. But for now, I’m denied his daily companionship.
Our family has a reputation: If it’s broke, sick or something just plain hard to do–call us.
We are not miracle workers but we are hard workers. We can’t fix everything, but we will try to do something.
But there’s one thing we can’t fix.
One thing none of our skills can shape into a victory in the shadow of defeat. One thing that will not give in to elbow grease or commitment to persevere.
We can’t fix Dominic’s being gone.
We can’t make it better.
We can’t undo the deep hole his absence has carved in our hearts and our lives.
And that is very, very hard to live with.
I first wrote about this a few months back when I was pondering the FACT that no matter how wonderful the moment, how beautiful the gift, how marvelous the fellowship of family or friends, I am simply unable to feel the same overflowing abundant joy I once experienced.
Since then, I’ve been thinking about the great heroes of Scripture and studying their stories in detail.
I may be wrong, but I haven’t found one whose life did not contain pain.
It appears that sorrow and suffering in this world is one of the chief tools God uses to help the hearts of His people long for the world for which we are made-the eternal city whose Builder is God:
It was by faith that Abraham obeyed the summons to go out to a place which he would eventually possess, and he set out in complete ignorance of his destination. It was faith that kept him journeying like a foreigner through the land of promise, with no more home than the tents which he shared with Isaac and Jacob, co-heirs with him of the promise. For Abraham’s eyes were looking forward to that city with solid foundations of which God himself is both architect and builder.
Hebrews 11: 8-10 PHILLIPS
Some point to lack of abundant joy as proof of a weak faith.
I counter that obedience, in spite of the lack of abundant joy is proof of rock-solid faith.
Walking on in spite of my empty bucket means that I am trusting God to fill it even when I can’t see how.
Here’s the original post: There’s a Hole in My Bucket
Almost three years and here I am-
still on the edge.
On the edge of an anxiety attack.
On the edge of the cliff of deep sorrow and darkness that threatens to swallow every thing bright in my life.
On the edge of giving up and giving in.
On the edge of turning my back on every one and every thing.
On the edge of losing hope.
On the edge of deciding that this fight is really not worth it,
that there is nothing left to give,
that I will absolutely never survive this pain and loss.
Some days I manage to take a few steps back.
I might go a week or more and almost forget the edge is there.
And then one conversation will catapult me forward to the brink again.
Shaking, crying, ragged gasping breaths.
Tears.
So. many. tears.
I thought I had run out of tears.
Sometimes sadness is sanity. Tears are the reasonable response. Quickness to shush, shame, or fix them, can reveal a resistance to wisdom.
~Zack Eswine
Last week I wrote about some strategies I employ when in a social situation: Surviving Social Situations After Child Loss.
But if you are the friend, family member or acquaintance milling around who bumps into me or spies me across the room, here are some things you can do and say that will help me as well:
Be aware that the greeting, “How are you?” sometimes feels like a challenge instead of an invitation. I’m scrambling for words to express my true condition without ruining the mood of the gathering. It would be so much better if you simply said, “Hello” or “I’m happy to see you” without additional comments about how long it’s been.
Don’t pose or push for answers to questions that are primarily designed to satisfy your own curiosity. If I give a brief reply, take the hint and move on. If I say I can’t talk about it, drop the subject. If I turn the conversation back to you, pick it up and carry the ball. Public spaces are not the place to try to draw me out. If you are concerned about me or want to REALLY know how I’m doing, take me to lunch or bring me dinner or invite me out for coffee.
Notice my body language. If I am fidgeting or hugging myself or backing away or crossing my arms it’s time to let me go. I may hold my tongue but my body will give you abundant clues that I’m nearly at my limit for social interaction. Give me permission to end the conversation and preserve my dignity.
Hugs are almost always wonderful. Physical touch conveys love and compassion without requiring any response. If you know me well enough to hug me or squeeze my hand, please do.
Don’t corner me-physically, emotionally or spiritually. Backing me into a tight space makes me feel trapped. If I’m on the end of a pew or aisle, don’t ask me to scoot down so you can join me. I’m there in case I need to make an exit. Don’t stand too close to me while we’re talking-my need for adequate personal space has greatly increased since Dominic ran ahead to heaven. Don’t throw Bible verses at me or ask me how Jesus is meeting me in my sorrow. These are things we can talk about together, in private, in a way that makes space for me to be honest and express emotion without fear of embarresment.
Don’t make comparisons between my missing child and person featured in the wedding, baby shower or engagement party we are attending. Trust me, I’ve already done the math. I already know the distance between Dominic’s homegoing and this day. I am already mourning one more thing I’ll never get to see him do.
Please don’t use this time to tell me about another bereaved mother you “just want to introduce to me”. I am open and willing to walk with others on this journey, but this is not the time nor the place to put me on the spot. If you know of another mom that needs my help, write me a note, give me a call or text me.
If I leave a room, don’t follow (unless you are a very close friend). Let me go. I will return if I can and if I can’t, I won’t. Text me if you’re concerned. If I come back, let me slip in without any fanfare.
If I cry, hand me a tissue or a handkerchief. Don’t ask, “What’s wrong?” Besides the obvious, I may not have an answer for you.
Please help me move conversation along when I lose my train of thought or seem at a loss for words. Grief makes it hard to think sometimes, especially when in a crowd and/or a place with lots of background noise. Give me permission to end a conversation-it probably doesn’t have a thing to do with YOU-I’m just running out of steam and need a few minutes’ respite from having to talk.
Attending social events is exhausting for me now. I want to celebrate birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, graduations-but that means a lot of people and a lot of unknowns. Dozens of potential triggers, any one of which might conjure a grief wave that can drown me.
I do what I can to be prepared.
But I’ll take all the help I can get.
I know it makes some people uncomfortable when I speak of Dominic.
They aren’t sure whether to join in or ignore my comment and hope I change the subject.
I get it-they are wondering whether my continued interest in my missing child is a sign of mental illness (she’s “stuck” in grief) or a delusion or wishful thinking. They have no frame of reference other than an elderly relative whose passing into eternity was a more orderly and expected event.
But out of order death is wrenching and traumatic and not the way things are supposed to be. A parent doesn’t stop thinking about or talking about or loving his or her child simply because they have been robbed of their physical presence.
I speak of my son because he is STILL MY SON.
thelifeididntchoose 