The moment my three living children are in the family room, joking and laughing-but his voice is so obviously missing.
The moment I say to one son, “Have you texted your brother?” and don’t have to give a name, because there is only one brotherleft to text.
The moment I go down the list of who-I-have-heard-from-in-the-last-24-hours and it is short a single name. I know where Dominic is.
The moment I realize that it has been three years (!) since I bought him a present, asked him for a Christmas wish list, checked in to check his schedule so I can arrange family dinners and holiday get togethers.
The moment I count plates or cups or places at the table-always one less, always one empty chair.
Yes, there are good days.
Yes, I am so very thankful for each moment I have with the ones left.
But if counting blessings is supposed to undo my heartache I must be doing it all wrong.
If focusing on the “now” is a way to ignore the “then”I need more practice.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot get over the hurdle of wanting things to be like they were.
I am not ungrateful. I cherish every single second we are together.
I hold every farewell close to my heart.
I make a mental picture of the face, the smile, the wave-because when you learn the hard way that this time might be the last time-you don’t take anything for granted.
I cling to the promise that one day we will be reunited.
When news that Dominic left us spread, our yard was filled with friends and family here to help bear the burden of grief and loss.
Our house was bursting with people and food and phone calls-more coming and going than our gravel lane had seen in a lifetime of living up in the woods.
It was beautiful and terrible all at the same time. Beautiful because we were not alone in our sorrow and terrible because it was due to that sorrow they were here.
In those days between the accident and the funeral I was boundary-less.
People hugged me, fed me, cleaned my house, cut my grass, tended the animals, asked me questions, told me stories and I just accepted it-whatever “it” was-because I was utterly unable to do anything else.
But in the weeks that followed, as the pain made itself more at home in my heart-as it expanded to fill every nook and crevice-I realized that I had to put up some fences.
My oldest son was getting married just a couple months after the accident.
There’s a lot of stuff to do for a wedding as most folks know. So I got a phone call one week after Dominic’s funeral and the person on the other end launched into a long saga regarding a minor detail and expected me to 1) listen attentively; 2) care as deeply as they did about something that absolutely didn’t matter; and 3) join with them in light-hearted, laughter-filled banter.
I just. couldn’t. do. it.
So I didn’t.
I politely but firmly explained that I was unable to continue the conversation and that in future they needed to contact me through my son. I promised I was 100% committed to making the wedding happen, to doing my part and to being as happy as possible on the day.
But until then, unless it was a true emergency, please leave me alone.
Drawing a boundary created space for me to DO what needed to be done without the added burden of extra emotional baggage.
Before Dominic left us I was a “yes” person.
Smiling stylish woman showing sign excellently, isolated on red
Need help with an event?Why, sure I’m available.
Need someone to take your Sunday School class? Absolutely.
Keep your toddler? Just drop him off-we’ll play with the critters all day.
Phone call counselor and Homeschool Help Hotline-that was me.
Not anymore.
I’ve learned that if I am to have the energy needed to do necessary things, I have to protect my heart. I am too weak to carry everyone else’s burdens. If I am going to survive this journey I’ve got to prioritize.
I still listen.
I still help.
But I do it in a more healthy way-with respect for myself as well as others.
It is OK to say, “No.”And I don’t have to offer a reason. It’s a complete sentence all on its own.
All of my children had urged me over the years to draw boundaries. But I had grown from a parent-pleasing first born into a people pleasing adult and I just couldn’t do it.
Dominic even crafted a wire sign that hung on my kitchen curtains in the shape of a cursive “no”.
He made me repeat the mantra: Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.
He’d be proud of me for finally taking his advice.
Dear friends, do you think you’ll get anywhere in this if you learn all the right words but never do anything? Does merely talking about faith indicate that a person really has it? For instance, you come upon an old friend dressed in rags and half-starved and say, “Good morning, friend! Be clothed in Christ! Be filled with the Holy Spirit!” and walk off without providing so much as a coat or a cup of soup—where does that get you? Isn’t it obvious that God-talk without God-acts is outrageous nonsense?
James 2:14-17 MSG
James doesn’t mess around.
He says what a lot of people are thinking but are too timid to speak aloud.
I like that.
We could use a good dose of his brand of preaching in the church today. Let’s stop pretending that following Jesus is just about getting our theology right. Let’s stop acting like going to church, serving on committees or teaching Sunday School is the best indicator of where my heart isrelative to my Savior.
Let’s face facts: if my life does not look different than the lives of those who do not know Jesus, then either I don’t know Him or I’m not paying attention to what He’s telling me to do.
I have been blessed on this grief journey by a few dedicated friends who go out of their way to do good, be light and extend hope to my heart when I’m barely holding on. They have chosen, often sacrificially, to be the hands and feet of Jesus in my life.
And they make a difference!
Sometimes it’s a card in the mail, sometimes a text or message and sometimes a visit-but they DO something. They might not understand why God is putting me on their heart, but they obey the prompting.
So if the Spirit is nudging you to reach out to someone, don’t ignore Him or put it off. Sure, praying is important. We are commanded to do that.
But we are also commanded to be physically present and to extend practical help to hurting hearts. We are supposed to BE the hands and feet of Jesus.
Who knows,I might be the answer to my own prayer that God send encouragement to someone else.
I can choose to do good.
I can choose to shine light.
I can choose to share hope.
And my small gesture be the very thread that holds a broken heart together.
If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.
Courage is a heart word. The root of the word courage is cor – the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage meant “To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.” Over time, this definition has changed, and today, we typically associate courage with heroic and brave deeds. But in my opinion, this definition fails to recognize the inner strength and level of commitment required for us to actually speak honestly and openly about who we are and about our experiences — good and bad.
~Brene Brown
I grew up in the Deep South where ladies were supposed to keep silent about anything “unmentionable”.
Problem is, that included many things that SHOULD be spoken aloud.
Because a conspiracy of silence forces those who are suffering to hide. It creates huge gaps between what goes on behind closed doors and public image.
And it causes those who are wounded to question the authenticity of their own experience.
In recent years we have dragged many topics into the light. We’ve made space in the public square for discussion of things we used to pretend didn’t exist.
But life after child loss is still a hushed topic.
The long road to healing after burying a child is rarely acknowledged outside the community of bereaved parents.
The FACT that as long as I live, my son’s absence will be a shadow trailing me, the burden of sorrow will slow my steps, the heartache of missing will shape my world is glossed over and set aside.
I understand why.
It is scary to speak aloud what you hope will never happen to you. It’s unbelievably frightening to admit that we really have no control over whether, or when, we or the ones we love might leave this world.
But I am not going to keep silent.
Not because I want pity or special treatment, but because I want that parent who just buried his or her child to know that you. are. not. alone.
I want you to know that what you are experiencing is not unusual.
I want you to understand that the horrible pain you feel is absolutely normal.
And I want you to be assured that you are NOT Crazy!
I will tell my story because even though it is hard, it matters. And even though it hurts, it can help heal another. And even though it isn’t finished, it can blaze a trail for others to follow.
Oh, I bring out the calendar and mark down the days: birthdays, holidays, special events and obligations.
But then one dark morning a knock stops the clock and makes the world spin faster all at once.
I’m suspended and plunged under in the same breath.
Frozen.Broken. Horrified.
How did this happen?
How is this my life?
My head and heart explode in pain.
Months pass. The days march on.
I still don’t get to choose what sunrise brings.
But looking back I’m grateful that when my circle was whole we chose love.
That when the days were unfolding we chose faith.
That even as the night closed in and the days grew dark we continued to cling to the one Hope that proves true.
I’m thankful that my heart was full of praise songs and Scripture and that when I couldn’t lift my hand to turn the pages of my Bible the Spirit used them to whisper courage to my soul.
This Valley is deep and the sun is often hidden by the towering mountains on either side.
After [Jehoshaphat] had advised the people, he appointed people to sing to the LORD and praise him for the beauty of his holiness. As they went in front of the troops, they sang, “Thank the LORD because his mercy endures forever!”
2 Chronicles 20:21 GWT
I love worship music.
My heart is transported from here to there in a single note.
In a moment, I am before the Throne, inside the Holy of Holies, crying out for more, more, more of Jesus.
Worship makes me vulnerable to the Spirit’s deep work in my heart-I hear truth, I see beyond the pain and I feel God’s love.
But it also makes me a target for the enemy of my soul.
Yesterday I plugged in Pandora to my stereo and was lifted higher, higher until… in a breath I was brought low.
Leaning over to raise the volume of a favorite song I came eye-to-eye with my missing son.
The photo we chose for his memorial folder is hanging with his siblings’ on my living room wall.
And I was transported from here to there in a heartbeat-
from almost two and a half years past that awful day to the moment I first breathed in the truth that he was gone.
I covered my eyes with both hands and refused the whispers of darkness.
The tears fell and my heart hurt, but I hissed back, “He’s not dead. He’s just not here!”
And I cranked the Truth up higher and dared the devil to come back.
I raised my hands and chose to worship the One Who is loving my son until I get there, Who loves me even in my brokenness and Who will redeem this pain and restore what the enemy has stolen.
At this stage in my grief journey I have learned to exercise the “just ignore it” muscle that allows me to scroll through Facebook without taking comments personally.
Most of the time.
But yesterday a grieving mama posted a tribute to her missing daughter complete with a beautiful photo collage and a sweet message that included sharing her feelings.
This mama revealed that her heart was broken, that she missed her daughter and that she was oh, so proud of her and thankful for the years they had together.
Many comments were simply, “Praying for you” or “Love you”.
But one comment stuck out. This person said, “She wouldn’t want you to be sad. She’s at peace in heaven with Jesus.”
Really??!!
How is that helpful?
In a single line you have dismissed this mama’s honest and appropriate feelings and implied you know her daughter better than she does.
Of course she’s in heaven with Jesus. As believers in Christ we know that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.
But knowing that, trusting that truth makes grief easier to bear, it does not erase it.
Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, “We do not grieve as those without hope.” (I Thess. 4:13)
NOT“We do not grieve.”
Here’s something you need to know: hurting with hope still hurts. The sting of death might have been removed, but it still stings. No, we might not sorrow as those who have no hope, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be sad.
Levi Lusko, Through the Eyes of a Lion
Grief is the price we pay for love.
Grief is an appropriate and proportionate response to the death (the end of earthly companionship) of someone we love.
If grief is small, what does that say about love?
It can’t be both ways.
We cannot celebrate a mother’s love and then dismiss her grief.
So my answer to that comment was this:
It’s perfectly OK to be sad. Death is awful. And missing is hard. Praying that the Lord will bring a special memory-one that has been tucked away in your hearts but mostly forgotten-to mind today and that it will bring a smile to your lips. May you feel the Lord’s Presence today and may He sing a song of love, grace and mercy over your shattered heart
God’s grief over a world of people doomed to eternal separation from Himself was to send His only Son as a sacrifice.
Why was the grief so great?Why was He willing to pay that price?
When I had a child, suddenly I cared about everything. When I lost a child, suddenly I cared about nothing.
~ a bereaved mother
When I read this comment, I thought about it for a moment to see if it was true for me.
And I realized that, yes, it WAS true at the very beginning.
Mind-numbing pain and soul-crushing agony pressed down so heavily that I couldn’t care about anything other than reminding myself to
BREATHE.
In.
Out.
Repeat.
A bit over twenty-eight months have passed and my body, mind and spirit are stronger.
The pain is still great, but I am better able to bear it now.
My heart is bigger because I suffer and it is softer toward those who also suffer.
Trials make great room for consolation. There is nothing that makes man have a big heart like a great trial. I have found that those people who have no sympathy for their fellows, who never weep for the sorrows of others very seldom have any of their own. Great hearts could be made only by great troubles.
Charles Spurgeon
Now I care much more deeply about a few, select “things”.
thelifeididntchoose 