I cannot bring Dominic back-I cannot have my child once again in my arms. I cannot undo the damage death has wrought and the great gash loss has made in my heart.
And so I am left with my pain and my questions.
“Why?” is not a particularly fruitful question (although I ask it still).
“Why not?” is probably more helpful.
If I consider the lives of all the people God chose as examples of His faithfulness and grace there is not one who escapes heartache.
Read the rest here: Why Not?
My daughter, Fiona, wrote this last year, in the voice of her brother who ran ahead to heaven.
I am so thankful for her and so sorry that she has gained this wisdom at great cost.
Some of the bravest, most loving women I know are those who have suffered one of life’s greatest losses. I hope you know how truly beautiful you are.
Read the rest here: From The Child Not Here on Mother’s Day
I’m not sure when I’ll get the hang of this life after loss.
Five years is long enough to have completed a college degree, so you’d think it would be long enough to explore the edges of how to walk in the world without my son, without the family I used to have, without the confidence I once enjoyed that “every little thing was gonna be alright”.
But it’s not.
I’m still feeling my way in the dark much of the time.
New challenges greet me and I have to navigate them with the profoundly changed “me” that I neither understand nor like.
I make mistakes.
I get upset and I upset others.
If I didn’t believe that there was a Day when all this would be redeemed, I would just give up.
But I DO believe that.
It doesn’t take the pain away. It doesn’t soften the feeling of failure when my sorrow stops me being what others need me to be. It doesn’t blow soft breezes across my weary soul.
It gives me focus and a goal. It gets me out of bed so I persevere. It helps my heart hold on and not give in to despair.
Today is not a good day.
Tomorrow doesn’t look good either.
But one day-
One. Glorious. Day.
Since I’m spending time with my new grandson, I’ll be offering a few more reposts than usual this week. If you haven’t seen them, I hope you enjoy them for the first time. If you have already read them, I hope they are a blessing just the same.
Thank you for all the prayers and encouragement as our family rallies around this new life and helps him fight to gain the strength and size to come home. ❤
Part of my Lenten observance includes reading the book of John.
The words are not new to me, I’ve read them over and over-probably dozens of times in the past 30 years. So I decided to use a different translation this time around in order to shake out some new insights and cause me to pay closer attention to what God might have for me right here, right now.
The very first reading did just that.
Read the rest here: Light Years
There are so many life circumstances that plunge a heart into darkness.
Child loss is certainly one of them, although not the only one.
And when you’re in the dark, stumbling around, trying to avoid the sharp corners and looking, looking, looking for a tiny sliver of light to guide you out, it is terrifying.
If you don’t have a pocket full of matches or a flashlight or a lantern, you are at the mercy of whoever cares enough to come back for you.
I am so thankful for the friends and family who never tire of my fearful cries when I find myself in dark places.
They come running.
They don’t leave me there.
Sometimes all they have is a tiny candle themselves, a sliver of hope they are clinging to. But they raise it high , share its glow with me and together we take a step forward toward the brighter light of day.
I will never, ever forget the ones who come to me with a torch.
They help my heart when I can’t help myself.
They refuse to leave me in the dark.
Photo of man with lantern by Marko Blažević on Unsplash
I remember as a young mother of four working hard to keep my kids safe.
Next to fed and dry (two still in diapers!) that was each day’s goal: No one got hurt.
It never occurred to me THEN to add: No one got killed.
Because the most outlandish thing I could imagine was one of them falling or touching a hot stove and us having to rush to the emergency room.
Then I became a mother of teens and one by one they acquired a driver’s license and motored away from our home.
That’s when I began to beg God to spare their lives.
Read the rest here: What is Safe?
We usually think of worship as songs of joy and happiness extolling the virtues of God and Christ.
While that is most certainly a form of worship, it is absolutely not the only one.
Biblical lament is an honest, vulnerable expression of pain, a crying out to God in faith as we are suffering.
Worship is also the broken whimper of a scared and wounded child, crawling into the lap of her Abba Father.
There is no less adoration in this ultimate act of confident trust than in the most eloquent declaration of theological truth in word or song.
Lament is worship.
Christian lament is not simply complaint. Yes, it stares clear-eyed at awfulness and even wonders if God has gone…Yet at its fullest, biblical lament expresses sorrow over losing a world that was once good alongside a belief that it can be made good again. Lament isn’t giving up, it’s giving over. When we lift up our sorrow and our pain, we turn it over to the only one who can meet it: our God.”
Bringing my brokenness to God as an offering, trusting Him to receive it, to keep it and to begin to weave even this into the tapestry of my life is perhaps the ultimate act of worship.
When I refuse to pretend, refuse to hide, refuse to run away and look for an answer somewhere else, I affirm that He is my God, and there is no other beside Him.
A lament is an act of worship, a faith statement of trust, in the face of difficulty. It’s a wonderfully honest way to acknowledge our trouble to God as we also acknowledge our hope is in him.
God is not only the God of the sufferers but the God who suffers. … It is said of God that no one can behold his face and live. I always thought this meant that no one could see his splendor and live. A friend said perhaps it meant that no one could see his sorrow and live. Or perhaps his sorrow is splendor. … Instead of explaining our suffering God shares it.