The death of any loved one opens a door and forces you to pass through.
You cannot procrastinate, cannot refuse, cannot ignore or pretend it away.
Suddenly, you find yourself where you absolutely do not want to be.
And there is no going back.
Read the rest here: Loving Well in the First Days After Loss
This series was originally published two years ago.
I’m running it again to give me a short break from daily writing as I work on material for a bereaved moms’ retreat coming up this weekend.
I have tweaked and edited the original posts a bit to update some of the information and clarify muddy language.
I continue to be indebted to the parents who graciously shared their own experiences.
My prayer is that these next posts are helpful both to those who grieve and those who love them. ❤
Our journeys begin in different ways.
Just as every birth story is unique, so, too, is every parent’s story of loss. It may be a phone call or an officer at the front door. It may be a lingering illness or a sudden one. Our children may have lived days or decades.
Their death may be anticipated, but it is never expected.
And it is always devastating.
No one is prepared to bury their child.
Read the rest here: Loving Well: Meaningful Ministry to Grieving Parents
I wrote this last year when meditating on what love really is. It’s an action word.
We can’t just do our thing and leave. Our hearts and resources are going to get tangled up with theirs.
It might get uncomfortable.
It might get expensive.
But there is no greater kindness than coming alongside someone at just the moment they feel their strength is gone.
I love the idea of Random Acts of Kindness-it’s a beautiful way to spread love and joy in our broken world.
With a few dollars or a few minutes, I have the opportunity to make someone’s day brighter, their burden lighter and remind them that not everyone is “out to get them”.
BUT-as I’ve written before here: Relational Acts of Kindness, it’s relatively easy to do my good deed and walk away.
Read the rest here: Not-So-Random Acts of Kindness
Believe me, I’ve imposed my share of“Quiet Mouse” on my own kids through the years.
Raising four close-in-age siblings, sometimes that was the only way to make the last five miles home without losing my mind.
But the premise of the game is really this: I’m bigger, I’m stronger, I’m in control and you are not-so shut up.
Even if you have something important to say.
Even if you feel like you will burst wide open if you have to hold it in.
No excuses allowed. Just. Be. Quiet.
I’ve been a quiet mouse for most of my life when it comes to standing up for myself.
Now, advocating for my children or for someone unable to fend for themselves-that’s another story. But somewhere in my formative years I embraced the message that the most important thing in the world was to keep the peace.
Even if you have something important to say.
Even if you feel like you will burst wide open if you have to hold it in.
No excuses allowed. Just. Be. Quiet.
But all this emotional turmoil I’ve been feeling since Dominic left us has uncovered layer after layer of brokenness, pain and untold stories. His death lifted the lid on the vault that had been sealed for decades.
Emotions are flying out like genies.
And I’ve come to understand that peace at all costs-when the costs are borne by a single individual in a relationship-is not peace.
It’s slavery.
I also realize that not every friendship and family tie is a mission field on which I must spill my life’s blood to prove my love for Jesus.
Sometimes laying down simply enables bad behavior and encourages bullying and disrespect.
I want to walk in love. Always.
But love does not mean I must allow other people to walk all over me.
I don’t plan to.
No more “Quiet Mouse” for me.
I wrote this post last year and want to share it again.
Because the thing God speaks to me over and over and over in this journey is:
LOVE LASTS.
There is nothing I can spend my time, energy and resources on that will follow me into eternity and remain in the hearts of those I leave behind besides love.
It’s nice to get flowers or chocolate or balloons or cards that say, “I love you”.
But true love can’t be bought.
True love is marked by sacrifice, ongoing support, genuine compassion and willingness to do whatever it takes to “be there” for another person.
It means standing with someone even when walking beside them includes bearing the unbearable.
Read the rest here: True Love
There are more than you might think.
Most folks would count the date of death and maybe the date of burial or memorial service.
But a mama’s heart counts it ALL.
I count the day he left, the day I was first able to view his body, the days of visitation, the day of the funeral and burial.
And every year these dates roll around again to remind my heart of the pain I felt then and to pierce it afresh.
So how does a heart survive all these grief anniversaries? How can I navigate the minefield of emotions and triggers that only I can see?
I believe the first step is to embrace them and not try to deny them.
I remember the horror I felt when I realized I had survived 365 days since the deputy came to my door when I was certain I wouldn’t make it through the first 24 hours. It did not feel like victory, it felt like betrayal.
How in the world could my broken heart keep beating if I truly loved my son?
I cannot, by force of will, fend off the feelings that are sure to invade my heart when it recognizes that another year has passed.
The most important thing is to have a plan, I think. That way it doesn’t slam you against the wall unawares. The feelings are impossible to outrun, but having a plan means you are anticipating them and in a kind of “fighting stance”.
The plan might be to go away or to go to the cemetery or other spot that evokes strong connection to your child. It might be an elaborate gathering that includes friends or family or just lighting a candle next to a photograph. Your heart may insist you stay in bed all day, covers over your head and wait out the ticking moments.
I think each family has to approach the day however makes sense to them. There is certainly no “right” way or “easy” way to do it.
I am sorry you have to do it at all.
Here’s the truth: even THAT day will only last 24 hours. Just like the awful day when your child left you.
However you manage to survive is fine.
You are not abandoning your missing child if you don’t make a big public display. You are not forgetting him or her if you let go of some of these grief anniversaries over time-you are learning to carry the load. You are not a bad parent if you choose a getaway to distract your heart from the pain.
You are coping the best you can-choosing to carry on.
And that makes you awesome and brave.
❤
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.
One particularly frightening test was when all four went to Louisiana-my eldest driving and the rest in the van with her. I made them call me every hour and tell me they were OK. It was the first time I realized that I could lose every one of them in a single instant should they crash-all my eggs in one basket.
I was glad when that day was over. Although the irony is they were no “safer” at the end of those 24 hours than they were at the beginning.
Because what I know now, but didn’t know then is this: There is no such thing as “safe”.
Not the way we like to think of it-not the way we add labels to devices, seat belts to cars, helmets to everything from bicycles to skateboards. Of course we should absolutely take precautions! Many lives are saved by them every single day.
But. BUT…
Life is more random than we want to admit. And there is no defense against random.
There is no way to screen for every underlying physical abnormality, no way to drive so well you can stop the drunk or inattentive driver from plowing through a stop sign, no way to anticipate every foolish choice a young person might make that ends in disaster instead of a funny story.
My first response when Dominic died driving his motorcycle was that I wanted my surviving sons to sell theirs. They did so out of respect for me. Neither of them wanted their mama to have to endure a second knock on the door and the same message delivered twice.
I receive it as a sacrifice offered in love from them.
Because it was.
Since Dominic left us almost four ( now five!) years ago, I have had to deal with my desperate need to keep my living children safe.
And it is a real struggle.
Each child is involved in a career that includes inherent risk. None of them are foolhardy, but they are exposed-perhaps more than many-to potential bad actors and dangerous circumstances.
How I long for those days when I could tuck everyone in, turn out the lights and sleep soundly because all my chicks were safe inside my own little coop! How I wish the only danger I thought about or knew about was a bump on the head from hitting a coffee table!
How my heart aches for one more moment of blissful ignorance!
But I can’t live in some imagined water color past. I have to live in the world as it is.
So I remind my heart that safe is an illusion-no matter where we are. Life is not living if it’s only about preserving breath and not about making a difference.
And I let go.
Over and over and over.
I release them to be who they were meant to be.
Even if it costs more than I am willing to give.
I woke up this morning to a downpour.
That’s not unusual for this time of year where I live. I had even anticipated it by (unusual for me!) checking weather last night and securing all needful items under cover.
But as I was sitting in the dark, working on blog posts, I heard my beagles begin barking.
Again, not unusual-sometimes they smell or see something hidden from my senses in the dark cloak of early morning.
But then I began to hear random clinking and bumping and finally, scratching on the front door.
So I got up to investigate.
Two of the beagles had escaped their pen and were having a blast in the rain and mud. They ran to greet me, making sure their wet, nasty tails and bodies hit every part of my lower leg so I could carry the aroma of wet dog back inside with me.
Years ago I would have fussed and fumed, gotten dressed and waded through the wet to put them back in their pen-staying outside (even with thunder and lightning!) until I had patched whatever breach they had managed to create in order to escape.
But this morning I just turned on the porch light (to let them know I was here and aware) and went back inside to my coffee and computer. * I’ll venture out when the sun’s up and I can see what I’m doing. It’s just not worth getting worked up over.
I have changed since sending a child ahead to heaven.
Things that used to make me apoplectic don’t even raise my eyebrows anymore.
I’ve developed a whole new set of priorities. They serve as filters and make it easy to decide in an instant if something’s worth my emotional, physical or mental energy.
It’s actually a really short list.
People.
Do I love and care for my many critters? Absolutely!
I am a shepherd by heart and by trade.
But things? Nope.
They are meant to be used-meant to be an aid to living not a master of my life.
I made a lovely (insert sarcastic tone here) “pinstripe” down my nearly new truck last September while at my parents’ home. After a brief moment of disbelief and a few expletives, I moved on. It absolutely does not bother me.
Panties in a wad over inconvenient circumstances? Not so much.
Maybe I have to rearrange my plans but that’s so much easier than never being able to make plans with that person again.
I’m finding this new way liberating.
Simple.
Free.
* Full disclosure: After I wrote this, just as the sun was rising I HAD to go out and get those mischievous little buggers. Tail-wagging but carnivorous, they were chasing my poor rooster. So I spent almost an hour trying to wrangle their wet, muddy, stinky fannies back into their pen, block the escape route and pray that they didn’t repeat the maneuver.
BUT I was still smiling.
Laughing, actually.
On a scale of 1-10 it didn’t even register. 🙂
And a fellow farmer friend sent me THIS, which made it even funnier:
Please hear me.
I do NOT blame you that my son and my sorrow have drifted down your list of “things that need attention”. Your life is as busy as mine once was and your calendar full of commitments and celebrations that require your attendance.
There is no way you would know it’s 69 days until the fourth anniversary of Dominic’s sudden absence.
There is no reason for you to be aware that as the southern landscape turns to spring, my heart and mind turn to death.
But it’s the truth.
As the rest of the world looks forward to Easter (and I do too-for the promise and hope it brings) I am dreading Holy Week. Dominic was killed the Saturday before Palm Sunday and laid to rest the Monday after Easter. So every year I relive it twice-once during Holy Week and once again (when the dates are different) according to the calendar.
And each year it feels lonelier and lonelier.
Because each year fewer and fewer people remember or if they do, they don’t know how to offer that up as a blessing because it feels awkward or stiff.
So may I suggest a few things that most bereaved parents would absolutely LOVE for friends and family to say or do-especially as the months roll into years or even decades?
There is a common theme here: if you think about my child, let me know.
I will not forget Dominic.
I couldn’t.
But it is oh, so helpful to know that others aren’t forgetting either.
thelifeididntchoose 