Something you hear early on in this grief journey is that one day you will find a “new normal”.
I hate that phrase.
Because while I have certainly developed new routines, new ways of dealing with life, new methods for quelling the tears and the longing and the sorrow and the pain-it is NOT normal.
Read the rest here: Nothing “Normal” About It
I don’t know about you, but I find I can often white-knuckle through a holiday itself only to be spent and exhausted on the other side.
Staying busy in the kitchen, trying hard to be present and participate, enjoying extra folks in the house and around the table are great distractions.
I love being with my people!
Of course I’m constantly aware of the quiet tune that plays in the background, “Dom’s not here” but I genuinely appreciate every moment I have with the ones I love.
But…then comes the quiet.
A silent reminder of the hollow carved in my heart.
And I can’t ignore it.
So I have to take a day (or two or three) and rest.
It’s what I call a “holiday hangover” and it has nothing to do with over-indulging in spirits or food.
It’s OK if I don’t rush to tidy the house or start planning for the next get-together. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.
I can pause, take a breather, sit and read or do nothing at all.
You can too. ❤
If I find in myself a desire for which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.
C. S. Lewis
I remember the first time I felt homesick.
I had been away from home before but never without the company of someone I knew well and loved.
This time was different-I was at a sleepover camp populated with strangers. Kind strangers, yes, but not a familiar face among the crowd.
Read the rest here: Homesick
We are all on a journey through life and each carry some sort of load. Mine is child loss. Yours may be something else.
We can help one another if we try.
Love and grace grease the wheels and make the load lighter.
Here are ten ways to love a mourning heart at Thanksgiving:
Read the rest here: Ten Ways to Love a Mourning Heart at Thanksgiving
When I first began writing in this space, “lament” had only just come into vogue.
Now, it’s everywhere.
If this year has taught hearts a single thing, I hope it has taught them there’s no use pretending life doesn’t hurt sometimes. We were not created to carry that kind of pain alone.
And thankfully, we don’t have to.
God, in Christ, invites me to speak it, to sing it, to release it as an exhale so His grace and strength can rush in to fill that empty space.
You’re invited too.
❤
Thanksgiving was always my favorite holiday.
I loved everything about it: the color scheme, the food (I love, love, love to cook-it was never a burden), family and friends gathered around the table, and the wonderful slowness of the day as it lingered into nightfall.
It was more flexible than Christmas for including all sorts of folks who otherwise didn’t have someplace to go. Living near colleges meant that we welcomed students from around the world-we might have two or three dozen laughing faces milling about.
It was wonderful.
And I loved going around the circle, tummies bursting, to share what people were thankful for and why.
When Dominic left us everything changed.
Oh, I was (and still am) so very thankful for so very many things…
Read the rest here: The Power of Lament to Make Room for Thanksgiving
We are surrounded by hurting hearts. When one of them turns to you and bravely holds out her pain, accept it as an offering.
Because it is.
An offering of trust, friendship and vulnerability.
❤ Melanie
We’ve all been there-we ask a routine question and someone refuses to play the social game.
We say, “How are you?” and they answer honestly instead of with the obligatory, “I’m fine. You?”
Suddenly the encounter has taken an unexpected turn.
“Oh, no! I don’t know what to say,” you think.
It can end badly-both of you walking away uncomfortable and wary.
Read the rest here: How To Respond When Someone Shares Their Pain
Today is my birthday.
And while I am truly grateful for another trip around the sun, since Dominic left us it’s not a simple celebration of life lived and the hope of years to come.
The last birthday I had with an unbroken family circle was a lovely surprise party for my fiftieth held in Dom’s apartment.
[Eleven] years later and it seems a lifetime ago.
So when I wake up to another sunrise and take inventory (as those of us who reach a certain age are wont to do) on the anniversary of my birth, I count losses as well as gains.
And I wish, wish, wish that old wives’ tale about blowing out candles in a single breath were true.
Because other than the continued health of my surviving children, there’s only one wish worth the air I take in and out of my lungs-something Dominic can never do again-and that is for him to have the privilege of blowing out the candles once more.
It’s not only HIS birthday that makes my heart ache.
It’s mine.
I would have gladly traded my life for his.
But I wasn’t given that choice. ❤
I admit I’m full of words. When my mama came to pick me up when her best friend was babysitting for awhile, she said, “You can’t have her yet, she’s telling me all kinds of things!”
More than once my mouth got me in trouble.
It’s still the source of most of my problems.
But for a time after Dominic left I found that the only words I could muster beyond what was absolutely necessary were written in my journal. Because the words I wanted to say were bitter and harsh and tasted bad as they came up my throat and threatened to roll off my tongue.
Read the rest here: Why I Have To Talk It Out
We were pretty sure Thanksgiving was nailed down this year.
Several of us have spent months doing work down at Papa’s place creating the perfect space for the whole family to gather. Food was ordered, menu planned and travel coordinated.
But no one can plan for the unpredictable.
So when Covid cases skyrocketed and we did the math, it became too risky for four separate households to spend five days eating, sleeping and playing together under one roof.
We called it off.
It was and is heartbreaking.
But not as heartbreaking as adding another empty chair around the table or missing another face in our family circle.
Perhaps you’re faced with some equally hard choices this year, this season.
I’m so sorry.
It seems especially unfair to those whose hearts are already lonely from loss to be forced to give up the chance for fellowship and encouragement in company of family and friends!
I wish there were some magic to make it all better.
There isn’t.
And one thing I’ve learned in this life I didn’t choose is this: you have to make the best of what you have left.
So I pray no matter how small, how unusual, how disappointing your own Thanksgiving may feel this year that you find space in your heart for hope.
We are not doing what we planned, but we are doing something.
It won’t be what we wished for, but we will still have a day.
I’ll take it. ❤
I first shared this four years ago when I was still in the early days of mourning Dominic. Our family was facing the third set of holidays with an empty chair at the table.
Life since then has been full of additional challenges and loss.
I still rebel sometimes at the road I’m asked to walk.
But I am more convinced than ever that when I yield my life and heart to the Master Potter, He will mold me and make me into the likeness of Jesus.
And that’s really who I want to be-even if it hurts.
❤
I can’t claim to be satisfied with this life I’m living.
I do not like this path I am forced to walk, this darkness that hides the light, this pain that burrows deep in my bones.
But I can say I’m learning not to fight it.
Sometimes I still pitch a fit.
Read the rest here: Yielded and Still
thelifeididntchoose 