Every time the headlines scream death and destruction, my heart stops.
When it’s YOUR child, husband, mother, cousin you can’t change the channel or route the conversation to lighter topics.
You just have to bear it.
Read the rest here: Not What I Had Planned
Grief is not sin.
It wasn’t until another grieving mom asked the question that I realized there are some (many?) in the community of believers that think grief is sin.
Not at first, mind you-everyone is “allowed” a certain amount of time to get over the loss of a dream, the loss of a job, the loss of health or the loss of a loved one.
But carry that sadness and wounded heart too publicly for too long and you better be ready for someone to question your faith.
And (heaven forbid!) you drag your limping soul to church on Sunday and sit silent during worship, tears streaming, as the rest of the congregation heartily affirms all the things you now wrestle with every day.
Is God good? ALL the time? Does God protect the ones He loves? ALL the time?
“We bring the sacrifice of praise….” What sacrifice have you made lately? Have you buried a child?
I think anything has the potential to be sin. If I allow my heart, mind and soul to focus exclusively on what I’ve lost instead of what I’m promised through Jesus Christ, that is sin.
But grief itself is not sin.
Paul said, “We do not grieve as those who have no hope” NOT “we do not grieve”. (I Thessalonians 4:13)
Sadness is not sin. Sorrow and missing my son is not sin.
For a time, especially at the beginning, grief occupied most of my field of vision. It’s that huge.
We are made of dust and it cannot be otherwise.
Death is awful and the redemption of what was lost in the Fall cost God His only son. “The whole creation groans” (mourns, grieves) “to be set free from bondage to decay”. (Romans 8:21-22)
Jesus cried out, “My God, My God, Why have You forsaken Me?” as He bore the full weight of sin and sorrow of the world.
I believe that grief becomes sin when I choose to turn my face away from God and only toward my sorrow.
If I am holding it and dragging it with me toward the foot of the cross, that’s not sin.
If I turn my heart and face toward the One Who made me and trust that even in this painful place He is carrying me and will care for me, that’s not sin.
The writer of Hebrews speaks of bringing the “sacrifice of praise” (Hebrews 13:15). It is no sacrifice to praise God for the beautiful blessings.
It is quite the sacrifice to praise God for what Joni Eareckson Tada calls a “bruising of a blessing”.
If I continue to wrestle, like Jacob-clinging and begging for the blessing-I am not sinning when I walk away with the limp the wound leaves behind.
Jesus has opened the way to the throne of grace by His own blood.
I don’t have to hide and I don’t have to be afraid.
He knows my pain. He knows my name.
I keep bringing my broken heart to the altar and lift it up in broken praise.
That’s not sin.
It’s the widow’s mite-it’s everything I’ve got.
Living and dead.
Loud and silent.
Together yet parted, present but absent.
Beauty of the moment contrasted with darkness that refuses to obey the light.
How to be present in the “now” with a heart that longs for the “then”?
I never expected to have to reach across time and space and heaven to touch my child.
I hate this divided life!
Imagining the worst thing possible can’t hold a candle to knowing it by experience.
I want my living children to know how fiercely they are loved!
A lioness could not keep me from protecting them if it were possible.
But it’s not possible.
My heart holds knowledge I would gladly give up.
Our family watched the movie “Sully” the other night.
I cried when they showed the real people whose lives were spared hugging and thanking Captain Sully for his choice to do what was necessary to save them.
Because I know that each life saved also saved lives of others–saved them from the awful burden of grief and sorrow that would have become their daily experience.
I’ve written here a great deal about the need for friends and family and the church community to “mourn with those who mourn”.
The ones who have no choice to but to walk this Valley of the Shadow of Death need faithful, compassionate companions.
My heart has been forcibly expanded by sorrow until it literally breaks again when I hear of another family that must bear this burden.
But tonight I realized that this deep grief I carry has created an equally strong and proportional reaction to the great joy others experience when lives are saved.
Because I know, know, know exactly what it feels like when the outcome is disastrous, I can feel a joy that those who merely escape it will never know.
I know by terrible experience what they are spared.
Not only what they get to keep-
but also what they will never be forced to understand.
They rejoice because they imagine what might have happened. I rejoice because I know what it feels like when it does happen.
When death is thwarted my heart dances.
I sing the song of victory over the forces of darkness.
Remember when the Eternal brought back the exiles to Zion?
It was as if we were dreaming—
Our mouths were filled with laughter;
our tongues were spilling over into song.
The word went out across the prairies and deserts,
across the hills, over the oceans wide, from nation to nation:
“The Eternal has done remarkable things for them.”
We shook our heads. All of us were stunned—the Eternal has done remarkable things for us.
We were beyond happy, beyond joyful.Psalm 126:1-3 VOICE
There is no easy answer for why children die–no sweet saying that can wash away the pain and the sorrow and the regret of burying your son.
I can’t paste a Bible verse on my broken heart like a Band-aid on a skinned knee–the wound is too great and the damage too extensive.
Read the rest here: Waiting for the Holy Words to Fall Inside
You can’t hold your breath forever.
But when you first learn your child is dead you want to–oh, how you want to.
I don’t know if it was defiance or hope that made me certain that if I could just stop breathing, I could freeze time.
Read the rest here: Hallelujah is an Exhale
I was absolutely overwhelmed in those first days.
Cars, cars, cars filled my long driveway and front yard.
People spilling out like ants scrambling after the hill is disturbed.
Oh, our hill was disturbed-knocked wide open by that deputy’s visit. Phone calls to let others know. Phone calls from people who couldn’t get in touch with him and were just checking “in case something had happened”.
It had happened.
It. HAD. happened.
After the customary ceremony and handshaking and food, the cards flooded in. Some with hand-written heartfelt messages of, “praying for you”, “we are so very sorry”, “we love you”. Some with pre-printed poems that absolve the sender of the need to find words for things for which there are no words.
My son is dead. What can you say to that?
And then the silence. The morning that I woke up to realize I had done all I ever could do for Dominic. My last act was to find his body a resting place and pray his soul to heaven.
He was home.
I was left in a strange country filled with landmarks I no longer recognized and a language I no longer understood.
Who comes into that?
Not many. Only a few brave souls stick around for the after-only a few true friends keep calling and coming and caring for the long haul.
Because sitting with me in my grief, listening to me question my faith, keeping company with uncertainty and loss of control is frightening. It takes great self-control to simply be present and not try to say something or do something to try to fix the unfixable.
If it could happen to MY family, it could happen to theirs. And no one wants to think of that unless they have to.
So many leave.
Not immediately and not flamboyantly. They just drift away like unmoored sailboats caught in the rising winds of life and busyness and school plays and church socials.
My personal tragedy is a footnote to their life journal-and who reads footnotes?
But there are a few who purpose to make my burden their burden.
A few who call and write and text and message on the important dates like when he died, his birthday, Christmas, Easter. Even fewer who call and write and text and message just because-just because they heard a song or saw a sunset or remembered for a moment that there is a mama out there who carries this grief 24/7.
I have no idea how Jesus will reward His followers when they make it Home. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the ones who choose to run in when others run away will receive a crown. Because their faithful love in the dark places brings life and light to hurting hearts.
And isn’t that the essence of the gospel message?
You are not alone.
You are loved.
There is a way forward.
When you have exhausted all your own resources, God has made a way where there was no way. Even when you can’t take a step on your own-especially when you can’t take a step on your own-Jesus will carry you.
The ones who stay sing the gospel song to my heart.
They remind me that Jesus hasn’t forgotten.
Our family has never been the “go somewhere for the holidays” sort. We tend to stick close to home, to what’s familiar, to routine and regular bedtimes.
But lately life has thrown us a number of curveballs. And we are learning to swing at them instead of just letting them lob past us.
So just after Christmas, the four of us that were together in Alabama took a drive down to Florida to spend time with our oldest son and his wife in their new home.
We spent New Year’s Eve on a windy dog beach enjoying waves and walks and friendly strangers whose mutts came over to sniff ours.
Seafood and people watching at a nearby restaurant sitting outside in the breezy cool topped off a lovely day.
I’m learning to live with Dominic’s absence.
I’m (almost) used to photographs of my three surviving children documenting adventures that don’t include his smiling face and raucous antics. I’m trying to recapture the joy of his life and not dwell as much on the fact and circumstances of his death.
I can look forward a little further on a calendar. I can plan a bit more. My heart finds some satisfaction again in hosting friends and family for special occasions or no occasion at all.
In a word, I’m “better”.
Not healed-never healed (past tense)-until heaven.
But oh, so thankful for the days I have to spend with the family I have left.
I don’t know if Dominic can see us from where he is, but if he can’t, we’ll have lots to tell him when we get there.
One day closer.
The funny thing about New Year’s resolutions is that they are pretty much the same, year after year. We all have particular struggles and the turning of the calendar seems like the perfect moment to commit to action to try to overcome them.
But most of us fail miserably and find ourselves back at precisely the point from which we started, regardless of our best efforts to change.
Read the rest here: New Year’s Resolutions
I was afraid of the dark until I was almost forty years old.
My fear was rooted in scary childhood moments and even years of adult experience could not rip it from the soil of my psyche. I never could convince my heart what my head knew to be true: there was nothing in the dark that wasn’t also there in the light.
It was fear, not darkness, that controlled me.
There is great darkness in grief. So many unanswerable questions, so much anquish, so much pain.
Read the rest here: God of the Day and God of the Night
thelifeididntchoose 