Today is forty-one years since we said, “I do” and had absolutely NO idea what that would look like.
I first shared this years ago on our anniversary because I wanted other bereaved parents to know that while it is hard (and isn’t marriage always hard?), it is not impossible for a marriage to survive child loss.
We are definitely not the perfect couple. We fuss and we struggle. We sometimes retreat into our own separate worlds as we process some new aspect of living this earthly life without one of our children.
But we have learned that we are stronger together and that we are willing to do the work necessary to stay that way.❤
Today my husband and I celebrate 41 years of marriage.
Our thirtieth anniversary was a mere two months after we buried our son.
Here’s the last “before” anniversary photo (2013)-unfeigned smiles, genuine joy, excitement to have made it that far:
This is us on our thirtieth anniversary, at our oldest son’s wedding -holding one another up as best we could:
This is us a couple of years ago:
We are definitely the worse for wear, but we are still here.
Together.
There are a lot of myths floating around about what happens to a marriage on the other side of child loss. The one tossed out most often cites a “study” reporting 90 percent of marriages fail after the death of a child.
It’s just not true.
But the danger is that if you believe it is true, you may stop trying. You may stop reaching out across the painful abyss that threatens to keep you apart forever. You may decide that living alone with your broken heart is better than living alongside someone who may be broken in very different ways than you are.
It can become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
The truth is that child loss is no more likely to destroy a marriage than a list of other terrible life events-even though child loss is the most terrible.
A child’s death shakes a marriage to its foundations and reveals the weak spots. And EVERY marriage has weak spots.
So the challenge in this season of marriage-like every season of marriage-is to turn toward one another instead of away.Choose to do the work necessary to make it:
Do the best you can to take care of your own emotional, physical, psychological and spiritual health so that you can come together stronger and better able to help one another.
Assume the best and not the worst about your spouse.
Allow for different grieving styles and different ways of honoring your missing child.
Get help from others.
Don’t expect your spouse to carry your load of grief as well as his or her own.
It takes energy and commitment right when we don’t have any to spare. But at least in this, we have a choice.
I have already lost so much over which I had no control.
I will fight for what I CAN hold onto as hard as I know how.
If there is anywhere on earth a lover of God who is always kept safe, I know nothing of it, for it was not shown to me. But this was shown: that in falling and rising again we are always kept in that same precious love.
Mark then, Christian, Jesus does not suffer so as to exclude your suffering. He bears a cross, not that you may escape it, but that you may endure it. Christ exempts you from sin, but not from sorrow. Remember that, and expect to suffer.
~C. H. Spurgeon, Morning and Morning
When I ponder the pain of child loss, it helps to remember that Jesus suffered too.
Not just at the end, when He allowed evil men to crucify Him, but throughout His life when friends abandoned Him, people tried to kill Him, religious leaders mocked Him and sought to destroy His reputation and work.
It helps me to know that my wounds and scars, like His, will be transformed from evidence of pain and loss into a testimony of grace and redemption.
The cross is both the symbol of our salvation and the pattern of our lives. Everything that happened to Christ in some way happens to us. When darkness envelops us and we are deaf to everything except the shriek of our own pain, it helps to know that the Father is tracing in us the image of his Son, that the signature of Jesus is being stamped on our souls. For Jesus, the darkness of night gave way to the light of morning.
~Brennan Manning, The Signature of Jesus
When Thomas doubted, Jesus didn’t perform another miracle or call down angels from Heaven to testify on His behalf. He said, “Here, touch my wounds.”
I don’t know what that felt like for Thomas, but it was the only proof he needed to believe.
And while Christ accommodated Thomas, He spoke a special blessing on those who would not have such proof.
I have doubts some days too.
There are moments when suffering washes over me like a flood and I am swept under with the tide.
It’s then I cling tenaciously to the promise that my wounds, like Christ’s, will one day not only be proof of pain but also evidence of God’s redemptive power.
Could it be that God will wipe the tears from our eyes, but not from our memories, that the renewed experience of the glorified saint will be to recall those sadnesses with the transforming joy which God’s presence and God’s disclosed providence will bring? Surely part of our praise in heaven will not merely be that we are now saved, but that we have been saved, that the very title of being those who have conquered means that our memory of victory will include a transformed awareness of what the whole battle meant.
What a difference this could make to my suffering. The scars I bear in my body, my mind, my soul, the adversities and setbacks, the pains that may yet await me before I get to heaven, the relational wounds, the memories from which I struggle to recover, the darkness of doubt and the battles with unbelief, will not necessarily be removed when I get to heaven, but they will be redeemed, they will be transformed by the long view that being perfected in the presence of my perfect God will bring. What an experience it will be to probe the scars, but to no longer feel their pain – to see them as contour lines of God’s grace by which I ascended into glory. What could it mean for my wounds to sing his praise, for my scars to record his perfections, for my memory of old pains to be set in the context of a new and never failing joy. That makes suffering sufferable now, and glory all the more glorious then.
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. ❤
“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.
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 havebecause 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 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 REALLYbe 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.
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 ALWAYSa 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 NOperson 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.
thelifeididntchoose 