Almost four years and I still have those moments.
I know from other grieving mamas that I always will.
But sometimes they catch me by surprise.
Motoring home from Walmart, a campaign sign catches my eye. The candidate is young and running for District Judge in our county. That could have been Dominic.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
Read the rest here: Breathe In. Breathe Out. Repeat.
A friend recently posted that not all the lessons of grief are bitter.
Some are sweet.
She’s right.
I’ve learned a lot on this journey. And one of the sweet things I’ve learned is that the best thing to offer fellow travelers is a bit of my heart instead of a piece of my mind.
We all have pet causes, pet peeves and personal opinions. Social media makes it oh, so easy to promote them.
That’s great.
But too often one person’s post leads to another person’s comment which leads to snarky remarks, replies and reactions. Pretty soon what began as an exercise in free speech devolves into a free-for-all. The only thing stopping physical blows is the distance between keyboards across the Internet.
I don’t have to make a point every time I make a comment.
I can simply scroll past that tasteless meme or sarcastic political post.
Life’s too short to be offended over every. little. thing.
Really.
It is.
Most people are familiar with SAD-Seasonal Affective Disorder-a cluster of symptoms mimicking depression that develop in otherwise healthy folks when the shorter days and longer nights of winter limit sunshine exposure.
Fewer folks know that nearly every bereaved parent has his or her own version of SAD which has nothing to do with daylight/darkness cycles and everything to do with the calendar.
For me, it starts in February and runs through May.
The last time all my children were together was mid-February 2014 as we celebrated the youngest’s birthday. I remember sitting outside on the unusually warm day and chatting about random things. There were two upcoming graduations and my oldest son’s wedding.
Someone said, “Hey, we should get a picture.” Someone else said, “Nah-we’ll be making lots of pictures this spring.”
So we didn’t take one.
Every year that’s the day my heart marks the beginning of the end.
The beginning of a march toward the most awful thing that has ever happened to our family.
Then there’s the day Dominic came out to the farm to fix a friend’s car. They needed the tools and shed to do the job. We joked and talked and shared a meal.
Then I hugged him and he went on his way.
That grease-stained jacket is still hanging on a peg in the downstairs bathroom.
Spring Break. I thought I’d see him again before classes resumed but a trip that lasted a day longer than it was going to meant he drove directly to his apartment. So a couple of weeks passed before he was able to plan another weekend trek out to the house.
I had just exchanged a series of messages with him, sharing photos of the heavy rains that ran our creek out of the banks and almost into the elevated roadway.
We ended our texts with “I love you. See you Saturday!”
My heart still accuses me for neglecting the days between the last time I saw Dominic and the last time he drew breath. If I had known then what I know now…
But we don’t, do we?
So on my season goes.
From February and all the “lasts” to April twelfth and the devastating news that my son would never come home again.
Then my heart marks the funeral, cleaning out his apartment and the first family celebration of which one of my children was not a part.
A few weeks later is Dominic’s birthday on May twenty-eighth when he doesn’t get any older but I get further away from the last time I hugged his neck.
A long sad season indeed.
Every parent who is missing a child has their own. A time when he or she wishes the world would both stop to take notice and spin faster to make the days pass.
My heart and body respond even if my mind tries to pretend these weeks are really no different than the rest of the year.
My son is still missing.
My heart is still yearning.
This is still the life I didn’t choose.
Another bereaved mom wrote that she was better able to cope now than she had been a year ago.
And thanks to Facebook memories she had proof.
Several comments down a second mom wrote something that got me thinking-when, exactly, did Dominic’s loss move from the forefront to the background?
I’m not sure I can pinpoint a day or moment when I realized that sorrow was no longer ALL I feel and Dominic’s absence no longer ALL I see.
I remember when more experienced loss moms posted and talked about grief being gentler and quieter I thought that they were out of their minds.
How in the world would this breath-robbing, heart-stopping, crippling pain ever be anything close to “gentle”?
How could the pulsating, blasting, all-consuming noise of loss become softer?
In the first days, months and even years, everything about loss was so loud it was all I could hear.
Rock concert, standing-next-to-the-giant-speakers-loud.
So loud it shook my body and made me want to cover my ears. There was no way to block the sound, no silent corner where I could retreat and hide. Just relentless pounding noise and pain.
But little by little, in imperceptible increments the volume decreased.
Now, missing Dominic is the background music to everything. A quiet tune I hum in my head that keeps me company all day and invades my dreams at night.
If I take a moment and pay attention or when other things quiet down, it moves again to the forefront.
My head and heart are never free of the music Dominic brings to my life. He is the soundtrack to my days, the lullaby as I fall asleep.
No longer an ear-piercing scream demanding attention, grief is now mostly a quiet song in a minor key.
Never silent.
Always playing.
I think I will post this link as long as I maintain the blog because I will always be a voice for those whose lives look more like Ash Wednesday than Mardi Gras.
I will continue to speak out for space in our congregations and fellowships that acknowledge life is often hard, often unfair and often more like a broken hallelujah than a high note.
I am not a member of the Church of the Perpetually Cheerful. I am a member of the Broken Body of Christ, limping through this world, holding onto hope with both hands.
Twenty-four hours separate one of the most outlandish global parties and one of the most somber religious observances on the Christian calendar.
Many of the same folks show up for both.
Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday”, is the last hurrah for those who observe Lent-a time of reflection, self-denial and preparation before Resurrection Sunday.
It’s a giant party-food, fellowship and fun-a wonderful way to celebrate the blessings of this life.
Ash Wednesday, by contrast, is an invitation to remember that “from dust you came and to dust you will return”. None of us get out of here alive.
Read the rest here: Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday: A Study in Contrasts
I think broken hearts have a unique gift to offer the Body of Christ.
When we choose to be open about our wounds, our tears, our fears and our struggles we invite others to do the same.
Working through them together we are ALL stronger and better able to face the next battle.
Paul often wrote in his letters about a particular hardship he faced or was facing. He shared so others could see not only that he struggled, but that the Lord stood with him and would do the same for them if they held on.
How encouraging for hurting hearts to know that they are not alone!
Our tears unite us. They make us safe. They allow us to whisper, “The Lord helped me survive and He’ll help you too. I’ll hold your hand while you find your way to Him.” And when we make one other human simply see they aren’t alone, we make the world a better place. ~Lysa Terkeurst (twitter)
When I was a little girl, I used to wrap my hand around my daddy’s forefinger when we walked together. His long legs meant that mine had to work double time to keep up.
But no matter where his legs took us, I knew I was safe-because he was with me, he wouldn’t leave me and he would take care of me.
When I was afraid, I could just squeeze his hand a little tighter and courage flooded my soul.
I’m very thankful for the example and blessing of a faithful, loving earthly father because it makes it so much easier for me to trust my Heavenly Father.
There are many things that terrify me in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Left to myself, I’d turn and run, hide or just lie down and give up.
But I’m not alone.
My Shepherd walks alongside me. His Presence gives me courage and strength to keep going.
When I am afraid, I cling tighter to His promises, lean harder on His grace and hold on for dear life to His love.
In the hour of crisis, I may be weak in the knees, but I must step forward. I may bow in my private Gethsemane, sweat blood, and cry for deliverance, but then I rise to take up the cross and move toward yonder marked-out hill of suffering. The fight of faith does not allow me to flee in terror. … I dare not and will not deny the sustaining power of the living God.
When Paul wrote, ‘I can do everything through him who gives me strength’ (Philippians 4:13), he was not boasting of his cleverness or aptitude in mastering circumstances. He was expressing deep confidence that in whatever condition — sickness or health, abundance or poverty, life or death — Christ would enable him to cope, even triumph. He experienced and preached what he truly believed: ‘In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us’ (Romans 8:37).
~James Means, A Tearful Celebration
I only recently came across this quote by Mark Twain.
It’s from a letter he wrote to a close friend after his favorite daughter, Susy, aged 24, died of meningitis while her parents were abroad.
It is heartbreaking and utterly perfect.
Read the rest here: “Why Am I Robbed, And Who is Benefited?” Mark Twain on Child Loss
When I was asked several months ago to speak to a group of hospice care workers, I titled the presentation “Lifting the Veil on Grief”.
One of the topics I covered was how experiencing the death of a loved one-especially out-of-order or untimely death- can cause even the staunchest believer to doubt.
And the first thing I said was, “Doubt in the face of overwhelming sorrow and hard circumstances is absolutely normal. But doubt is NOT disbelief.”
So often friends, family, clergy, social workers and others want to steer hearts away from doubt because they are afraid that entertaining questions or expressing disappointment in God will always lead to someone losing faith.
That is untrue.
When my son ran ahead to Heaven, I reexamined everything I believed.
But I did not “lose” my faith.
I never once doubted that God was still working, was still loving and was still in control.
But I most certainly had to drag out every single thing I thought I knew about how He worked, loved and superintended the world and examine it in light of my experience of burying my son. It took a long time to work through all the pat answers I had been offered and myself doled out to others for years that didn’t fit with my new reality.
One of the ways I did that was to journal my questions, complaints, anger and disappointment. I wrote it out.
Many of the Psalms are precisely that-David and others crying out to God, begging Him for understanding and for a sliver of hope. As the Psalmist breathed out his doubts and fears, the Spirit of God breathed fresh life into his soul.
My journals are filled with strong words and strong feelings. They are also filled with, what I believe, God spoke to my heart in response. Sometimes it was in the form of a Bible verse, sometimes a memory, sometimes song lyrics or a prayer. And sometimes the pages are simply a record of how my Shepherd gently led me through a particular hard moment or day or week.
So if you are struggling with doubt-let yourself off the hook.
You can’t deny it.
And you don’t have to.
You’re in good company.
Grab a notebook and pen and start writing. Just begin. Don’t edit yourself in fear someone may read it one day. God knows anyway.
When you’re done spilling, sit quietly in the Presence of your Shepherd. Listen to what He may be speaking to your broken heart.
I have done this for decades through many hard things- child loss being the hardest.
The Lord is faithful to meet me right where I am and fill me with His Spirit.
He’s never leaves me without hope when I turn my heart toward Him.
There’s a lot of wisdom in this little poem.
Let the words sink in.
If you are having a hard day or hard week or even a hard month, don’t give up.
Learn to rest, not quit. ❤
thelifeididntchoose 