There’s a common misconception about grief among those who have never experienced the loss of a close loved one.
It goes something like this: The first few weeks, months and the first holidays celebrated without them are the hardest. But once the bereaved make it through THOSE, things get EASIER.
I’m here to tell you that, at least for me, it’s just not true.
Read the rest here: Stronger
“Can you?” ” Would you?” “We need you to… Help!”
You’d be surprised how soon people start expecting a bereaved parent to jump right back into the responsibilities and activities they shouldered or enjoyed before burying a child.
I know the rest of the world didn’t stop when mine did, but I was truly amazed that some people in my circle seemed unaware mine had stopped at all.
As I’ve written before here the funeral is not the end of grief’s journey, it’s quite near the beginning. It took a year for me to just convince my heart Dominic wasn’t coming back. It took longer to begin to understand how very different I am now and to embrace those changes.
I simply cannot do some things I once did.
And some of the things I can still do, I do differently or not as well. So I have to say, “no” more often than I used to-even when others don’t understand why.
But there’s a fine line between self-preservation and complete withdrawal.
I try to walk it each time someone asks me to take on a new responsibility, join a new project or agree to a new commitment.
I am honest about the fact that while I may say “yes” I might have to back out.
I’m also realistic about my new limitations-lower noise tolerance, greater anxiety when things change unexpectedly, inability to sustain small talk for more than a couple of minutes. So if the request means I am likely to hit my personal wall before I can meet expectations, I decline.
I’m also learning that I can use my grief as an excuse to get out of things I just don’t like.
And I don’t want to do that.
I can play the “child loss” card and push others away when it isn’t healthy. I can dig a hole and hide and then whine when no one comes to look down my pit to check on me.
So instead of rejecting every request out of hand, I respond-honestly-that I will think about it. And I do.
By slowly choosing thoughtful engagement I’m expanding my social circle again. I’m learning that if I push myself just a little bit, I get stronger and better able to handle the next thing.
I’m learning who this new “me” really is and what her limits are. I’m also learning that she has new strengths.
I’m still not as involved in anything as I once was. I don’t expect that I ever will be again. But I’m not a hermit.
It’s a balancing act-I’m slowly learning to walk this line.
It surprised me when I felt anxious after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
Not that the doorbell startled me, or that passing the place of the accident was hard nor that hearing motorcycles made my skin crawl.
But that every single day for many, many months anxiety crept up my backbone and made a knot in my neck.
It surprised me that I felt like I was literally going to explode. I would walk and walk and walk just to push the negative energy out of my body.
I was also surprised by what seemed to be random triggers-smells, sights, foods, voices, places-that could send me into a tailspin of rapid heartbeat, hurried breathing, sweaty palms and a feeling of abject terror.
I didn’t know it then, but my experience is common.
It shouldn’t be surprising, really.
We all operate in the world as if it is predictable, as if it follows rules. It’s how we stay sane.
If our minds perceived that most of what we experience has at least a small element of the random, we would sit frozen, terrified to move.
Who can live in a world where you never know what to expect?
When Dominic left this life suddenly, unexpectedly and without warning, my sense of safety and order was violated.
The illusion of control was stripped away. The grid through which I viewed the world was ripped to shreds. What I thought I knew about how things worked was proven unreliable.
Truth is, I never really had all that much control, but burying Dominic made that undeniably obvious.
This brutal disruption in worldview created a kind of internal panic.
I wasn’t conciously aware of it at the time because I was overwhelmed with sorrow and the pain of loss. But my mind was trying to wrap itself around a new understanding of how the world works.
I needed to learn to live in a world where I couldn’t predict outcomes, I couldn’t guarantee safety (even if I did everything “right”) and I couldn’t REALLY plan for tomorrow because tomorrow might very well never come.
I had to figure out how to get out of bed instead of cower under the covers. To get in the car instead of stay at home. To continue to love the people God gave me even though they may be taken any time.
Anxiety is an outward expression of the inward reality of this disruptive process. My body was screaming what my mind was silently sorting out.
As I have worked on incorporating my experience of losing a child into my worldview, the anxiety has decreased.
I don’t expect to ever live free of anxiety again-how can I when I know by experience what most people only imagine?
But I’m learning ways to deal with it when it rears its ugly head.
And I’m learning that every time I triumph over it, I’m stronger and better able to do it the next time.
My husband had to make a plane on Saturday and it took us over two hours to drive the 50 miles to the airport from our house. We took a couple detours around accidents that stopped traffic but we were still reduced to an agonizing crawl for most of the way.
Down here in Dixie we don’t do winter precipitation well. A half inch of snow calls for a complete city shutdown and ice means days trapped inside our homes.
Northerners laugh at us slip-sliding across the interstate but how are you supposed to travel on snow and ice when you don’t have the equipment necessary to make the journey?
Even snow tires don’t matter when you hit black ice.
As I watch the sun melt the remains of our latest winter “storm” I’m reminded of at least one reason this journey of child loss is so. very. difficult.
There is nothing that can prepare you for it. No way to suit up or grab gear or train for burying your child.
It’s treacherous travel and there’s no opting out.
You can’t wait a few hours or a day or a week and rearrange your schedule. You are dropped right down in the valley and forced to keep moving.
And the whole way is black ice-slick and scary.
You are in a spin before you know it, panicked and trying to straighten out without crashing.
I haven’t crashed.
It’s good to be reminded every once in awhile that all things considered, I’m doing pretty well.
I am making progress-slow, slow progress-but I’m still on the road.
It’s hard to watch since winning a medal is off the table. They lost their place in front when they took that awful tumble.
But we cheer them on-the limping athletes that manage to cross the finish line.
And we should.
Because getting up and going on is a victory worth cheering.
And it’s a victory I strive for every day.
Just showing up with a broken heart is hard. Not giving in to despair is a daily decision that requires continued commitment to face the morning light.
On other days I can use the tools I’ve crafted over time to screw down the lid on the box of emotions I keep hidden inside.
But opening my eyes to Christmas Day takes extra effort.
It would be so much easier to sleep the hours away, safe and secure in the cocoon of my warm bed. Not because I don’t want to share in the food, fellowship and fun. But because every sight, sound and smell of Christmas pierces my heart and reminds me of the widening gap between when I saw Dominic last and right now.
So when you feel a little frustrated that I’m crying “again”, when you wonder when I’m going to “get over this” or “be back to my old self”-please picture that limping runner gunning for the goal.
Jump down from the comfort of the bleachers and take my hand.
Cheer me on.
Offer a cup of water or a chair so I can catch my breath.
Don’t turn away in your discomfort at my pain. Choose to be a witness.
Speak courage to my heart.
Help me make it to the finish line.
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:
Because, really, that’s all any of us has.
Clearly marked boundaries, categories and rules make things easier.
But life rarely fits in the tidy boxes I like to create.
And when it doesn’t I’m tempted to ignore the parts that don’t fit-tempted to pretend they don’t exist-so I can maintain the world I’ve created for myself. I would rather march on in ignorance than drag out my underlying assumptions to figure out if they are true or false.
That takes a lot of work.
In the church we like to line up the “Overcomers” to give testimony of how faith in Christ has turned their life around.
And He absolutely does that.
Some are delivered from addiction, sin and abuse. Some receive healing-none the less miraculous if it comes through the hands of skilled physicians. Some enjoy restored relationships.
But not everyone gets what they long for. Not every loss can be undone.
And those left to live their lives hoping but not healed can be labeled “losers”. We can be marginalized because our story is messy and can’t be tied up in a neat spiritual package.
It MATTERS how we frame the very personal tragedies that people around us experience.
My friend and fellow loss mom, Janet Boxx, has written a beautiful post that exposes one of the ways life doesn’t fit the neat categories we like to use.
Please take a moment to read her post It’s Personal .
Sometimes people outside our experience toss Scripture at us who are suffering like confetti in a parade-as if we are heroes who only have yet to take the podium and declare the victory.
But what if there IS no victory in this life for some of us?
What if there is only endurance–which is a sort of victory but one not highly valued?
Paul never declared a final victory over his thorn in the flesh. He characterized his life as one “poured out like a drink offering”. He said he “groaned” in his earthly tent and “longed” to be clothed with the heavenly.
I am living. I don’t spend my days curled up in a ball (even when I want to).
But I groan–I groan for the time when what the enemy has stolen will be restored.
Until then, even if I have to crawl, battered and bruised:
“I push myself forward toward the goal to win the prize. God has appointed me to win it. The heavenly prize is Christ Jesus himself.” (Philippians 3:14 NIRV)
The final destruction of death is still in the future. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. Not only will I see Lenya again, but I will hold the same body I held here, only better, because what the thief has stolen will be restored sevenfold (Proverbs 6:31)!
This is why it’s crucial for you to see that we don’t need to put a nice face on our pain or hurry people through a process that can’t be rushed; the fact that our sadness doesn’t go away makes our triumph even more powerful. Our faith works in the fire, and not just when life is fun. We can be hard-pressed and yet not crushed, struck down and yet not destroyed — not because we know general facts about the resurrection or that there is a heaven, but because we trust in the one who said that he is the resurrection and the life, who took the keys from death and hell, was dead, and lives forever. His name is Jesus, and he always leads us in triumph!
~Levi Lusko, Through the Eyes of a Lion
This past week has been brutal in many ways.
Some of us are fearful. Some of us are hopeful. Some of us just want it all to go away.
For me, it’s yet another reminder that We are Not Home Yet.
Another mama who carries the burden of child loss posted a music video on her Facebook wall and it melted me.
Because when you wake every day to the reality that your beloved child is out of reach you begin to wonder sometimes if there is a sorrow so deep it can never be healed.
So I listened-over and over-as David Crowder sang truth to my soul: “Earth has no sorrow that heaven can’t heal.”
You don’t have to lose a child to feel overwhelmed with the burdens of this life.
You don’t have to look death in the face to feel death in your bones.
I wish I knew how to embed videos in my posts, but I don’t so here’s the link: Crowder “Come As You Are”
Listen and let hope fill your soul.
This life is hard. No denying the truth. But hold on.
What we see is not all there is.
Come as You Are
Come out of sadness from wherever you’ve been
Come broken-hearted, let rescue begin
Come find your mercy, oh sinner come kneel
Earth has no sorrow that heaven can’t heal
Earth has no sorrow that heaven can’t healSo Lay down your burdens, lay down your shame
All who are broken, lift up your face
Oh wanderer come home, you’re not too far
So lay down your hurt, lay down your heart
Come as you areThere’s hope for the hopeless and all those who’ve strayed
Come sit at the table, come taste the grace
There’s rest for the weary, rest that endures
Earth has no sorrow that heaven can’t cure.
A close family member is facing a difficult, scary and extensive surgery.
It’s one more reminder that we live in a broken world.
The victory Christ gained is real. But we do not yet have the full benefit of all its fruit.
We still face death.
We still bear pain.
We still long for that day when ALL will be made right.
Until then, we Live Between the Crucifixion and the Resurrection.
thelifeididntchoose 