Dominic – Page 213 – thelifeididntchoose

Unhealthy Denial

Ignoring pain doesn’t make it go away.

The world we live in is a broken place where bad things happen and life can be hard.

Sometimes believers in Christ can convince themselves that admitting their world is dark with pain or suffering or questions diminishes the power of God–that it speaks ill of God or that it means God is insufficient to uphold us in our weakness.

If I pretend that I’m never afraid, or that I never experience darkness, I am denying others my aid.

Even worse, I may be shaming them to silence, sending the message that if they are experiencing pain, something is wrong with THEM.

God of the Day and God of the Night

Memorial Day

Dominic was born on Memorial Day, May 28, 1990. I had spent the weekend working in the yard without a thought that my son would soon be appearing. He wasn’t due for ten more days and so far, none of my children had been born “early”.

I wasn’t ready!

But he was determined to make his entrance on his own terms. And that’s pretty much how he did everything.

And then he left us-“early”.

I wasn’t ready for that either.

We celebrate Memorial Day with cookouts and fun family gatherings. But that isn’t what this day is for. This day has been set aside to remember those who died serving our country.

In war after war, families across America have been devastated by the deaths of their sons and daughters, many taken in the prime of life, at the dawn of adulthood.

Almost every family and community has a story of burying a promising young soul that was sure to make a difference but who never got that chance.

My father served and my son is now serving.

And to all the mothers and fathers whose sons and daughters gave the last full measure for their home and country, I say:

“Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for the love poured into the child that became the brave man or brave woman who would put his or her life on the line for what they believed in. Your toil bore much fruit that continues to bless others today.”

You have given up what no one has the right to ask of you.

You live with both the honor of your child’s legacy and the horror of your child’s absence.

And if your child survived the battlefield but could not survive the scars of war, I am so very sorry.

I understand the pain of missing the child you love, I hear your heart and I am praying for you.

As we gather with our families and enjoy freedom purchased with the blood of sons and daughters, may we REMEMBER.

May we honor the ones who gave everything they had to secure our liberty.

And may we remember the families left behind who can never forget.

The strongest love anyone can have is this. He will die to save his friends.

John 15:13 WE

The Absence of His Presence is Everywhere

Something I’ve been learning in this grief journey is that loss is an ongoing event.

It’s not confined to the moment of death, the funeral, the burial or even the boxing up of belongings.

I suffer loss every time there is a moment when Dominic would have been present, should have been present and isn’t here.

It happens when I need to ask him a question, get his opinion, long for his help or just want to hear his voice.

It happens when I look at myself in the mirror and realize that the living mirror that was Dominic is gone.

There is so much more to his absence than just the hole in my heart.

I shared some of these feelings a few months ago:

A family isn’t just the sum of its parts. It isn’t a simple equation that can be worked out on a chalkboard or around a dinner table-this person plus that person equals two persons.

A family is an organic mixture of personalities, relationships, strengths and weaknesses that exponentially influence one another. I always joked that our family was a ready-made committee. Wherever we went we brought a fully staffed, action-ready army of six that spread out and triumphed over whatever challenge we faced.

You can read the rest here: Minus More Than One

Do They Have Birthdays in Heaven?

Today would have been Dominic’s twenty-sixth birthday.

He should have been a little over a year out of law school and one year into a career.

Instead, he’s not here. And he will never be HERE again.

I’m getting pretty good at shifting my focus from the giant hole that is where Dominic is supposed to be to the fullness of the life that still surrounds me. Not today.

Today the absence of his presence is especially keen.

I miss him.

I miss his smile.

I miss his harsh logic that would slice through a conversation like a knife. I miss his noisy descent down the stairs-always snapping his fingers to a rhythm in his head.

I miss his sense of humor.

I miss his fearlessness.

I miss his hugs.

I miss how even though he claimed to “hate” kids, he melted every time one crawled into his lap.

I miss how he used to launch himself, back first, on my bed to announce he was there to talk for a bit.

I miss how he found special tools to help me in the kitchen when my arthritis kept me from being able to do something I loved.

I miss how he could combine tough talk and smooth BS into cajoling a complaint department to not only fix the problem but throw in a gift card as well “to keep his business”.

I miss being able to call him with my stupid tech questions and have him walk me slowly through the solution (even though I know it frustrated him).

I miss his texts, his calls, his FB messages. I miss his tweets.

I know I’ll see him again someday and that we will never have to say good-bye again.

But until then, I really, really miss him.

A Good Day

Last Friday, my oldest son received his USAF captain’s bars. True to form, his path to this new achievement was unique and memorable. I’m so very proud of him and of his commitment to excellence.

And that meant that he was leaving San Antonio and headed to Maxwell AFB for Commissioned Officer Training. So he was able to swing by home on Sunday!

Sunday afternoon, my kids presented me with this beautiful “Family of Love” necklace for Mother’s Day. It has all their names and birthstones so I can wear them close to my heart. I love it!

James Michael brought me flowers-lots of purple, my favorite color.

And then we were joined by Joe and Seve, two of Dominic’s good friends from Law School. Joe surprised me with this amazing handmade plate from his recent travels to Turkey. I appreciate the love and support of these fellows and their ongoing commitment to remember Dominic and honor our family.

We had Robbie and Jonica over for supper with their new daughter. I got to cuddle this sweet baby and be reminded that love still lives and life goes on.

And no DeSimone adventure would be complete without an “emergency”. While getting food ready and on the table, we discovered a minor plumbing problem that flooded the downstairs bathroom, the laundry area and into the garage (all downhill-literally and figuratively).

So while we girls ate supper, the men worked at repairs.

Just like old times-one boy went in one direction, another went the other way and Julian manned the homefront. Thankfully, they were able to get things back in working order sooner rather than later. But not before I exhausted our supply of 24 full-sized “clean-up” towels that were washed in bleach the next day!

The evening ended with lots of laughter and plenty of carbs.

And a rare opportunity for a group photo that had me surrounded by all my children within reach. (Thank you, Alison, for snapping the picture!)

We miss you, Dominic.

And we can never stand close enough to squeeze out the giant hole you’ve left.

But we are living like you lived-making the most of the moments-and loving each other.

You Just Never Know

Just last week another mother in my community joined the ranks of those who bury a child. Suddenly, unexpectedly, and without warning, her son was gone.

It happens every day.

We toss a casual “see you later” to the person heading out the door without thinking it might be the last thing we say to them.

I am determined not to live in fear of loss-even though I have experienced it first hand.

But I am also determined to live so that should I lose someone else, they will be assured of this:

I love them and I value them.

I don’t take things for granted anymore-What if Tomorrow Never Came?

Bill of Rights for Grieving Mamas

One of our family’s inside jokes comes from a movie about the Civil War. A young soldier questioned about why he’s fighting declares, “I’m fightin’ for my rights!”-except is sounds like he’s saying, “I’m fightin’ for my rats!”

So we often laugh back and forth when faced with combative situations by using that line.

You wouldn’t think that grieving would be one of them. But it can be.

I’m kind of a touchy-feely person. One who will hug strangers, pat puppies and offer a hand whenever I see someone struggling.

So it has been a bit of a surprise to find out that some people really want me to keep my grief in the closet.

They would rather I hide my tears. They have decided on an appropriate number of days, weeks, months for my grief to run its course and then it should be “over”.

Now, let me just say that I do not think I have the right to ruin someone else’s day.

I make appropriate arrangements when asked to participate in special events. If I can go and be certain I won’t draw attention away from the celebration, I do. If I can’t, then I’m honest about it and find another way to contribute.

But I can’t spend my life in a bubble.

I’m inevitably going to be around others when a wave of grief hits me. Sometimes I will not be able to control my reaction.

And that’s OK…

So here’s what I believe to be my rights as a grieving mom (other grieving parents may disagree-and that’s o.k.):

I have a right to my feelings. I am open to someone who has demonstrated sincere compassion to help me work through them or to share their concerns if they see me heading toward destructive expression of them. But it is not up to someone else to validate my feelings about burying my son.

I have a right to draw boundaries. So much of my energy is being sapped by working through grief that I just do not have the resources to deal with everyday drama. I care deeply about the other people in my life and I will absolutely be there for them when they really need me. But I can’t be a sounding board for every little thing.

I have a right to talk about my son. He is still my child. He is still part of my life and my family’s life. Most mamas talk about their children all the time. I talk about my living children and I will continue to talk about the child I miss.

I have a right to cry. Tears make most folks a little uncomfortable. I acknowledge that and believe me, I try to hold them back. But when they fall-I won’t hide them as if it’s shameful. I won’t draw attention to myself, but I won’t always slink away either.

I have a right to laugh. Humor still moves me. And a belly laugh is good medicine. But don’t mistake a moment of laughter as a signal that I’m “better”. I am healing, slowly, but I am not whole.

I have a right to NOT talk about how I feel. Life still happens and every emotion I experience is not necessarily tied to missing my son. I don’t always need to “talk about it”. Sometimes, like everyone, I just need time to process and get over something.

I have a right to celebrate or not celebrate, participate or not participate in holidays, birthdays, remembrance days or any other special day or occasion however I am able-even if it means changing long-standing traditions or routines. I do my very best to live up to the expectations and needs of the people that are close to me. I want to have birthday parties, exchange gifts, celebrate graduations and weddings and other major milestones. But sometimes I might have to attack these gatherings in a slightly different way. I’m not the same person I was before Dominic left us and I can’t always do things the way I used to.

I have a right to be heard. I don’t expect nor do I want to be the center of every decision or every event. But I have a right to express my opinion, I’m not invisible. And no one knows what is best for me except ME. It’s easiest if people just ask me what will be most helpful instead of assuming that I would or wouldn’t like this or that.

Navigating the death of a child is a treacherous journey. I understand that those who have not travelled this path may not think about how hard it is and some of the little things that can make it easier or harder.

I am so thankful for the ones who try.

I’m Listening

I was reminded recently by another bereaved mother that my child loss experience is not universal.

I appreciate her honesty and bravery.

And I would just like to take a moment to say:

“I hear you. I see you. I acknowledge that you have a unique perspective that I do not share by experience.”

It’s hard to put myself in someone else’s shoes when I’ve never had to wear them myself.

We are all limited in many ways by the trials, temptations, joys and triumphs we have known in our lives.

But I don’t want to sit satisfied in the silo of my own experience.

I want to enlarge my understanding of what others are going through, how they are coping, how they are hurting.

So I begin by sharing MY story because it’s the only one I know from the inside.

But it is not the only one I want to know.

Tell me your story.

I promise to listen.

We buy tickets to movies, purchase books and cruise the Internet gobbling up other people’s stories. Yet we often make it difficult for those we know to tell us theirs.

We jockey for attention at gatherings, or worse, give all our attention to electronic devices. We think we KNOW other people’s stories so we don’t want to bore ourselves with listening again.

The truth is, we know less than we think about the folks we rub shoulders with every day.

Morning Meditation

My living room window is a huge, energy inefficient affair that lets in too much heat in the summer and too much cold in the winter.

But I will never replace it–because it also gives me a breathtaking view of the sunrise.

Every morning my body responds to an internal alarm set to the time I was startled out of bed by the deputy delivering the news of Dominic’s death.

I cannot sleep longer.

So I rise, make coffee and settle into my rocking chair with computer, Bible and journal close by.

I spend the dark hours writing, reading and sharing in community with other bereaved parents who wake to their own alarms, unable to fend off another day of living the reality of missing our children.

It is so quiet that the purring cat in my lap sounds loud in my ears.

Slowly other sounds join the chorus of daybreak–roosters challenging the sun to a duel, birds flitting from branch to branch, calling out the news that now is the time to get the worm.

I look up and the warm glow of sunrise silhouettes bare winter branches of giant oak trees and reminds me that the world still turns.

Seasons still change.

And I am still breathing.

Darkness hides things from us, it fosters fear and isolates. The black of night turns familiar territory into fearsome wilderness. The enemy thrives in the inky corners of unlit places.

But light disarms the darkness.

I venture forth boldly in the daylight where I would not set foot in the night.

So I treasure the daily reminder that darkness does not last forever, even the night has limits.

Open up before God, keep nothing back; he’ll do whatever needs to be done: He’ll validate your life in the clear light of day and stamp you with approval at high noon.

Psalm 37:6 MSG

Where is Victory in Death?

I first learned my son had been killed in the dark hours of morning.

I made phone calls.

I had to be certain there was no mistake in identifying the accident victim. I assured the officer on the other end of the phone I was not in denial, I was just confirming what I knew was true.

That was a lie-my ears heard it as true.

Some part of my brain was acting as if it were true.

And I was passing the information along as true, but it was not until I saw his body that my heart embraced as absolutely undeniable what I had been told.

He was gone, gone, gone. No coming back.

That’s when I knew: Death is awful.

It is hard to have patience with people who say, ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn’t matter. ~C.S.Lewis

Death was not part of God’s perfect plan for the people He made and the world He created.

But sin marred that perfection and we are left to walk this wounded world in bodies that, at best, wear out, and at worst, plunge headlong into darkness due to illness, accident or violence.

Where is the victory in this defeat?

Where is the happy ending to this sad chapter of life?

Victory is declared when I trust in Jehovah-Nissi-the LORD my Banner-to uproot the evil that the enemy seeks to sow into my life.

Victory is displayed in my surviving children who have chosen to lean in and labor on and love and laugh even while grieving the loss of their brother.

Victory is demonstrated when my marriage does not crumble under the heavy weight of sorrow, when my family is made stronger- not weaker-and when our story breathes courage into the hearts and lives of others facing devastating trials.

The ultimate and eternal victory lies in the finished work of Christ.

I need to emphasize, friends, that our natural, earthy lives don’t in themselves lead us by their very nature into the kingdom of God. Their very “nature” is to die, so how could they “naturally” end up in the Life kingdom?

But let me tell you something wonderful, a mystery I’ll probably never fully understand. We’re not all going to die—but we are all going to be changed. You hear a blast to end all blasts from a trumpet, and in the time that you look up and blink your eyes—it’s over. On signal from that trumpet from heaven, the dead will be up and out of their graves, beyond the reach of death, never to die again. At the same moment and in the same way, we’ll all be changed. In the resurrection scheme of things, this has to happen: everything perishable taken off the shelves and replaced by the imperishable, this mortal replaced by the immortal. Then the saying will come true:

Death swallowed by triumphant Life!
Who got the last word, oh, Death?
Oh, Death, who’s afraid of you now?

It was sin that made death so frightening and law-code guilt that gave sin its leverage, its destructive power. But now in a single victorious stroke of Life, all three—sin, guilt, death—are gone, the gift of our Master, Jesus Christ. Thank God!

With all this going for us, my dear, dear friends, stand your ground. And don’t hold back. Throw yourselves into the work of the Master, confident that nothing you do for him is a waste of time or effort.

I Corinthians 15:50-58 MSG

Jesus has redeemed and restored what the enemy has stolen.

I will not enjoy the fullness of this victory until I embrace Dominic in heaven.

But I can live confidently in the promise that it has already been decided.

I can walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death without fear, because Jehovah-Nissi-the LORD my Banner (my Victory) is with me. (Psalm 23:4)

I am not alone.

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