I know many who read this blog belong to closed online bereavement groups.
That’s a beautiful thing- a place where we can share our pain with others who understand it in a judgement-free zone.
We often post photos and our child(ren)’s story in the closed groups.
But today I want to take a moment to provide a public forum for anyone who wishes to take advantage of it.
Read the rest here: Your Child Matters
International Bereaved Mother’s Day is observed the Sunday before Mother’s Day in the United States. This year it’s next Sunday, May 4, 2025.
I didn’t even know such a day existed until I was a mom that needed it.
For those of us who have children in heaven, setting aside a day to acknowledge that unique mother/child relationship is helpful.
Read the rest here: International Bereaved Mother’s Day
This weekend another family joined the ranks of the bereaved.
A beloved son left for heaven in a car accident.
The mama’s best friend messaged to ask what she could do to help this newly broken heart.
It made me dig deep in my memories for who did what in those first hours, first days and how it made a difference in our family’s ability to hold onto hope and to stumble forward in the heavy fog of grief, pain and sorrow that enveloped our hearts.
My friend was already committed to showing up and sitting silently and lovingly with this child’s mother. I didn’t have to remind her of the power of compassionate companionship.
She was going.
She was staying as long as it was helpful and necessary.
She was coming back as many times as needed.
And that is a gift!
I remember the morning I got the news and as the sun was coming up, a truck pulled down our lane. It was Robbie-our “adopted” son. As soon as my oldest son (who was in WV at the time) got the call, he called Robbie. Because he knew I would be able to bear Robbie’s presence and accept Robbie’s help. I cannot describe the relief I felt when he came to the door-another shoulder to help carry this burden until we could gather all our family together to lift it in unison.
And after him came a couple we had known since the kids were little.
Both rushed to our doorstep to offer companionship, practical aid, listening ears and simple reassurance that though this was NOT a dream-oh, how I wanted it to be a dream!–I was not going to walk this Valley alone. They stayed until my husband, son and parents had made it here. I will never, ever, ever forget that gift of unconditional love and time offered just when I needed it most.
Others came. Some did practical things, brought necessary items, helped me begin to think through next steps. But many just sat with me and my children as we waited for my husband to fly in and my parents to drive up.
I cannot overstate how important SIMPLY BEING THERE was!
Thinking back on that time, I dug up some other very practical “first few days” things friends and family can do:
Compassionate companionship makes the difference between a heart holding onto hope or letting go and falling into the abyss.
Trust me.
I know.
Believe me, no one wonders more than I if the things I’m feeling, the things I’m doing and the rate at which I am healing is “normal”.
I belong to a couple of bereavement support groups and a recurring theme is, “Am I crazy? Is this the way it is supposed to be?”
Sometimes grieving parents wonder these things because of their own misgivings.
But often, we question our feelings and experience because of external pressure.
And that is unfortunate and unfair.
When a mom brings her new baby home from the hospital, people are quick to remind her that life “will never be the same”.
She is encouraged to seek advice and help from friends and family and given space and time to figure out this new way of being. As the years pass, she might express frustration and concern over the challenges of going back to work, sleepless nights, feeding issues, potty training, and dozens of other, everyday struggles that result from welcoming this little person into the family. And that is just the beginning.
No one thinks it strange that the ADDITION of a child is a life-long adjustment.
So, why, why, why is it strange that the SUBTRACTION of a child would also require accommodation for the rest of a mother’s life?
My heart grew larger when Dominic was born and the space that is his cannot and will not be filled by anyone or anything else.
I am learning each day to work around this empty spot. I am becoming stronger and better able to carry the weight of grief that I must bear.
I can do many of the things I used to do before the only place I could visit Dominic was at the cemetary.
But I have to do them differently. I need more help. It takes more time. And sometimes I find after I plan to go somewhere that I am just not able to go after all.
I will never “get over” burying my son.
There will always be another mountain to climb, another loss to mourn, another hurdle to clear in this grief journey.
Dominic is part of me. That didn’t change when he went home to be with Jesus.
The absence of his presence is EVERYWHERE.
And just for the record–missing the child I love for the rest of my life is perfectly normal.
Why is it “dwelling” in one instance and “remembering” in another?
Who gets to decide whether I’m taking out a cherished memory, holding it, stroking it and reliving it because it’s all I have left or I’m clutching the past, refusing to let go?
I will be the first to admit that mulling over past offenses is probably the last thing I need to do. Especially if I’m trying to forgive them. That’s not helpful nor is it healthy.
But there’s a difference between THAT kind of thinking and the kind of thinking every bereaved parent does about his or her missing child.
When Dominic ran ahead to heaven, there was a sudden, horrible and unchangeable end to new experiences, to making any more memories, to another conversation, picture or text.
All I have of my son is whatever I had saved up to the moment of his accident.
And it is not enough.
It will never be enough to fill up the spaces of what my heart wishes I had.
He lived for nearly 24 years. But I can’t withdraw those memories like cash and “spend” them, day for day, for the next 24 years.
It doesn’t work that way.
So I have favorite moments, like we all do, that I pull out over and over. I cherish them like precious stones or rare coins. I hold them, stroke them, tell the stories behind them and hug them close.
Not because I can’t “move forward”.
Goodness!
Here I am eleven years later living, breathing and fully connected to the people and events in my present!
I do it because memories are a way to remain connected to Dominic.
He is as much a part of my life-unseen by others, unheard by others, often forgotten by others-as the living, breathing children that are still here with me.
So I am not DWELLING on these memories.
I am hanging on with both hands because I refuse to let one-quarter of my heart be relegated to darkness and silence because of other people’s discomfort.
I will remember.
As long as I have breath I will speak my remembrance.
I will never, ever, ever let go.
Whether the burden is child loss, abuse, chronic illness or some other ongoing and unchangeable hard circumstance, it’s easy to get so good at acting “OK” you can almost fool yourself.
But all that stress and struggle exacts a cost.
Pretending that it doesn’t is not helpful at all.
So it’s wonderful when people ask about it.
It’s a gift when they let us share.
Awhile back another loss mom wrote this and gave me permission to use it:
In case you ever wonder, please know that it is always, always OK to ask me about [Dominic].
I love to talk about him.
No, I’m not OK. I’ll probably cry, but it’s just because it’s under the surface always, not because you asked.
And I don’t really know what people mean when they say “she’s doing well,” because if you knew what all goes on in my mind and body from grief-well, frankly you couldn’t handle it.
But it’s OK to bring it up.
Talking helps. ❤
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
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.
Time, by itself, does not heal all wounds.
But of all the factors that promote healing, there is NO SUBSTITUTE for time–not in the physical world of surgery and broken bones and deep wounds and not in the inner world of emotional pain and brokenness and sorrow.
Our bodies are made to be amazingly resilient.
Most people don’t really think of surgery as an assault on the body, but it is.
The surgeon knifes through layers of flesh and tissue that are designed to keep intruders out, mucks about inside, does what he or she came to do, and closes up–hopefully without introducing bacteria into the wound. Some medication may be prescribed to promote healing, control pain and reduce the risk of infection.
Then the patient goes home to recover.
But it is really TIME and the body’s own healing powers that do the lion’s share of the work.
Our hearts and minds can be resilient too.
Frequently, someone who suffers an assault on their emotions may not bear outward signs and symbols to mark what they’ve been through. And well-meaning friends and family can forget that healing has only begun and is far from complete.
Sometimes broken people feel pressured to put on a brave face and to stuff their feelings.
For the body, ignoring doctor’s orders to rest after surgery can mean another hospital stay due to complications that might have been avoided if the patient had been given sufficient time to recover.
Emotionally wounded people can end up with complications from pressure to rejoin regular activities and engage society in ways for which they are not yet ready.
It takes TIME to heal from burying a child or any other traumatic loss.
There is no way to rush the healing. It takes HOURS AND HOURS to think about, respond to and process the feelings that overwhelm anyone who is grieving or trying to cope with emotional upheaval of any kind.
So be patient with yourself.
And don’t be afraid to let others know you are still healing.
Deep emotional wounds require great care and an extended period of time to heal if the healing is to be sound and free from unnecessary complications.
You are not selfish to draw boundaries around what you can and can’t do, what you will and won’t allow and where and when you engage with others-you are being wise.
For those walking with the wounded: extend grace and be patient.
Thank God you are not bearing this burden and be mindful of placing demands or pressure on the wounded to heal according to a predetermined timetable.
Then support them in their effort to give themselves the TIME they need to heal.
To deny the presence of pain is to diminish the power of the cross.
Dying, Jesus honored His mother’s courage by acknowledging her pain. She was losing the Son she loved and it hurt in a way that only mothers can comprehend. He didn’t tell her that it would “be alright” or that “the ending is ultimately victorious”.
Instead, He looked upon her trembling figure and saw her broken heart.
He made what practical provision He could by telling John to care for her. He knew it would not undo her sorrow.
Some in the church preach that pain and suffering are anomalies–that they are aberrations in the “victorious Christian life”.
And we place great emphasis on the idea that even though we may have trouble in this life–“We know the REST of the story!” Jesus WINS!
Yes. He. does.
But some of our earthly stories-the ones we are living right now- do not have tidy, happy endings:
Some are burned in the fire.
Some die of cancer.
Some fall headlong into mental illness.
And some bury their children.
What to do when you are confronted by undeniable pain in your own or someone else’s life?
Acknowledge it.
Look with mercy on the broken heart.
Allow suffering to flow from the cracks unchecked and unjudged.
Be still and be love.
Offer practical aid without strings attached. Be mindful of what is actually helpful even if it doesn’t make sense to you. Come alongside for the long haul.
There is no greater gift to the one who is suffering than a faithful friend who refuses to be frightened away.
Loving burden-bearers help those of us living with no-happy-ending earthly stories cling more securely to the hope of ultimate victory in Christ.
And by doing so, declare the power of the cross.
For the message of the cross is foolishness [absurd and illogical] to those who are perishing and spiritually dead [because they reject it], but to us who are being saved [by God’s grace] it is [the manifestation of] the power of God.
I Corinthians 1:18 AMP
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