grieving parents – Page 16 – thelifeididntchoose

Grief in Real Life: Give Sorrow Words

A few summers ago, I participated in an online discussion group with others who read ATLAS OF THE HEART* by Brene Brown.

It was a helpful exercise to map, name and explore emotions so that I can create more meaningful connections to myself and others.

I think I’ve been doing some version of this my whole life. Language matters. Being able to give any emotion-especially the deep pain and sorrow of child loss-matters.

Language is our portal to meaning-making, connection, healing, learning, and self-awareness….

Language shows us that naming an experience doesn’t give the experience more power, it gives us the power of understanding and meaning.

Brene Brown, ATLAS OF THE HEART, xxi

The morning Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, after I made the awful phone calls I reached for my journal.

I knew if I didn’t start spilling the grief onto paper my heart would explode with sorrow.

Since I learned to hold a pencil I’ve been writing.

It’s how I sort my thoughts, figure out my feelings and express my heart.

A few months after and I found several online support groups.

There I learned a whole other Language of Grief and Loss. The more I read what others shared, the better I understood my own experience and understood how to communicate that truth to others.

You might not keep a journal or write poetry or craft lengthy essays about your pain and that’s just fine. There’s no magic in written words.

Find a safe space or person and speak it aloud.

Sorrow unspoken swells.

It can’t be contained.

It will absolutely consume you.

*Warning: ATLAS OF THE HEART contains language that may offend some folks. I just don’t want anyone to be surprised. ❤

Grief In Real Life: Hiding Behind Small Courtesies

It’s what you do, it’s what you say.

“Please”and “thank you” are how we live in community with others.

Even when our world is crumbling and our hearts are breaking, we don’t toss these courtesies away.

You begin to realize that everyone has a tragedy, and that if he doesn’t, he will. You recognize how much is hidden beneath the small courtesies and civilities of everyday existence. Deep sorrow and traces of great loss run through everyone’s lives, and yet they let others step into the elevator first, wave them ahead in a line of traffic, smile and greet their children and inquire about their lives, and never let on for a second that they, too, have lain awake at night in longing and regret, that they, too, have cried until it seemed impossible that one person could hold so many tears, that they, too, keep a picture of someone locked in their heart and bring it out in quiet, solitary moments to caress and remember.

Roseanne Cash, Composed: A Memoir by Roseanne Cash

I remember walking down the grocery store aisle wondering if the face I smiled into was faking it like I was. I wondered if they were hiding behind pleasantries because they form a good shield.

I imagine, on some level, most were. Because nearly everyone has a secret wound.

And, like Cash said, if they haven’t yet, they will be.

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.

What’s Changed, What’s the Same Eleven Years Down the Road?

What’s changed and what is still the same eleven years down the road of child loss?

I’ve thought about this a lot in the past few months as I prepared for, greeted and marked another year of unwelcome milestones since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.

Some things are exactly the same:

Whenever I focus solely on his absence, my heart still cries, “Can he REALLY be gone?” I am STILL A Mess Some Days….
The pain is precisely as painful as the moment I got the news.
It’s just as horrific today to dwell on the manner of his leaving.
I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. I live every day with his Tangible Absence.
I am thankful for his life, for the opportunity to be his mama and for the part of me shaped by who he was.
The absolute weight of grief has not changed. The burden remains a heavy one.
Daily choices are the difference between giving up and going on. I have to make Wise Choices in Grief.
My faith in Christ and my confidence that His promises are sure is the strength on which I rely. I have been Knocked Down But Not Destroyed.
I passionately look forward to the culmination of all history when every sad thing will come untrue.

Some things are very different:

Dominic’s absence is no longer all I see.
Sorrow and pain are no longer all I feel.
I’ve learned to live in spite of the hole in my heart-his unique place isn’t threatened by allowing myself to love others and pouring my life into the people I have left.
Joy and sorrow are not mutually exclusive. They live together in my heart and I can smile and laugh again while still pining for a time when things were different and easier.
I am Stronger because I’ve carried this burden for years. I’ve learned to shift it from side to side.
The darkness has receded so that I see light once more. I’m not as prone to fall as fast down the dark hole of despair.
My heart longs for reunion but has also learned to treasure the time I have left here on earth.

I’ve never hidden the struggle and pain of this journey.

But I don’t want those who are fresh in grief to think that how they are feeling TODAY is the way they will feel FOREVER.

By doing the work grief requires, making wise choices and holding onto hope a heart does begin to heal.

I am not as fragile today as I was on the first day.

And I am so, so thankful for that. ❤

Father’s Day 2025: Seven Ways to Support a Grieving Dad on Father’s Day

Holidays are hard on bereaved parents’ hearts.

Even though our children are always on our minds, holidays act as megaphones, amplifying the missing, sorrow, grief and lost opportunity to build more memories.

So it’s particularly helpful when friends and family step up and step in, showing extra support on and around those extra hard days.

Here are seven ways you can bless a bereaved dad this Father’s Day:

MEET THEM WHERE THEY ARE IN THEIR GRIEF

Sometimes friends and family let their expectations of how parents should grieve and for how long influence the quantity and quality of the help they’re willing to give. I can’t emphasize enough that no one outside the child loss community really understands how very, very difficult and how very, very much time it takes for a parent to even wrap his or her mind around the fact their child is truly gone. Instead of pushing or pulling a grieving dad forward, simply accept where he is, meet him there and let him take the lead in conversation, activity and whether or not he can join in a Father’s Day celebration.

LET YOUR FRIEND KNOW YOU’RE THINKING OF THEM

This is probably the most important and the simplest way to make a difference in a bereaved dad’s life! I know we all get busy and let days and dates slip by. But set an alarm on your phone if you have to as a reminder. Send a text or make a call. Tell him you haven’t forgotten he will be missing his child and wishing his family was complete this Sunday, especially.

SAY THEIR CHILD’S NAME

As the years go by it is often more and more unlikely for a parent to hear their missing child’s name spoken aloud. Yet it’s something we all long to hear. Sometimes friends and family are afraid that mentioning the child will make a dad “sad” or “remind him” the child is gone. Trust me, “sad” is something he feels often and he never forgets. Knowing someone else is willing to remember too is a great blessing.

SHARE MEMORIES OR DO SOMETHING TO HONOR THEIR CHILD-IF YOUR FRIEND IS READY

Not every grieving parent wants to talk about their child though many do. And even if they are ready, they may not want to talk about him or her right now. Pay attention and let them lead. If a bereaved dad is receptive, share a memory or photograph you might have of his child. Write a card and include details of how his child influenced your life. There are many ways to honor a child’s memory on important dates: make a meaningful donation, place a book in his honor, add to a foundation or scholarship that bears her name or send a small token that speaks of a child’s interests or personality.

SUPPORT SURVIVING SIBLINGS

Surviving siblings can be forgotten mourners. Grieving parents are frequently caught between their own needs and the needs of the children still with them. Child loss changes everything-for the whole family. So when friends come alongside and encourage and care for surviving siblings it helps everyone. Our family’s first Mother’s and Father’s Days were spent in company of friends of our children. It took a huge load off me and my husband to know the day was still special without all the focus being on us.

ENCOURAGE SELF-CARE

Grief from child loss is so overwhelming that often parents find themselves in a downward spiral where self-care is practically impossible. Even parents years into this journey sometimes say holidays and milestone days bring back the intense feelings of those first days. When that happens we need friends and family outside our immediate grief circle to help us find a path out of the darkness. Father’s Day is a great opportunity to offer a dad a healthy meal, take him on a hike or fishing expedition, or just sit and watch a ball game.

STAY IN THE PICTURE

Everyone gets busy and it’s completely natural that over time people forget days and dates. But Father’s Day doesn’t necessarily become easier for bereaved dads over time. So don’t assume because it’s been years that a dad isn’t still in need of extra support. Commit to checking in and helping keep his child’s memory alive.

Sometimes we just don’t know what to do for a grieving friend and often they aren’t able to express what might be helpful.

I hope these seven suggestions encourage you to try.

It would be so helpful if there was an app to track stress like there is to track spending.

Wouldn’t it be marvelous to get an alert that said, “Low Balance”, for mental, physical and psychological reserves like the one you can get for your bank account right before you are heading to overdraft territory?

But there isn’t.

And few of us are very good at gauging just how much is left in our mental wellness accounts which means we often keep giving when the well is more than dry.

I’d be lying if I said I spend the same amount of time crying, lamenting and bent over in agonizing pain that I did in the early days of mourning Dominic. I’ve found a way to keep him close, to trust his soul to Jesus and to (largely) live in the present instead of always longing for the past.

There are days, though…

Some days are easy to anticipate-birthdays, holidays, the awful anniversary of his leaving-and some sneak up on me. I can often trace my overwhelming sadness to a specific trigger or memory dug up in a drawer or found in a pile of photos.

Occasionally, I have a horrible weepy day for no discernable reason.

That’s when I walk my heart back through recent events and always come to the same conclusion-I’ve let myself run dry:

I’ve overcommitted.
I’ve not planned rest.
I’ve had hard pain days.
There’s been family drama.
Someone I love is sick.
I’m sick.
A deadline looms large.
There’s some major unpredictability going on.
I’ve counseled too many people without enough time to regain my own emotional stores.
I’m not sleeping well.
I’m doing too much and not listening to my body.

What I’ve come to understand is that stress is a HUGE impact on my grief and how I experience it.

I won’t patronize folks reading this with a simplistic (but wholly unhelpful!) suggestion to “reduce or avoid stress”.

For heaven’s sake! If we could do that with a snap of our fingers we would hardly need someone to tell us to take advantage of that solution.

Truth is, stress is often largely outside our control.

But there ARE some things I can make choices about. So I do. I look ahead at the calendar and note upcoming milestone days. I plug in doctor’s appointments, birthdays and holidays. I review every invitation to celebrations or lunch in light of what is already inked in.

I’ve learned to be honest with folks about my limitations and send a card or gift through the mail if I can’t be there in person. I sometimes suggest an alternative date and time if the one a friend offers just doesn’t work for me. I stand firm in my opinion that “no” is a complete sentence and as long as I’m kind and gracious it is not incumbent upon me to offer an explanation for why I’m turning down an invitation.

And if I have an unexpectedly hard day-from grief or activity or because of my RA-I drop back the next day to allow time to recuperate and rest (if at all possible).

The reality is that child loss means there is ALWAYS a certain low-level hum of stress in my life.

Adding to that already higher-than-average stress means it’s easy for me to be tipped into unhealthy territory.

Crying is only the tip of the iceberg.

Health problems, heart problems, relationship issues and other long-term consequences often result.

It’s not only OK for me to set boundaries to protect my health and my heart,

It’s absolutely, positively the right thing to do.

❤

Grief In Real Life: Finding Courage to Face the Future

I think it was somewhere around two months from Dominic’s departure when my heart realized life was moving forward whether I granted permission or not.

Not only folks on the fringes and the “bigger world out there” but close by-in my own family, my own circle of intimate friends-people were making plans, having birthdays, going places and doing things.

I wanted to scream.

Could the world not take more notice that it was absolutely NOT business as usual? Was I the only one whose heart was so shattered that the thought of another sunrise was painful? How could I walk into a future that didn’t include Dominic?

By the grace of God, I did it.

No one can keep the world from turning, the sun from rising, time from ticking by.

But it took a great deal of strength and courage.

takes strengtht to let life pull you forward through grief

First it was a “grin and bear it” kind of courage. I strapped on my armor and tucked a hankie in my pocket. I could show up and smile (a bit), talk (awhile) and muddle through.

Sometimes it didn’t go so well. I had to apologize and leave early. And I was always exhausted.

exhausted-over-trying-to-be-stronger-than-i-feel

Then it was an “I’m going to be present for my family” kind of courage. The last thing I wanted to do was shortchange my earthbound children. I worked to get a better handle on my thoughts and emotions. I learned how to pre-grieve major events and milestones. I found I could bring Dom with me by wearing a meaningful piece of jewelry or tucking a keepsake away where I could touch it if I needed to.

I was able to laugh (most of the time), make small talk and write dates on the calendar again.

Now the courage that helps me hold on as I’m pulled forward into the future is informed by the fact that every passing day is one day closer to the reunion my heart longs for. What first seemed impossible is now habitual. Sorrow and joy can coexist. I don’t have to be empty of one to feel the other. The future is not my enemy-it’s where I can and will love ALL my children, husband, family and friends well until the day we are in eternity together forever.

My love for Dominic is Background Music to everything I do. But it doesn’t always demand my full attention. Sorrow is no longer all I feel and Dominic’s absence no longer all I see.

Sunrise is still hard to face some days.

My heart will always long for the time things were as they should be instead of how they are.

But I’m thankful for the courage to step into the future even when I’m afraid.

sometimes-fear-does-not-subside-and-you-must-choose-to-do-it-afraid

Tempted to Judge Someone Else’s Grief? Please, Don’t.

I’ve never been divorced or lost a spouse.

I’ve never fled for my life from a war torn country with only the clothes on my back or what few belongings I could fit in a small bag.

I’ve never watched my home go up in flames or heard it destroyed around me by wild winds.

But I’ve buried a child.

Grief walks through the door of a heart in all kinds of ways. Bad things happen-even to good people.

Bad things happen to believers in Jesus-even those who have dedicated their lives to living out the gospel message and loving others.

Sadly, when devastating or unbearable tragedy visits those who have devoted time, talent and treasure to building the Body of Christ, they can be most vulnerable to judgement from those who, up to now, would have described them as “pillars of faith”.

Because when their humanity squeezes (or even bursts!) out of the cracks in their hearts, others doubt their testimony.

I was just subjected to an uncomfortable conversation at Wednesday night Bible Study in which someone (who had not lost a child) declared that if a parent responds to this devastation with outsized emotion, they may not have an authentic relationship with Jesus.

They started with the (what I consider to be faulty) premise that “if you are a Christian, you ought to be stronger”.

And then they stepped into territory NO person outside of another’s grief should ever venture: They proceeded to assert that “all that wailing and screaming” some parents exhibited was, essentially, evidence of a weak faith.

I stopped them right there.

I was very upset but calmly defended the fact that this is untrue. Being human is something our Great High Priest understands full well.

So it was more than a “God wink” when this morning I woke to the perfect graphic shared by my dear friend, Jill Sullivan, of While We’re Waiting Ministry:

Child loss is not a hammer in the hands of God. He is not “teaching me a lesson”. He is not waiting to see if I’ll fail some kind of test. He knows I am made of dust.

My Shepherd King is neither surprised nor offended by my weakness or my deep sorrow over my son’s untimely, sudden death. He does not chastise me nor turn His back on me.

Instead, He gathers me in His arms and sings mercy, grace and hope to my battered soul and broken heart.

His banner over me is love.

And nothing I do will change that because that is not only what He does, it is WHO HE IS.

Grief In Real Life: What I’m Learning From Other Bereaved Parents

There’s a kind of relational magic that happens when people who have experienced the same or similar struggle get together.

In an instant, their hearts are bound in mutual understanding as they look one to another and say, “Me too. I thought I was the only one.”

It was well into the second year after Dominic ran ahead to heaven that I found an online bereaved parent support group. After bearing this burden alone for so many months, it took awhile before I could open my heart to strangers and share more than the outline of my story.

But, oh, when I did! What relief! What beautiful support and affirmation that every. single. thing. that was happening to me and that I was feeling was normal!

I have learned so much from these precious people.

Here’s a few of the nuggets of wisdom I carry like treasure in my heart:

Everyone has a story. No one comes to tragedy a blank slate. They have a life that informs how or if they are able to cope with this new and terrible burden. Not everyone has the same resources I do-emotional, spiritual or otherwise. Don’t put expectations on someone based on my own background. Be gracious-always.

Everyone deserves to be heard. Some folks really only have one or two things that they insist on saying over and over and over again. That’s OK. If they are saying them, it’s because they need to be heard. Lots of folks do not have a safe space to speak their heart. But it’s only in speaking aloud the things inside that we can begin to deal with them.

Everyone (or almost everyone) is worried that they aren’t doing this “right”. Society brings so much pressure to bear on the grieving. “Get better”, “Get over it”, “Move on”. And when we can’t, we think there is something dreadfully wrong with us. But there isn’t. Grief is hard and takes time no matter what the source. But it is harder and takes a lifetime when it’s your child. Out of order death is devastating. “Normal” is anything that keeps a body going and a mind engaged in reality without being destructive to oneself or others.

Everyone can be nicer than they think they can. Here’s the deal: I THINK a lot of things. I don’t have to SAY (or write!) them. I’ll be honest, sometimes my first response to what someone shares is not very nice. But when I take a breath and consider what might help a heart instead of hurt one, I can usually find a way to speak truth but also courage. Snark is never helpful. If I can’t say anything nice, then I just scroll on by.

Everyone has something to give. I’ve learned that even the most broken, the most unlovely, the least well-spoken persons have something to offer. It may take a little dusting off to find the beauty underneath, but my heart is stretched when I take time and put forth effort to truly listen to what’s being said instead of just ignoring it because of how it’s said.

Everyone deserves grace. Because I am the recipient of grace, it is mine to give-without fear of running out-to every other heart I meet. Sometimes I forget this. I want to apply a different measure to others than I want applied to me. But grace is the oil that greases human relationships. Freely given and freely received, it provides a safe space for hearts to experience healing.

Everyone is standing on level ground when we gather at the foot of the cross. There’s no hierarchy in God’s kingdom. We are all servants. I am responsible to my Master for walking in love and doing the good works He has prepared beforehand for me to do. My works are not your works and your works are not my works. I need to keep my eyes on Jesus, not on others always trying to see if I(or they!) “measure up”. The standard is our Shepherd and only grace and mercy can help me strive for that goal.

Everyone needs courage. When Jesus gave His charge to the disciples He told them it was “better for you that I go”. What??? How could that be better? But it WAS. Because when Jesus returned to the Father, He sent the Holy Spirit as the personal, indwelt connection to Himself. He knew they would need courage to make it through. The Spirit calls courage to our hearts. And we are given the privilege of calling courage to one another. The bravest among us quivers sometimes. You’d be surprised how often one word is the difference between letting go and holding on.

There are dozens more things I could share.

I have met some of the kindest, wisest and most grace-filled people this side of child loss.

They have been the purest example of the Body of Christ I’ve ever known.

I am thankful for what they are teaching me.

❤

What’s STILL Hard Eleven Years After Losing a Child

Since last October I’ve had the privilege of hosting three separate bereaved mom retreats.

Each one has been put together by God-weaving lives and stories and needs and strengths into a four-day weekend of life changing conversation, study and sharing.

What’s been particularly helpful for ME is that as I’ve poured out what the Lord has shown me over these past years is that He’s also helped my heart acknowledge what is STILL hard, what is STILL fresh and what, in all likelihood, will NEVER get easier.

The theme of each weekend is “Broken into Beautiful: Inviting Hope to Heal Our Hearts”.

I can testify that I am absolutely, positively not in that deep, dark despair that marked the first hours, days and even years after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.

I have experienced a measure of healing that I couldn’t imagine was possible that awful morning I heard the news.

I am better able to lean in, take hold of, and trust the unfailing love of my Shepherd King TODAY than I was the day before my world was shattered.

I am oh, so thankful for every heart that led the way in darkness, for the Word of God which is unchanging and ever true, and for Holy Spirit who refused to let me forget Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever and in Him every promise of God is “yes” and “amen”.

But some things are STILL hard.

It’s still hard to see social media photos of intact families -not because I wish they weren’t-but because they remind me in living color that mine is not.
It’s still hard to hear of graduations from college (Dom was in law school when he left) and weddings and birth announcements of growing families of my son’s peers.
It’s still hard to face holidays when I need (and want to!) be fully present, yet part of my heart always marks the place Dominic should occupy but doesn’t, longs to hear his voice among the laughter and banter, wants desperately to buy HIM a present to put under the tree or for his birthday.
It’s still hard to hear of people’s petty “problems” elevated to the height of major issues when I want to scream, “IT’LL TAKE CARE OF ITSELF, TRUST ME!“.
It’s still hard to sing some songs about God’s goodness even though I have completely embraced the truth that His idea of goodness doesn’t necessarily conform to mine.
It’s still hard to deal with my own lack of energy and emotional reserve when other people expect me to be “back to my old self”-goodness, gracious, it’s been eleven years! Problem is, grief is always running in the background, sapping what little bit of extra I might have. I’m closer to the edge than anyone who loves me might want to know or admit.
It’s still hard to deal with the truth that there is no limit to pain in this earthly life. People I love will die. People I love will suffer. Life will not be what I want it or wish it to be. Pain is part of this broken world and burying a child doesn’t inoculate me from anything that might follow.
It’s still hard to watch my earthbound children deal with the aftermath of sibling loss. They make choices (some beautiful and some heartbreaking) that reflect an understanding of death and the precariousness of life that prick my heart.
It’s still hard to be courteous to those who continue to be ignorant (on purpose, not innocently) of other people’s struggles and pain. I have zero patience at this stage and phase of life for folks who judge others for paths they’ve never had to walk.
It’s still hard for me to sit through sermons and Sunday School lessons that suggest trusting Jesus makes life beautiful and “blessed” (in the Instagram coffee, journal and sunshine through the window way). Jesus walks through and strengthens us through the unbearable. He said, “in this life you will have trouble”. His early followers were persecuted, tortured and murdered. Why don’t we preach on that? At least then those of us living through hard times would have a model.
It’s still hard for me to accept that the Body of Christ is sometimes the most difficult place to be honest about our struggles.
It’s still hard for me to write every day, to show up every day, to choose every single day to expose my heart and share my story.

Dominic was a no nonsense kind of man.

He didn’t put up with anyone’s subterfuge or equivocation. He told it like it was. Even when it cost him friends.

I’m committed, as long as the Lord allows, to do the same.

I’ll advocate, educate, and shout from the rooftops what it’s like to live with loss and what toll it takes on body, mind and spirit.

I’ll share the hope and light of Jesus with whomever will listen.

And I’ll keep on keeping on, even when it’s hard.

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