thelifeididntchoose

Messed Up. Again.

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.

Tangible Absence

In response to something I posted in a bereaved parents’ group a friend used the term “tangible absence” to describe what I was feeling.

She is so right.

When I imagine something I’ve never actually experienced-even when I might say “I miss such and such” it’s not the same as when I’ve had something and it’s been taken away.

I can only miss the imaginary in an ephemeral, insubstantial way. I miss what I once possessed in a tangible way.

I know exactly the size and shape and sound and substance of the person that SHOULD be here but isn’t.

I know the energy he would add to a room or a conversation.

I know the point of view that’s missing from the debate or decision making.

And I miss him like crazy. ❤

~Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son

Not a State But a Process

C. S. Lewis gave voice to so much of human experience in ways that help us understand ourselves and one another.

His book, Mere Christianity, began as a series of radio talks that were later compiled, published and sold millions and millions of copies.

I think Lewis managed to use a conversational, inviting voice in all his works.

When I read them I feel like I’m chatting with a friend (granted, an extremely erudite friend!). He and I are discussing a thing, reasoning through it together.

He’s not teaching me something, he’s guiding me to learn it for myself.

When he experienced the loss of his beloved wife, this giant of the faith struggled like all us mortals. His grief journal was eventually published as the book, A Grief Observed, and has helped many of us who sorrow describe our feelings and find our way.

I particularly love this quote:

I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process … There is something new to be chronicled every day. Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape … Not every bend does. Sometimes the surprise is the opposite one; you are presented with exactly the same sort of country you thought you had left behind miles ago.
~C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Lewis understood that grief was not a state which could be changed like ice to water through the application of heat.

There is no quick fix for a broken heart. No remedy for missing someone you love.

Instead, grief is a process.

It’s a lifelong journey of remaking a relationship that can no longer depend on physical presence and new memories. It circles back again and again, asking the same questions, sometimes finding new answers but often having to settle for the old ones.

It’s almost five years since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven and while I have forged new paths in that time, much of my travel has been over well-worn ruts that bring me to the same watering holes.

I’m often surprised that life after loss is not linear at all.

I do feel (as I’ve shared before) that the circles progress ever upward.

I’m not standing still.

But I’m not free to escape the valley.

Repost: “Don’t Dwell On That!

Why is it “dwelling” in one instance and “remembering” in another?

Who gets to decide whether I’m taking out a cherished memory, holding it, stroking it and reliving it because it’s all I have left or I’m clutching the past, refusing to let go?

I will be the first to admit that mulling over past offenses is probably the last thing I need to do. Especially if I’m trying to forgive them. That’s not helpful nor is it healthy.

But there’s a difference between THAT kind of thinking and the kind of thinking every bereaved parent does about his or her missing child.

Read the rest here: “Don’t Dwell on That!”

For One Day

Today I decided for one day to ignore the clock and my own internal tick, tick, tick tracking minutes and hours.

Today I did or didn’t do whatever I wanted.

I refused to check my list.

Instead of optimum efficiency, batching chores and trips upstairs or down, I meandered in and out of rooms. I picked up one thing and passed another. I didn’t “clean as you go” when I made my salad. I started something and didn’t finish. I stared. I hummed. I listened to wind chimes tinkle away the hours.

My big fat cat jumped in my lap and I let him stay there even though it means I can’t do anything else because my arms don’t quite reach around him.

People tell me all the time, “Don’t worry! It’ll be there tomorrow!” But that is precisely what usually worries me-it WILL be there tomorrow.

Today, though, I gulped those words, chewed them and swallowed. Gone.

And you know what?

It was fine.

Fine.

Just fine.

I doubt this will be a trend. Fifty-five years of task-oriented, time-conscious living can’t be swept away by one glorious day of living minute to minute.

But it’s a start.

I Don’t Want To Remember My Son

I don’t want to remember my son.

I want to make memories with him.

I want him to watch me grow old, to watch him get married and have children and to hear his voice mingled with his siblings at my table.

I’ve tried dozens of times to write a post that describes the abyss that divides the life I thought I would live and what it’s turned out to be.

I can’t do it.

A twenty-three year old isn’t planning his legacy. A mom of a twenty-three year old isn’t carefully preserving daily moments in the event he suddenly disappears.

Whatever legacy Dominic has left behind is a function of his huge personality rather than careful planning. And all I have left of his life are bits and pieces I’m trying to string together so he’s not forgotten.

I was not prepared to wake up one morning and learn that his earthly story ended.

I didn’t get to say good-bye, didn’t get to look him in the eye and tell him how very much I love him, didn’t even get to hold his hand as he left this life and entered Heaven.

I know he is just fine. He’s full of joy and perfectly content.

But I’m not.

I don’t want Dominic to be a memory.

I want him to be here.

Instead Of Fixing, Offer Space To Share

I didn’t realize until I was the person who needed comforting how unhelpful and sometimes painful my own past comments were to my suffering friends and family.

There are many important and necessary conversations going on right now about how we talk to and talk about our fellow humans. I’m thankful folks are learning that words are rarely (ever?) neutral.

They build up or tear down.

And we are responsible for them.

I wish that along with other areas, we would consider how we discuss and address those who experience painful life circumstances. But we rarely do.

This is one place where the right words can make such a difference.

Instead of shutting down the broken heart or lamenting soul, we can choose to invite them to share and then stick around to listen.

We can create safe spaces instead of closing the door to further conversation.

We can participate in healing instead of perpetuating the pain.

Life is a Gift-Celebrate! Every. Single. Day.

I have never been a crystal and china kind of gal.

I got a few special pieces when my husband and I married, but most of the things in my home are durable and useful.

So I don’t have many things tucked away for special occasions.

I’m glad that when my kids were young we made even ordinary days special by setting the table, using candles, cloth napkins, real plates and mugs for meals.

We foolish mortals sometimes live through years not realizing how short life is, and that TODAY is your life.
― Edith Schaeffer, The Hidden Art of Homemaking

I’m especially thankful this side of child loss that our memories include making many regular days wonderful by choosing to celebrate the smallest moments.

I have an inexpensive set of Chinese plates, soup bowls and porcelain spoons I bought from a mail order catalog way before the Internet, much less Amazon. It gave my homemade sweet and sour chicken an air of authenticity (and it was fun!).

When December rolled around, we ditched our everyday plates for Christmas ones we used for meals and festive coffee mugs that held everything from morning coffee to the evening’s soft drinks, tea and hot cocoa.

Birthdays, holidays and regular days were all reasons to make merry and make memories.

I’m so glad we didn’t set things aside because they were too dear for everyday use.

Life IS a gift.

Celebrate it.

What Encouragement Looks Like

If I went all the way back to the beginning of this journey, I could write one hundred pages or more detailing the many, many ways people have come alongside and encouraged my heart and the hearts of my family.

But instead I’ll just start with a couple of weeks ago when we found out that Ryker would be delivered early-ready or not!

Encouragement looks like an old friend who texted back and forth with me the whole day as we awaited word that baby was born, his mama was safe and my son in Africa approved to come home. She kept me company even though we were miles apart. She sent random prayers and helpful details from her own premature son’s journey. She let me vent, moan and cry.

It was a gift.

Encouragement looks like a sweet friend who looks after our little farm and ridiculous animal set ups on a moment’s notice so I can drive down to be with my family and welcome this new life. She even continued the physical therapy we were doing with an elderly goat. Sitting in the pen, forcing her to stand, in the rain, under a tarp.

That’s love.

Encouragement looks like people who take just a minute to “like” and “share” the updates about the baby. You don’t even have to leave a comment, but evidence of your presence and prayers lifts all of us up.

It helps our hearts hold onto hope and strengthens us for the journey.

Encouragement looks like a beautiful worship song messaged to me one morning by a mom I’ve never met but consider a good friend.

Encouragement looks like taking my hand at church, looking me in the eye, and asking, “How are you holding up?” before asking me about church business or the weather.

Encouragement looks like all the folks I’ve never even met but who follow the blog and ask me for an address to send gift cards to this little family trying hard to take care of one another. I cannot begin to tell you how that overwhelms my heart.

And it’s less about the material help (which is HUGE!) and more about the time and effort someone is willing to put in for a couple they haven’t met but love anyway.

Encouragement looks like my family vet who called me every day I was out of town and reported on my companion animal, an older cat who had stopped eating and drinking a couple days before we left. All of my kids worked at her clinic over the years. James Michael learned a lot from her before he went to vet school. She knows how much the cat contributes to my sanity and emotional well-being and treated him like her own.

She didn’t have to make that additional effort, but she did.

Encouragement looks like all the comments, messages, notes and posts from fellow bereaved parents who are just as excited and joy-filled this story didn’t end in sorrow.

I think that is perhaps the greatest gift.

Those of us who know what we know and are so thankful they were spared.

That’s encouragement.

Repost: Just Plain Hard

I wrote this last year about this time but it suits me this year too.

So many big stressors combined with dozens of small ones have me begging God for relief. The end is not in sight but I DO know how the story ends.

If I can hold onto hope -which I manage to do most days-and make space for my heart on the days I just can’t, it will be alright.

Maybe not soon and certainly not in this lifetime. But it WILL be alright. ❤

Today is full of tears.

No real reason-other than the obvious one-but so many things coming together to remind me this life is hard, hard, hard.

I find on this side of burying Dominic that when two or three other stressful events pile one atop the other I crumble. Sometimes it’s other family members doing the best they can to muddle through and sometimes it’s physical pain or disappointment or the random “ya-ya” stuff of life in community with other people Whatever it is, the weight-in addition to grief-just absolutely overwhelms me.

I used to be stronger.

Or at least I thought I was stronger.

Read the rest here: Just Plain Hard