Tag: authenticity

Ten Years and Ten Things (plus one) I’ve Learned About Child Loss

The first time I shared this I was trying to distill years of walking the broken road of child loss into a relatively few, easy to think about, “lessons”.

Since then I could add a dozen more but today I’ll only add one: Being a bereaved parent is not my IDENTITY but it impacts who I am in ways I’m still figuring out.

Just as being married or being female or being from the southern United States informs how I walk in the world and interact with others so, too, does having buried a child.

There’s a lot of pressure to pretend that’s not true.

But I won’t do that.

❤ Melanie

I’ve had awhile to think about this.  Nine years is a long time to live with loss, to live without the child I carried, raised and sent off in the world.

So I’ve considered carefully what my “top ten” might be.

Here’s MY list (yours might be very different):

Read the rest here: Ten Things I’ve Learned About Child Loss

Ten Years: Tangible Absence

Friday was ten long years since Dominic left for Heaven. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the distance between the last time I hugged him and now.

But I can still feel the shape of where his shoulders would fit in my arms.

I know exactly who I’m missing-and I miss him every bit as much today as the first moment I learned he wasn’t coming home.

❤

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.

Read the rest here: Tangible Absence

Sharing My Visible Wounds

This weekend I am privileged to be sharing both my hurt and my healing with fellow bereaved parents.

I can’t say there haven’t been tears but I can tell you there’s also been laughter.

There is great solace in reaching out your hand and having it gripped by an understanding soul. None of us wants to be alone in this journey.

You don’t have to be.

❤ Melanie

A sweet friend made sure I had Nicholas Wolterstorff’s book, Lament for a Son, in my hands just days after Dominic’s accident.  And it was one of the most helpful, kindest gifts I ever received.  

It still lives by my chair and I look at it often.

It might have been the similarities in circumstances that took our sons-his died in a mountain climbing accident, mine in a motorcycle accident-or it might have been our shared theology, but when I read his words, they spoke my heart.

Read the rest here: Visible Wounds

Ten Years: Miles and Milestones

Tomorrow I’ll be headed out to the Our Hearts are Home Spring Conference (https://ourheartsarehome.org/conference) in Virginia.

For the first time, my husband will be joining me traveling to a speaking engagement. It has taken him longer to be comfortable sharing with other bereaved parents but he will be there to talk casually to fellow dads and to lend the strength that ten years carrying this burden brings.

We are choosing to break the journey into smaller bits so both our souls will be less taxed from travel when we get there.

Going slower and taking rests has advantages.

My primary topic will be “What, Exactly, IS Grief Work?”-something near and dear to my heart.

I’m committed (as those who gather here know!) to help the grieving and to help educate those who have, so far, been spared.

Getting ready and gathering my thoughts has propelled me into a whole new season of reflecting on the miles I’ve traveled in this journey and the milestones I’ve observed missing Dominic.

It has been good for my heart but also hard on my heart.

The dates for the conference correspond to the tenth anniversary (do you call it an anniversary?) of Dominic’s leaving for Heaven.

I knew this when I accepted the invitation but the reality of it is another thing altogether.

I’d appreciate prayers as I lean into ministering to other broken-hearted parents for the next several days.

I’m going to need them. ❤


Ten Years: From Grief Chronicler to Grief Guide

When I started writing here I had two primary goals.

The first was to share what I was experiencing-how child loss impacted every aspect of my life and the life of my family. 

The second was to allow those outside the loss community a glimpse into what it was like inside and how they could develop a compassionate and helpful response to their grieving friends. 

For nearly seven years those goals didn’t change. 

But recently I was asked (in the context of business) what kind of work I do and I answered (without thinking) that I was a “Grief Guide”. 

It fell out of my mouth before I had a chance to edit my words. 

I’ve thought a lot about that exchange since and realized it was an honest answer. Although I’d also add that I am a “Grief Advocate”-not that I hope others grieve but I will absolutely, positively stand up for those who ARE grieving. 

It felt right at the time and, I realized, it IS right for me, for now.

I’m in the process of trying to do more long form writing. 

I’m gathering notes from what I’ve shared at conferences, at retreats, in person and online interviews and podcasts to create content that could be published into a book or an anthology of short essays. 

It’s helpful to me and I hope, eventually, it will be helpful to others. 

I don’t think my experience is unique or definitive. 

There are so many ways children leave this world and every family is its own community of loss. I can’t speak for those whose child went to Heaven through long illness or addiction or suicide. I hope the Lord raises up those who experienced that type of loss to share their own stories. 

I can speak to the horror and earth shattering experience of sudden death. 

I can speak as a person of faith to the long and painful process of integrating my lived experience with my beliefs and understanding of who God is and how He works in the world. 

I can speak to the difficulty of parenting (even adult) surviving children and the tightrope I walk managing grief and longing for the one missing with the love and joy of three still with me. 

I can speak to the way life grows around grief and the strength I’ve developed over time which allows me to participate fully in the NOW while holding the BEFORE in my heart. 

I can let friends and family outside our immediate grief circle know about the constant background music loss hums in my ears and the ears of others also mourning a child. There is always a low level (sometimes a greater level!) drain on any energy-emotional, physical, psychological-I may have on a given day. 

I can share how Western society doesn’t provide safe space in the larger context of social gatherings, faith communities and other public places for grievers to just grieve. There is so much pressure to let the funeral or memorial service mark and end to outward expression of sadness, loss, missing and longing. 

I continue to face fresh challenges in this journey which provide new insight and require new courage.

I suspect I will until the day I join Dominic in Heaven. 

My passion for paving the way for those who will (sadly) follow on this journey of child loss has not dimmed. 

❤

Ten Years: What’s Helped and What’s Hurt

If I’m honest, the things that hurt in the first days, weeks and months could fill a book.

But now, I’ve developed a thicker skin and a better perspective.

If you are still early in your journey and, like me, a giant walking nerve, then your list would definitely be different.

I can narrow them down at this point to a few.

What really hurts:

  • Assuming you understand my pain (unless you also have buried a child).
  • Insisting that time=healing.
  • Ignoring the ongoing nature of child loss.
  • Questioning my faith because I question what happened.
  • Refusing space to share about my missing child.
  • Not saying Dominic’s name.
  • Acting like I should “be over it”.
  • Pretending like it never happened or Dominic never existed because it makes you uncomfortable to talk about him.
  • Not acknowledging my surviving children’s grief.
  • Ignoring the times of year when grief is especially heavy like birthdays, holidays, and the anniversary of Dom’s leaving.

What helps:

  • Admitting that you STILL might not know what to say or do to support me and my family in marking the loss of and missing Dominic. It’s OK. I’ll help you.
  • Listening. Even if it’s something you’ve heard before.
  • Reacting to social media posts about Dominic. I’d love to have new photos but I don’t. But I may be sharing a newly recovered memory or exposed feeling.
  • Notes, cards, messages and calls that let me know you KNOW. That you haven’t forgotten and that you still help carry Dom’s light in the world.
  • Granting space and grace when milestones loom large and my capacity for interaction is limited. Don’t ditch me because I don’t get back to you. Please.
  • Accepting that I will never be the person I was BEFORE but that I’m still a person. I need affirmation, love and kindness like everyone else.
  • Asking questions, staying curious and compassionate and allowing me to help you understand how grief is experienced over time.
  • Respecting my boundaries. These have changed since the early days but I still have hard stops that mark the edges of what I can and can’t do and maintain my sanity.
  • Sharing photos or experiences you may have had with Dom. He was an adult when he left us and there are parts of him I don’t know. I always love to see and hear about him. ❤
  • Patience. I didn’t get a manual on how to live after burying my child. I’m learning as I go. I make mistakes, say things I wish I hadn’t said, step on toes. I’m genuinely sorry. I’m doing the very best I can.

I will not say that Dominic’s death is good.

It’s not.

Death is awful and should be recognized for the enemy it is.

But I will say I have gained wisdom through this experience.

I’ve paid a price I would never willingly have paid. And I would trade it all for my boy in the flesh, my arms around him, his deep voice added to the chorus at our table.

I won’t waste it.

I will share it.

I pray every day that it helps other hearts walk this Valley and instructs those walking with us.

Ten Years: Broken Hearts and Broken Lives

I woke this morning to a frantic voice mail left overnight when my phone was on sleep mode which silences all but my few “favorites” from ringing through.

A precious young woman from my family’s past was reaching out because she knew I was a safe person. I wish I had been able to talk to her when she needed me most but I was left with the only option available: call her back and leave a voice mail message.

It’s a poor substitute for being there when someone is hanging on by a thread.

It made me think of the dozens of ways my children and I have learned to “be there” for broken hearts and broken lives.

It’s an easy yes for any one of us when someone calls and says, “Can you talk?”.

Even when it’s inconvenient or worse, we answer the phone and allow that heart to spill its contents until there is some relief and possibly some way forward.

Some days I’m tapped out.

I may not haul feed bags or lift boxes but my heart is wrung dry by mid-morning.

Hours long telephone conversations in which there is no real answer and no way to untangle complex webs of addiction or family history or personal trauma leave me needing a nap.

I try to take a break when I need to and come back fresh when I can.

In this Season of Sorrow I have a little less to give.

But I am committed to helping other broken hearts limp along toward healing for as long as I am able.

So many have helped me.

I want to share the gift. ❤

Ten Years. A Decade. Wow.

Truth is, I’m stronger and better able to carry this burden of loss and missing than I was even two or three years ago.

But considering the dates, considering that it’s been TEN YEARS since I last hugged and spoke to Dominic, this “anniversary” is different.

I think about what happened in the space of a decade in my own life and it overwhelms my heart to realize that the Dominic I remember would most likely be a completely different person NOW than THEN.

In ten years I went from a college freshman to a mother of four.

In ten years I went from a mother of four to a mother of a high school senior.

In ten years I went from a mother with four children in college to a grandmother.

Who Dominic might be now is something I long to know but dread to consider.

It highlights all the life he would have lived between his death and today and I feel like a bit of an intruder to try to figure out what those years might have looked like. Each of my children have taken paths I could not have anticipated because they are their own persons.

I know many bereaved parents who have a vivid conception of who their child might be today. I’m just not one of them.

In light of eternity, ten years is less than a speck of dust.

But in light of a life lived, it’s greater than ten percent (for most of us).

For this mama’s heart, it’s more than I could imagine having survived on that dark morning.



Ten Years: Reflections, Regrets and Reality

I’m writing this today as springtime sunlight floods my window and the scent of grass and growing things wafts in the breeze.

I still feel the stir of life when the days grow longer and the laying hens gift us with eggs every twenty-four hours.

But for ten years now my heart drags itself into the light bearing a burden of darkness.

In memory of Dominic from an anonymous friend.

In the early years it totally eclipsed any promise spring might portend. Birdsong only reminded me of my son’s silent voice. Flowers smelled like death. The appearance of fresh growth highlighted the passage of time and the timelessness of missing Dominic.

It took a long while to learn how to be alive and also acknowledge the awful reality and sadness of death.



Now I can watch the faithful chickadee family (generations of them) who perch on a garden torch singing praise to the rising sun. I marvel when a daring chipmunk races to retrieve some tasty tidbit while keeping a watchful eye for my outdoor cats. I count the hours as the sun makes its path outside my kitchen window from darkest dawn to midday and beyond.

I put on and take off the garment of grief many times each day.

I regret springs spent doing anything other than reveling in the beautiful life of my beautiful children. I wish I had understood then what I understand now: Life is short, no matter how long it lasts.

Then a lovely memory pops into my mind and I know I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. We DID spend days playing and laughing and learning together.



It’s a battle, this remembering.

I don’t always have time to indulge my heart.

But for this season, this day, I’m giving myself permission.

Palm Sunday 2024: What If I’m Not Rescued?

If you haven’t watched the body of someone you love lowered into the ground while holding your breath and praying, praying, praying that somehow, some way this isn’t real then maybe you can’t imagine what it feels like not to be spared.

Me? It doesn’t take but a single breath to go from “everything is alright” to “my world is shattered”. I feel every. single. death. added to the tally a mass shooting or tornado destruction leaves behind.

So what do we do if we aren’t rescued? What do we cling to if our family isn’t spared?

What if all the prayers lifted on behalf of ones I love don’t stop death from claiming them?

When Jesus entered Jerusalem He was hailed as a hero. But when He didn’t perform as expected He was cast aside.

Will I choose to believe even when it’s hard?

❤ Melanie

So what if I’m not rescued?

What if my family isn’t spared?

What if all the faithful prayers lifted on behalf of ones I love don’t stop death from claiming them?

Will I still believe?

Will I still trust that God is a loving Father who is in control and working all things together for His glory and my good?

Read the rest here: What If I’m Not Rescued?