Coming Soon! (slowly)

About a week ago, I promised a series of posts highlighting the time “after” loss–and I have had some amazing responses from grieving parents willing to share their experiences.

But the number of responses has made it challenging to distill the different voices into a collective and representative picture.  So it’s taking a little more time than I thought it would.

I hope to begin the series early in  February.  A good time to start sharing how others have loved us who walk this path in the valley of the shadow of death.

It won’t all be sunshine and roses.  Valleys have dark places and the sun is often hidden by the high mountains on each side.

There are times when the Body of Christ and our own families have failed to show up or minister in meaningful ways.

But there are so many good stories of faithful friendship, encouragement and genuine compassion!  

Thank you to all who have shared with me.  And if you have thought about it, but let it slip your mind, it’s not too late–send me an email, comment on this post or message me on Facebook.

I look forward to hearing from you.

It Never Rains in Sunny California

My husband works in Southern California so I spend part of each year on the West Coast.

While shopping one day, a brief rain storm blew in and caught me off guard.  As I was leaving the store, I noticed the reaction of my fellow shoppers–they stood, dumbfounded and paralyzed behind the plate glass windows unsure how to get from the shelter of the store to the shelter of their cars.

They had no idea how to walk in the rain because they didn’t expect it and they were unprepared.

For Christians, pain, loss and death can feel like a sudden storm.  Often these events catch us off-guard, unprepared and we stand frozen–immobilized because we have no idea what to do.

As long as our Sunday schools, sermons and supper table conversations don’t make room for the very real experience of pain and suffering in the Christian life, we are raising a generation to believe that pain and suffering and loss are rare events and that they may very well get through life without experiencing them.

And we are leaving them vulnerable to attacks of the enemy when painful events come along.

Hurting people make us uncomfortable.  It takes courage to sit with the suffering and allow them to share their pain and struggle.  It requires energy and effort to enter in and help bear their burden.  But when we do, we not only offer help for their wounded hearts, we are also learning things that will be useful in our own journey

That day in California I walked to my car, unfazed by the drops falling from the sky because, being an Alabama girl, I was used to the rain.

I share my story and pray that others may find comfort in their own grief and pain.  Not everyone will lose a child.  But everyone will face trials and testing and times of doubt.

And the only safe harbor in the storms of life is in the Person and Promise of Jesus Christ.

He alone can still the wind and waves that threaten to overwhelm us and drown our hope.

We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go. It’s an unbreakable spiritual lifeline, reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God where Jesus, running on ahead of us, has taken up his permanent post as high priest for us, in the order of Melchizedek.

Hebrews 6:18-20 MSG

 

 

 

 

the cost of compassion

I can’t help it.

I think too much.  I wonder too often.  I work too hard to make sense of things.

And the thing that is puzzling me right now is why people pull away from those experiencing deep and lasting pain.

Like the pain of burying a child.  Or the burden of chronic physical disability.  Or the unceasing struggle of overcoming addiction.

I think I’ve hit on a few possibilities:

  • There is no end in sight.  None of these scenarios offer a tidy final chapter that wraps loose ends into a comfortable narrative.
  • It challenges what we believe about God.  It’s one thing to consider the problem of pain and suffering in the world from a theoretical perspective and quite another to experience it in real time.
  • Our days are too full of “busy work” to leave room for real ministry. Overscheduled and frazzled,  we don’t have the emotional, physical or psychological energy required to stand with someone while they battle.

So we trade pity for compassion.

Pity says, “I’m sorry for you.  Let me do something for you that makes me feel better.”

We offer platitudes and prayers from afar as a substitute for presence and personal interaction.

And when our attention is turned elsewhere, we drift away–abandoning the broken to sit alone with their pain.

Most of us don’t mean to do it–we just move on, leaving the limping behind.

But the cold shoulder wounds as much as hurtful words. Acknowledgement is as great a blessing as an extended hand.

Compassion says, “I see your pain.  I hurt with you.  Let me stay with you until you feel better.  And if you never feel better, I’ll still be here.”

Compassion requires conscious commitment to push back against our tendency to forget those who live with things they cannot change and will never forget.

God Himself stepped into His creation to feel the pain of brokenness, to bear the price of sin and to open a Way for restoration and redemption.

Jesus came to make the Father known.

There is no substitute for walking with the wounded.  It is costly, it is painful, it is hard.

But I would argue that when we do, we are most like our Savior.

 

Searching for the Rhythm

Counselors tell the bereaved that grief will change them.

They readily acknowledge that life after loss will never be the same as it was before death entered our world.  But they encourage us that there will be a “new normal”–different, yes,  but some kind of settled pattern that we can count on.

I’m not sure when this is supposed to happen.

Every day I feel out out of balance, off-kilter and have to scramble to catch up to the clock ticking off the hours.  I can’t find the pattern, the beat…

Grief sways to a rhythm of its own.

Hard to follow, impossible to second guess.

I step on my own toes trying to keep up and find that often I fall flat on my face.

When Dominic applied to the University of Alabama Law School, he had to submit a personal statement.  The idea was to give the selection committee insight into intangibles that might make a prospective student a good candidate for the program.

Dominic wrote about being a drummer.

He made the case that percussion is the heartbeat of music.  It marks the pace, leads the way.  If a drummer misses a beat, it can throw the whole band into confusion.

My life as a bereaved mother feels like music that can’t find its way.

There is melody and harmony and sometimes sweet singing–but I can’t discern a rhythm and I don’t know where it’s going. Discord clangs loudly in the background.

These years were supposed to be the ones where I swayed instinctively in well-worn paths to familiar tunes.

Not ones in which I had to learn a brand new step to a song I don’t even like.

I don’t have the option to request a different tune, so I do my best to keep moving to this broken beat.

Free eBooks

Kathleen Bailey Duncan has published a book inviting others to share her Journey from Grief into Grace–a sound, Bible based resource for bereaved parents and those who want to minister to them. Free on Amazon this Wednesday, Thursday and Friday in eBook format. I highly recommend it!

kathleenbduncan

Both of my books will be free this Wednesday, Thursday and Friday on Amazon.com in eBook format.

For more information about the books, click here.

View original post

Sunrise Benediction

My living room window is a huge, energy inefficient affair that lets in too much heat in the summer and too much cold in the winter.

But I will never replace it–because it also gives me a breathtaking view of the sunrise.  

Every morning my body responds to an internal alarm set to the time I was startled out of bed by the deputy delivering the news of Dominic’s death.  I cannot sleep longer.  So I rise, make coffee and settle into my rocking chair with computer, Bible and journal close by.

I spend the dark hours writing, reading and sharing in community with other bereaved parents who wake to their own alarms, unable to fend off another day of living the reality of missing our children.  

It is so quiet that the purring cat in my lap sounds loud in my ears.

Slowly other sounds join the chorus of daybreak–roosters challenging the sun to a duel, birds flitting from branch to branch, calling out the news that now is the time to get the worm.

I look up and the warm glow of sunrise silhouettes bare winter branches of giant oak trees and reminds me that the world still turns.

Seasons still change.

And I am still breathing.

Darkness hides things from us, it fosters fear and isolates. The black of night turns familiar territory into fearsome wilderness.  The enemy thrives in the inky corners of unlit places.

But light disarms the darkness.

I venture forth boldly in the daylight where I would not set foot in the night.

So I treasure the daily reminder that darkness does not last forever, even the night has limits.

Open up before God, keep nothing back; he’ll do whatever needs to be done: He’ll validate your life in the clear light of day and stamp you with approval at high noon.

Psalm 37:6 MSG

Help Me, Please!

Burying my son and living life without one of my children walking with me continues to be the hardest thing I have ever done.  I wouldn’t wish the pain and struggle on my worst enemy.

But I am determined not to waste the things that God is teaching me through this experience.

I want to allow Him to redeem this brokenness.

That’s why I share my journey.

I am working on a series of posts that will highlight some of the most helpful things people did for me and our family in the early days of our grief journey.  I will also share the physical, emotional, spiritual and psychological challenges and experiences of bereavement.

I am asking other bereaved parents who are willing,  to share their experiences so people can have the benefit of many and varied voices:

(I will never reveal any names or identifying information)

  • What did people do for you and your family that was particularly helpful around the time of your child’s death?
  • What do you wish had been done differently?
  • What advice would you give to a parent in the first few weeks of grief?
  • What support did you receive from your church or faith community?
  • What support did you wish you had received from your church or faith community?
  • What were the greatest challenges with extended family?
  • What was helpful for your surviving children as they grieved?
  • What surprised you most about grieving your child?
  • What do you want others to know about your grief journey?

These are just a few questions that I would like to explore–you may think of others. Please feel free to respond in the “comments” section or send me an email to Godsgrdnr@aol.com.

You can also join the discussion on the public Facebook page:  Heartache and Hope: Life After Losing a Child.

There is nothing easy about grieving a child, but I pray that sharing our experiences can help ease the pain of other parents just beginning this journey.