What if, instead of hiding my pain, I allowed others to see it and offer it as a testimony of the power and grace of God in my life?
What if, instead of pretending that “everything is alright”, I admit that it’s not, but that God is still on the throne?
What if, instead of creating a gulf between myself and others by walling off parts of my life that I deem too messy, I throw open the door and invite folks inside-mess and all?
My scars make me who I am. My struggles are part of who I am becoming. And my messy life is the only one I’m likely to have this side of Heaven.
As I’ve written before:
If the people I meet think that I have it all together all the time, they are going to be much less likely to admit that they don’t. And let’s be real, none of us have it all together.
We all have at least one place in our lives that hurts and that needs healing.
Everyone has scars.
Authenticity is the key to opening doors and creating communities where one person can reach out to another and where genuine healing can begin.
A cousin whom I haven’t seen in decades contacted my dad in order to complete a family tree he is working to compile.
It’s a noble task and one I fully support.
But when my dad forwarded the request to me (because I had details on my own son’s wedding and his wife’s birth date) it was an unexpected trigger.
Typing away I added mine and my husband’s birth dates and the place and date of our marriage.
Then down the line of my children.
Fiona.
James Michael and his bride. Their wedding date.
Dominic. I have another date for him-one I never, ever thought I would live to record-the day he left this earth for his heavenly home. My breath catches in my throat.
Julian.
My youngest son who is now older than his brother ever got to be.
My second son has no descendants. Every molecule that was Dominic is now in the grave. No representation of his humor, his talent, his face.
His unique light has been extinguished from this world forever.
I realize that these dates will be filed away, made part of a record for those that come after without any understanding of the person they represent.
With four children under six, I have no idea how I managed to get anything done, much lessEVERYTHINGdone.
Some days I didn’t. But most days I muddled through.
But I was so. so. tired.
Every morning started with a prayer, “God, give me what I need for today. Give me strength for today. I won’t ask for tomorrow. Just for today.”
As life accelerated to that frenzy only parents of teens can understand-one here, another there, cars everywhere-my body was rebelling. My joints screamed, “No! Let’s just stay right here for a day (or a week!).”
That wasn’t an option, so I leaned in and prayed again, “God, renew my energy. Give me strength. If You aren’t going to cure me, help me learn to live well with my limitations.”
I thought my middle-aged years would give me a bit of rest. A time to catch my breath.
I was wrong.
Dominic’s death plunged me into emotional, physical, mental and spiritual exhaustion I could never have imagined. I did not know you could be so tired and still breathe.
I found myself begging God once again for strength.
Now it is my daily prayer.
And He is faithful to do as He has promised.
Eleven years and I have gotten out of bed every. single. morning.
I do what needs to be done.
I’m still standing. ❤
Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? The Eternal, the Everlasting God, The Creator of the whole world, never gets tired or weary. His wisdom is beyond understanding. God strengthens the weary and gives vitality to those worn down by age and care. Young people will get tired; strapping young men will stumble and fall. But those who trust in the Eternal One will regain their strength. They will soar on wings as eagles. They will run—never winded, never weary. They will walk—never tired, never faint.
Whether the burden is child loss, abuse, chronic illness or some other ongoing and unchangeable hard circumstance, it’s easy to get so good at acting “OK” you can almost fool yourself.
But all that stress and struggle exacts a cost.
Pretending that it doesn’t is not helpful at all.
So it’s wonderful when people ask about it.
It’s a gift when they let us share.
Awhile back another loss mom wrote this and gave me permission to use it:
In case you ever wonder, please know that it is always, always OK to ask me about [Dominic].
I love to talk about him.
No, I’m not OK. I’ll probably cry, but it’s just because it’s under the surface always, not because you asked.
And I don’t really know what people mean when they say “she’s doing well,” because if you knew what all goes on in my mind and body from grief-well, frankly you couldn’t handle it.
Eleven years ago today I woke up knowing that at some point I’d close the lid on my son’s casket and never again see his face this side of Heaven.
For friends and family it was the moment when Dominic’s death was “over”. His story complete. His life appropriately marked and celebrated. It was the end.
For me, it was a beginning.
A beginning I did not want to embrace. But there was no going back, only forward, ever forward.
❤ Melanie
I used to look at tombstones in cemeteries and do the math between the dates.
I was most focused on how long this person or that person walked the earth.
I still do that sometimes. But now I do something else as well.
I look to the left and the right to see if the person who ran ahead left parents behind. My eye is drawn to the solitary stones with the same last name next to a double monument clearly honoring a married pair.
And then I do a different kind of math.
I count the years between the last breath of the child and the last breath of his or her mama.
Because while that first date marked an end for everyone else, for the mama, it marked the beginning of the rest of her life- a life she never imagined nor would have chosen.
“The worst conceivable thing has happened, and it has been mended…All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”
~Julian of Norwich
I’m not sure when I first read this quote, but it came to my mind that awful morning. And I played it over and over in my head, reassuring my broken heart that indeed, the worst had already happened, and been mended.
Death had died.
Christ was risen-the firstfruits of many brethren.
On the one hand Death is the triumph of Satan, the punishment of the Fall, and the last enemy. Christ shed tears at the grave of Lazarus and sweated blood in Gethsemane: the Life of Lives that was in Him detested this penal obscenity not less than we do, but more. On the other hand, only he who loses his life will save it. We are baptized into the death of Christ, and it is the remedy for the Fall.
Death is, in fact, what some modern people call “ambivalent.” It is Satan’s great weapon and also God’s great weapon: it is holy and unholy; our supreme disgrace and our only hope; the thing Christ came to conquer and the means by which He conquered.
~C.S. Lewis, Miracles
Bury a child and suddenly the death of Christ becomes oh, so personal.
The image of Mary at the foot of the cross is too hard to bear.
Today is the day on the church calendar when we pause and reflect on the Last Supper, and the last words of Jesus to His disciples.
A year’s worth of sermons is contained in John 13-17 but this week I have been drawn to just one verse:
[Jesus said] ‘Now I am giving you a new command—love one another. Just as I have loved you, so you must love one another. This is how all men will know that you are my disciples, because you have such love for one another.’John 13:34 PHILLIPS
In some liturgical Christian traditions, today is the day the church remembers and honors Mary anointing the feet of Jesus with expensive and rare perfume.
It was a beautiful act of great sacrifice as the perfume would ordinarily be a family treasure broken and used only at death for anointing a beloved body.
It’s also an expression of deep sorrow because somehow Mary knew.
Mary. Knew.
So she poured out her precious gift on the One Who loves her most.
Many of you are aware Dominic was killed the Saturday before Palm Sunday in 2014. I spent THAT day contacting friends and family who needed to know, welcoming the warm hugs and sad faces of folks driving up our long driveway to offer prayers and help, and just trying to breathe.
Waiting, waiting, waiting for my husband to get home from his job in California. Looking desperately for James Michael to make it here from West Virginia. Walking-because I couldn’t sit still-and weeping because I couldn’t contain the sorrow.
By Sunday everyone was under the same roof and we went to church.
Not because of some super-spiritual commitment to show the world we hadn’t lost our faith but because it was a habit and we had no idea what else to do as we waited for Dominic’s body to be released from the coroner’s office at the state capital.
I don’t remember much from that service. I have no idea what the sermon was about or what songs were sung.
I do remember that at one point the pastor asked the question, “If you could have any super power in the world, what would you choose?” and then went on to list a few, including the ability to turn back time.
My surviving children and I locked eyes. No question. THAT was what we longed for. Go back to the moment Dominic left his apartment. Warn him to stay home. Change the story.
I also remember a sweet friend who hobbled over on crutches (she had injured her leg) during worship to just put her arm around me and allowing me to lean into her, telling me with her presence that she was oh, so very sorry.
I can’t testify that after Dom’s funeral I was inclined to show up on Sunday to a space where (by my standard of suffering) folks sang songs about the sacrifice of worship without a clue.
I couldn’t take the pseudo closeness of people physically pressing in and asking me how I was doing when I had no idea. They meant well. They truly did. But it felt like pressure to provide an answer that would assuage THEIR fears that, faced with the same loss, faith would survive.
I can tell you that after eleven years I am headed to my local congregation this morning with a different perspective.
My heart still hurts marking these days. I’ve got to get past Resurrection Sunday and the Monday following before I’ve walked through it all, including his funeral and burial.
But my Shepherd King has been faithful to lead me with gentleness and mercy along this broken road.
He gave me rest when I needed it and pushed me to walk on when I didn’t want to but it was the right thing to do.
I’ve learned that while others may not know MY pain, they have their own and the comfort I’ve received from Jesus is mine to share with them. I know I can’t turn back time and, in my heart of hearts, wouldn’t want to.
Dominic is experiencing the fullness of what we hope one day to see.
thelifeididntchoose 