authenticity – Page 68 – thelifeididntchoose

A Fine Line

“Can you?” ” Would you?” “We need you to… Help!”

You’d be surprised how soon people start expecting a bereaved parent to jump right back into the responsibilities and activities they shouldered or enjoyed before burying a child.

I know the rest of the world didn’t stop when mine did, but I was truly amazed that some people in my circle seemed unaware mine had stopped at all.

As I’ve written before here the funeral is not the end of grief’s journey, it’s quite near the beginning. It took a year for me to just convince my heart Dominic wasn’t coming back. It took longer to begin to understand how very different I am now and to embrace those changes.

I simply cannot do some things I once did.

And some of the things I can still do, I do differently or not as well. So I have to say, “no” more often than I used to-even when others don’t understand why.

But there’s a fine line between self-preservation and complete withdrawal.

I try to walk it each time someone asks me to take on a new responsibility, join a new project or agree to a new commitment.

I am honest about the fact that while I may say “yes” I might have to back out.

I’m also realistic about my new limitations-lower noise tolerance, greater anxiety when things change unexpectedly, inability to sustain small talk for more than a couple of minutes. So if the request means I am likely to hit my personal wall before I can meet expectations, I decline.

I’m also learning that I can use my grief as an excuse to get out of things I just don’t like.

And I don’t want to do that.

I can play the “child loss” card and push others away when it isn’t healthy. I can dig a hole and hide and then whine when no one comes to look down my pit to check on me.

So instead of rejecting every request out of hand, I respond-honestly-that I will think about it. And I do.

By slowly choosing thoughtful engagement I’m expanding my social circle again. I’m learning that if I push myself just a little bit, I get stronger and better able to handle the next thing.

I’m learning who this new “me” really is and what her limits are. I’m also learning that she has new strengths.

I’m still not as involved in anything as I once was. I don’t expect that I ever will be again. But I’m not a hermit.

It’s a balancing act-I’m slowly learning to walk this line.

Exhausted

Exhausted

Worn out

Bone-tired

Ready to drop

Drained

Fatigued

War-weary.

I wasn’t created to carry this burden. I cannot do it.

Jesus invites me to lay it down:

Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Put My yoke upon your shoulders—it might appear heavy at first, but it is perfectly fitted to your curves. Learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble of heart. When you are yoked to Me, your weary souls will find rest. For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.

Matthew 11:28-30 VOICE

Surviving Social Situations After Child Loss

The first three months after Dominic ran ahead to heaven were full of social obligations.

Dominic left us in mid-April. My youngest graduated college five days after we laid Dom to rest. My eldest son graduated as a veterinarian two weeks after that. He married two months to the day from Dom’s funeral.

Friends and family members stepped up and lent a hand. Most people present were very aware of our recent loss and didn’t force small talk. My living children were amazing-flexible, supportive and loving even in their own deep sorrow.

But I’ll be honest, it’s mostly a blur.

I have photographic evidence of each event, but not a lot of personal memories.

Fast forward a few months and there are other social occasions I must attend.

By this time, for most folks, Dominic’s death was an event marked on a calendar they discarded at the end of 2014. For me, it was as fresh as ever and the pain had actually increased as the absolute truth that he was gone, gone, gone was settling in my bones.

Without a thought, people I’d known for years trotted right up and said, “How are you?” They didn’t really want to know.

They were tossing me the conversation ball in the only way they’d been taught to do it.

At that moment, I had a choice: I could give in to my inner child and shout, “How the heck do you think I’m doing???? I buried a child!!!” OR I could extend the grace I long to receive and say something more controlled and measured.

Now, I’m not nearly as grace-filled as I ought to be or long to be, but I did manage to construct some “pre-recorded” answers to that question in a sincere attempt to be kind. They continue to serve me well.

Heres how I do it:

I give an honest, brief response that does not leave room for additional questions. Something like, “As well as you would expect” or “It’s hard, but I’m trying to hold on” or “I’m here” or “Today is a hard day” or “Today is a better day”
I turn the conversation back to them. I might ask, “How are you and your family?” or, if I had information about a specific event or person in their family, “How is so-and-so doing?” or “I heard you had a new grandbaby-tell me about him/her!” It’s absolutely amazing how easy it is to get people to talk about themselves.
If the person is insistent or persistent in questioning me and digging for details I politely say, “I can’t talk right now. I want to be able to enjoy the (whatever event we were attending) as best I can. Sorry.”

I also plan a physical escape route if needed:

Whenever I enter a space, I scout the restrooms and exits so that if I need to, I can leave a conversation usually by saying I need to go to the restroom.
I take note of who’s present and keep an eye out for a safe person I can migrate toward in a crowd.
If it’s a sit-down event I make sure to choose a seat where I can get out without having to depend on anyone else-the end of an aisle, table near the door, etc.
If I feel myself losing control, I try to leave before it becomes obvious to anyone else.

And I come prepared:

I carry tissues,
drink plenty of fluids,
have some aspirin and usually an anxiety pill with me,
wear one of the special pieces of jewelry my children have given me in honor of Dominic and touch it often to keep myself grounded, and
wear comfortable clothes and shoes.

I choose a focal point if I must look in the same direction for a long period of time (like at a wedding) and force myself to consider details so my mind won’t wander as much and possibly take me places I don’t want to go.

I remind myself that when that one person I thought would be there for me and but wasn’t floats up like there’s no rift in our relationship, this is not the time nor the place to correct that.

I smile and wave and preserve the dignity of the situation.

Most of all I try to remember that the people most likely to be insensitive or rub me the wrong way are blissfully ignorant of the weight of the pain I carry. They can’t see the fragments of my shattered heart. They don’t know how much courage it takes to show up.

I thank God they don’t and pray they never do.

Arguing with God

I don’t expect to win and I don’t think I’ll get an audible answer, but I will tell you I’ve had some rip-roaring, humdinger arguments with God.

Now the pious among us will probably be shocked. They may tell me I’m pushing the envelope of grace or even sinning by asking God what exactly He is doing in this Valley of the Shadow of Death.

That doesn’t deter me-there are plenty of scriptural precedents for asking God, “why” and begging Him for an answer to the pain of this broken world.

Moses wanted to know how come he got stuck leading a bunch of whiny migrants tramping through the desert.

Paul begged God to take away the thorn in his flesh.

Jesus and Job both asked the question.

Though He slay me, I will hope in Him. Nevertheless I will argue my ways before Him.
‭‭Job‬ ‭13:15‬ ‭NASB‬‬

We usually don’t quote the last half of that verse, do we?

We stop at the affirmation and leave off the doubt-Job’s desperate desire to understand just what God was doing when it seemed unfair and capricious.

Most of the book of Job is full of questions. Job asking why he was targeted and his friends asking him what sin he was hiding.

Come now, let us argue it out, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.

Isaiah 1:18 NRSV

God invites us to ask. He opens the door to questions.

He is willing to “talk”.

But He doesn’t always answer every question.

In the end, Job’s mouth was shut not by God giving him assurance of anything except His “otherness” and the fact that He IS God.

A difficult truth to embrace.

One I ponder often.

I hurt, I sorrow, I agonize over the loss that has come into my life. A precious life has been taken away. I feel great grief and pain. It sears my every waking hour and casts a puzzling dreary shadow across my life’s journey.

At a time like this, it is imperative that I remember that God has not promised to keep my life bubbling with pleasing sensations. I must not prostitute God by giving Him the responsibility of being an indulgent Santa Claus in the heavens. God is not my servant. I am His servant.

As I come to grips with my grief, I reject the sentimentalized, sickly religion so popular today. God’s comfort is not insulation from difficulty; it is spiritual fortification sufficient to enable me to stand firm, undefeated in the fiery trials of life. God’s provision is not always green pastures and still waters. Sometimes God leads into the valley of the shadow, but I may walk there with confidence, assured of the love and presence of God.

No longer can I offer a mindless, frivolous assertion that God always measures up to my every expectation of Him and always gives His children goodies. I must declare that some things are beyond my human understanding in the ways of God. Those mysteries have destroyed my comfortable existence, but I proclaim: ‘Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him’ (Job 13:15). I will hurt for years to come. A hundred times a day I feel keenly the void left by death’s cruel blow. That pain, however, must drive me to stronger trust in God whose providence is not always compatible with my desires.

~James Means, A Tearful Celebration

The Complex World of Child Loss

On the other side of child loss, many things that used to be easy just aren’t anymore.

It takes so much energy to get through a day and navigate the minefields of conversation.

I wrote this a few months ago as I was pondering this aspect of my new life:

“One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.”

Read the rest here: It’s Complicated

Can’t Fake It Forever

There’s a common bit of advice in grief circles: Fake it until you make it.

It’s not bad as far as it goes and can be pretty useful-especially just after the initial loss and activity surrounding it.

Like when I met the acquaintance in the grocery store a month after burying Dominic and she grabbed me with a giant smile on her face, “How ARE you?!!! It’s SO good to see you out!!!”

I just smiled and stood there as if I appreciated her interest, a deer caught in headlights, silently praying she’d live up to her talkative past and soon move on to another target.

Faked it.

Boom!

BUT there comes a time when faking it is not helpful. In fact, it’s downright dangerous.

Because if I fake it long enough and get good enough at it, I can convince myself that I have done the work grief requires.

Grief will not be ignored forever.

It bubbles up in physical symptoms and sleepless nights. It boils over in anger and impatience and anxiety and nervous habits.

There is no way through but through. It has to be faced head on.

Life circumstances kept me distracted and busy for the first four or five months after Dominic ran ahead to heaven.

I cried, screamed and was heartbroken-I definitely had my moments. But for the most part I functioned at a pretty high level.

It wasn’t until things slowed down that I had my come apart. And it caught me by surprise.

I was forced to sit in silence and face the feelings. I was compelled to hear my heart shatter-over and over again.

I’ve now had 33 months of this burden of sorrow. Almost three years to think about, work on and pray through the pain.

I’m learning to pay attention to my own heartbeat, to my body, to my triggers, to my joy-bringers, my joy-stealers and my limitations. I’m beginning to accept the bellycrawl progress through this tunnel of darkness by focusing on the bright light at the end.

I still fake it sometimes-it’s not worth it to me to get into a long conversation with that person I only see every year or so. Too much time, too much energy and too little reward.

But I’m learning to be more genuine with the people that matter most. I’m learning to be honest about how I feel, what I need and how much I can do.

And I refuse to allow busyness to creep up on me so that I don’t have the time and energy to continue doing the work grief requires.

He Will Hold Me Fast

I’ve mentioned it before.

I’ve encouraged others not to resist.

But I want to be absolutely clear: Losing my son made me doubt EVERYTHING.

I grew up going to church, listening to Bible stories, hearing “God is in control”, “Jesus loves me”, “prayer moves mountains” and (even though it isn’t true) being “good” gets rewarded.

The prerequisite, of course, was receiving Christ, being “saved”, trusting Jesus.

I did that when I was eight years old.

And I leaned in and studied Scripture, fashioning my life around the Holy Word. My home rested firmly on the solid rock foundation of belief in Jesus and the sovereignty and sufficiency of God.

For heaven’s sake! I spent twenty years homeschooling my kids! We might skip a math lesson but we never missed a chance to note how biblical principles and biblical truth informed our worldview and guided our choices.

I know, I know, I know that I don’t deserve special treatment. I know that God does not promise to exempt any person from hurt and heartache as long as we walk this earth.

But somewhere I got mixed up.

Somehow I thought that if I did all the right things, made all the necessary personal sacrifices, read the right books, walked the right path, my heart might be spared.

I was, oh, so wrong.

So when I had to bury my perfectly healthy, vibrant, brilliant, loving son who was here-one-moment-gone-the-next, I had to take a little while to decide how much of what I used to believe I could still believe.

I had to pull out all the verses, all the suppositions, all the theological arguments upon which my faith had rested and test them against my new reality.

Is God sovereign? Does He have control?

I decided that He is and does.

Based on His Word and my own life experience, I am convinced that God is in control.

But His control does not routinely override the laws of physics He has put in place to rule the world. His control does not always spare someone the natural consequences of choices made by free will. His control does not always supersede the sinful brokenness that abounds on this earth.

So, here I am. Left with absolute rock solid faith in the few, most important things upon which my hope can rest.

Christ died.

Christ rose.

Christ will come again.

Death is conquered.

Heaven is sure.

Redemption has been paid for and restoration will be complete.

I know by painful experience that His ways are not my ways and His thoughts are not my thoughts.

I do not understand everything.

But I cling to what I can understand.

Doubt is not sin. I don’t try to talk myself out of it anymore.

Because the One Who made me holds me fast.

Those He saves are His delight
Christ will hold me fast
Precious in His holy sight
He will hold me fast
He’ll not let my soul be lost
His promises shall last
Bought by Him at such a cost
He will hold me fast

~He Will Hold Me Fast, Getty Music

Healing Comes In Its Own Time

I’ve lived with invisible chronic disease for a decade.

From the outside looking in, you’d hardly know that I am often in great pain. I make daily choices about what I will do and what I won’t do based on what I can do and what my body refuses to do.

I take medication. I do all the things I’m supposed to do to help my body heal.

But I cannot MAKE the healing happen.

No matter how hard I wish it were different, no matter how carefully I manage my treatment, healing comes (or doesn’t) in its own time.

I’m pretty sure that most people have experienced something similar if they’ve broken a bone or had a bad bout of bronchitis or pneumonia.

Other than following the advice of your doctor and taking your meds on time, resting and eating well, there’s not much you can do to force your body to get well.

A broken heart is just the same.

All I can do is place myself in the path of healing. I can feed my soul with truth and drink living water from God’s Word.

I can lean in and rest in the promise that Jesus will redeem and restore.

I can do the work that grief requires.

And working on healing takes energy, effort and time–lots and lots of TIME.

I cannot hurry the healing.

Please understand that as inconvenient, uncomfortable and disconcerting it may be for YOU, it is immeasureably more so for ME.

Please be patient with my heart.

I’m really trying.

Christmas Cards-Yes? No? Maybe?

Getting Christmas cards out on time was always a challenge in my busy household.

So for the last years of kids at home, we transitioned to sending New Year’s greetings. It was easier to get a family photo with everyone home for Christmas, there was no artificial deadline to send them and we could include a “thank you” or respond to news in their Christmas letters.

I haven’t sent anything for three years.

What could I say?

And a family photo was out of the question.

But faithful friends and relatives keep sending us theirs.

As I was looking at them this past week, I decided to make a go of it one more time. I sat down and pecked away at the computer keys until I composed something that felt right.

HERE’S WHAT I WROTE:

“Hello from the DeSimones!

For anyone counting, it has been three years since our last Christmas/New Year’s update.

I just could not figure out how to send greetings when our hearts were so very wounded and sore. I’m still not sure how to do it-but am plunging ahead.

We are learning to live with the absence of Dominic. We are learning to carry the weight of grief and sorrow that burden our hearts. We are managing the necessary tasks of life. We are moving forward in careers and education. We live and love and even laugh.

It’s not the same.

It will never be the same.

And that’s a testimony to our enduring love for Dominic and his lasting impact on our lives.

We look forward to heaven, where everything that the enemy has stolen will be redeemed and restored.

I’ve been reading The Jesus Storybook Bible-it is a remarkable way to re-imagine and re-engage with God’s Story. My very favorite part is a paraphrase of Revelation 21:4:

‘And the King says, “Look! God and his children are together again. No more running away. Or hiding. No more crying or being lonely or afraid. No more being sick or dying. Because all those things are gone. Yes, they are gone forever. Everything sad has come untrue. And see-I have wiped every tear from every eye!”‘

[Here I inserted updates on each of us under the title “newsy bits”]

We are thankful for each one who has encouraged us, loved us and stuck with us in this journey.

It’s our prayer that this Christmas season the Saviour will fill your hearts-hurting or happy-to overflowing with His love, grace and mercy.”

You may not be ready to send Christmas cards. Maybe next year, or maybe never and that’s OK.

I’m sharing so that perhaps my words can help you find a way to tell your family’s story.

Christmas for those of us missing a child we love will always be different. It will always be tinged with sadness.

But we are stronger together.

We can hang on harder when others hang on with us.

I appreciate each person who reads this blog and takes time to comment.

Thank you for encouraging, loving and sticking with me in this journey.

May the God of all hope fill your hurting hearts with hope as we wait together for our faith to be made sight.

Not Giving Up-A Victory Worth Cheering

It’s hard to watch since winning a medal is off the table. They lost their place in front when they took that awful tumble.

But we cheer them on-the limping athletes that manage to cross the finish line.

And we should.

Because getting up and going on is a victory worth cheering.

And it’s a victory I strive for every day.

Just showing up with a broken heart is hard. Not giving in to despair is a daily decision that requires continued commitment to face the morning light.

On other days I can use the tools I’ve crafted over time to screw down the lid on the box of emotions I keep hidden inside.

But opening my eyes to Christmas Day takes extra effort.

It would be so much easier to sleep the hours away, safe and secure in the cocoon of my warm bed. Not because I don’t want to share in the food, fellowship and fun. But because every sight, sound and smell of Christmas pierces my heart and reminds me of the widening gap between when I saw Dominic last and right now.

So when you feel a little frustrated that I’m crying “again”, when you wonder when I’m going to “get over this” or “be back to my old self”-please picture that limping runner gunning for the goal.

Jump down from the comfort of the bleachers and take my hand.

Cheer me on.

Offer a cup of water or a chair so I can catch my breath.

Don’t turn away in your discomfort at my pain. Choose to be a witness.

Speak courage to my heart.

Help me make it to the finish line.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: