Tag: authenticity

What Does Healing Look Like?

band aid and heart

As I continue to walk this Valley, my heart asks the question, “What does healing look like?”

Fewer tears?  Check.

More laughter? Check.

Better able to function? Check.

I’m definitely not as fragile as I was in the days and weeks and first months after Dominic left us.

I can do what life requires without falling apart (most of the time).

If you run into me out and about, I make small talk and answer questions about my family without breaking down.

So, from the outside looking in it seems the gaping wound of loss has healed pretty well.

But if I lift the lid of my heart ever so slightly, I’m amazed at how much it still hurts.  I’m astonished by the depth of pain and sorrow just under the facade of OK.

I cannot claim to have reached some higher plane of healing or restoration yet. I’m not sure I will this side of heaven.

And the pain of loss has tainted the joy I feel in what remains.

Instead of brilliant technicolor, my life is now lived in sepia tones that warn what joy I have could be stolen at any moment.

The lesson I’ve had stamped with fire on my heart is this:  Love is the only thing that matters in the end.

love-god-love-people.jpg

Love God.

Love people.

So the path to healing means I lean in and love Him and love the people He has given me with everything I’ve got.

Because love endures forever.

graphic-his-faithful-love-endures-forever

 

 

Trying To Navigate at 90 Miles an Hour

washington-with-traffic

I will never forget it.

Our family was driving through Washington, D.C. at rush hour (poor planning, I know!) and got lost.

Not utterly, hopelessly lost-but definitely turned around.

Multiple lanes of traffic, unfamiliar signs, lots and lots of cars traveling way. too. fast.

My husband was driving and I was trying to read the map-trying to make sense of where we were and where we needed to be but I couldn’t do it fast enough to make a difference.

As soon as I determined which lane we should be in, which exit we should take, we had passed it.

In frustration, my husband finally just stopped–in the middle of the road on a small patch of no-man’s-land between two diverging lanes.  I was scared to death.

police-car-lego

And then a police car pulled up behind us.

The officer got out and asked what was going on.  We explained our dilemma and he led us out of the maze of confusing options to the right road and we were on our way.

So many days I feel just like I did those years ago-confused, frightened, trying desperately to figure out which way to go but never able to slow down enough to really get a good look at the map.

road maps.jpg

I feel like I’m trying to navigate strange streets going 90 MPH.

Hurry up!

Should I turn right or left?

Did I just miss my exit?

I have no idea.

The destination is sure:  I will leave this place and join my son in Heaven.  But the path is winding and challenging and hard to figure out.

I can’t get out of the car called “Life” and wait until I have a clear route marked before me.

Sometimes I manage to get where I want to go.  Sometimes I don’t.

Some days and some events turn out resembling how I thought they should. Many don’t.

So I keep on keeping on.  

I’m navigating with the tools at hand and hoping for the best.

world-doesnt-stop-for-your-grief

 

 

Slow Learner

I don’t like conflict.

My personality and life experience have molded me into a peacemaker.

And while Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers” He also wasn’t afraid to make some noise when necessary to shake things up.

But unlike Jesus, I tend to be a peace-at-all-costs kind of person.  And it’s just not healthy.

I recently ran across this quote:

not-required-set-yourself-on-fire-life-daily-quotes-sayings-pictures

This was me before Dominic left us.

But not anymore.

One thing grief is teaching me is to speak up for myself.

Not in an arrogant you-don’t-matter-I-matter-more way but in a way that is more authentic and expresses how I really feel and what I really need from friends and family.

I’m learning to let others to keep themselves warm.

I help when I can-offer a blanket or hot chocolate-but I will no longer sacrifice my heart to others on the altar of peacemaking at all costs.

Dom was always encouraging me in this regard.

I think he’d be proud.

Exploding the Myth: God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can Handle

blessings-come-through-rain-drops

You know, I don’t expect those outside the Body of Christ to have good theology-that’s like expecting me to be able to explain thermodynamics.  

Ain’t gonna happen-it’s outside my scope of understanding and practice.

I do expect those who have spent a lifetime reading Scripture, studying Sunday School lessons and listening to sermons to know better.

But many don’t.

“God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” is bandied about freely among those who, if they thought about it before they said it, know it isn’t true.

god-doesnt-give-you-more-than-you-can-handle

Usually it’s tossed at someone going through a tough time in an effort to encourage them.

Can I just let you in on a secret?  It is NOT encouraging.  At. all. Not one bit.

Because what’s implied is that I SHOULD be able to handle this.

But I can’t.

And it lets you off the hook.  

It’s like I’m drowning and instead of diving in to rescue me, you’re giving swimming lessons from the safety of the shore.

It’d be much more helpful if you threw me a lifeline.

life-preserver

God routinely gives me more than I can handle.

It’s one tool He uses to turn my heart to Him.  It’s one way He helps me understand (although He knows it already)  that I absolutely cannot handle it by myself.

So instead of sending the message that I should be able to handle this-join me in the dark place, hold my hand as we walk together and help me feel God’s love through you.

 

presence best gift

 

 

 

Dealing With Anxious Thoughts

I no longer have to imagine the worst thing that could happen in the life of a mother-I know exactly how it feels. 

And if I allow my heart to ponder that too often or too long, it consumes me.

So I am learning to take those anxious thoughts captive, learning to make them live in only a small corner of my mind instead of taking it over completely.

It takes effort and discipline, but it’s possible.  

I don’t have to live the rest of my days a quivering mess- afraid of every sunrise, every phone call, every mile my family travels:

  • I confront my fear with facts:  The absolute truth is that it is no more likely I will lose a child today than it was the day I lost Dominic.  I’m not good at determining odds-if I toss a coin ten times and it lands on “heads”-I’m convinced that next time it HAS to be “tails”.  But that’s just not true.  EVERY time the coin is tossed, it has exactly a 50/50 chance of landing on “heads” or “tails” regardless of what happened last time.  That’s not how it FEELS, but that’s how it IS.

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  • I refuse to feed my fear:  I don’t linger over news stories that play up danger or magnify the possibility of catching rare diseases.  Do these things happen?  ABSOLUTELY!  But are they likely to happen to me or someone I love, probably not.  I will not fuel the fire of fear that threatens to rage through my mind.
  • I take reasonable precautions:  My family wears seatbelts.  We take our vitamins and go to the doctor when we need to.  We eat right and exercise.  We don’t walk across streets without looking both ways.  These were all things we did before Dominic’s accident and we continue to do them now.  Not one of them would have made a diference that night but they help me feel better.

 

crosswalk

  • I limit my exposure to uncertainty:  If I’m concerned about someone, I call or text.  It’s that simple.  I don’t have to live for hours wondering if they are OK.  I’m careful not to infringe on my adult children’s lives by a never-ending series of contacts, but they understand my heart.  We try to be mindful of letting each other know we arrive safely to our destination.
  • I exercise control in other areas of my life:  Anxiety is a beast that grows stronger the more out of control I feel.  I cannot keep my family absolutely safe-it’s not in my power to do so. BUT, I can control some aspects of life.  So I do.  Even cleaning out a messy junk drawer helps bolster my sense of control.  Small, easy to complete projects feed the part of my brain that says, “You can do this!”

take-control-of-your-life

  • I limit caffeine and other stimulants:  Increased heart rate, rapid breathing and sweaty palms are signs of anxiety.  Caffeine can produce these effects even when I’m not anxious. If my body is feeling this way, my mind is quick to jump on board.  

angry

  • I practice distraction:  There are times when I find myself feeling anxious despite my best efforts.  When that happens, I am learning to distract myself.  I find something to touch, smell, hear or taste that can help me regain composure.  I count backwards from ten or twenty.  I hum a song or recite a Bible verse.  I add numbers in my head or do multiplication tables.
  • I live in the present:  I have no idea what tomorrow holds.  If I allow my heart to dwell on what might happen, I will be useless for today.  So while I make marks on the calendar for appointments, I wake each morning determined to live right now.

now

Because, really, that’s all any of us has. 

The Power of Lament to Make Room for Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was always my favorite holiday.

I loved everything about it:  the color scheme, the food (I love, love, love to cook-it was never a burden), family and friends gathered around the table, and the wonderful slowness of the day as it lingered into nightfall.

It was more flexible than Christmas for including all sorts of folks who otherwise didn’t have someplace to go. Living near colleges meant that  we welcomed students from around the world-we might have two or three dozen laughing faces milling about.

happy-thanksgiving

 

It was wonderful.

And I loved going around the circle, tummies bursting, to share what people were thankful for and why.

When Dominic left us everything  changed.

Oh, I was (and still am) so very thankful for so very many things-my family, daily physical provision, ongoing care and love of friends, the enduring faithful mercy of God.

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But there’s something else too:  there is deep sorrow at the unavoidable FACT that when God COULD have stepped in and changed an outcome, He DIDN’T.

pain-behind-every-tear

And I’m having to learn to open my heart to thankfulness while also bearing witness to this pain.

Praise and lament in the same breath.

I have plenty of company.

be broken brennan manningThe world we live in is full of pain and suffering.  Injustice reigns.  We make our way through thorns and by the sweat of our brow.

It is just plain hard.

The psalmist acknowledges that.  He doesn’t rush past the pain.  He doesn’t gloss over the broken places.

He empties his heart of the feeling that God has forgotten.  But he doesn’t stop there-he chooses to bring the emptiness back to the only One Who can fill it up again.

Like the psalmist, I’m learning  that I must exhale before I can inhale.

I must admit the burden of hopelessness to make room for the blessing of hope.

“With my voice I cry out to the LORD: with my voice I plead for mercy to the LORD.”

I ADMIT I FEEL ABANDONED:

In the path where I walk
they have hidden a trap for me.
Look to the right and see:
there is none who takes notice of me;
no refuge remains to me;
no one cares for my soul.

AND YET I WILL CHOOSE TO TRUST:

I cry to you, O LORD;
I say, “You are my refuge,
my portion in the land of the living.”

IN THE HOPE THAT GOD HEARS:

Attend to my cry,
for I am brought very low!

SO THAT MY TESTIMONY MAY BE ONE OF PRAISE:

Bring me out of prison,
that I may give thanks to your name!

Psalm 142, selected

As I sit at the table, cherishing the companionship of those I love and missing the one I can no longer see, I will embrace thanksgiving and lament.

I will exhale and inhale.

I will beg for grace and mercy because I can no longer beg to be spared from sorrow.

I will ask for eyes to see and a faithful heart while I wait.

worn snow

 

 

 

 

Plus Three

 

sunrise trees

Today I am 53–born one day after the assasination of JFK.

I always thought that would be the most signifcant marker of my otherwise quiet life.

But it isn’t.

I wrote this post last year and it still speaks for my heart:  Jubilee

 

Tell Your Story

We all have one you know.

A story.

Many of us think ours isn’t important because it feels so small.  We can’t imagine our truth blazoned across a headline.

Your story matters.

Who you are and how you got there is worthy of repeating.  You never know if your story will be the key to unlock someone else’s prison.

your-story-could-be-the-key

Some heart is begging to know that they are not alone.

Some soul waits breathless to hear that what they are hiding is OK to share.

Someone, somewhere needs you to unlock the vault of memory and invite them to do the same.  

Speak your truth.  

Tell your story.

You own it.

tell-your-story-2

 

Repost: Grief and Holidays: What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family

The election’s over and whether we like the outcome or not, the calendar pages still turn. 

Thanksgiving and Christmas are coming fast.  For some of us carrying the pain of loss, the holidays are a treacherous time.  

I’m reposting this link in the hopes it might help make things a little easier:

its hurting again

“I know it is hard.  I know you don’t truly understand how I feel.  You can’t.  It wasn’t your child.

I know I may look and act like I’m “better”.  I know that you would love for things to be like they were:  BEFORE.  But they aren’t.

I know my grief interferes with your plans.  I know it is uncomfortable to make changes in traditions we have observed for years.  But I can’t help it.  I didn’t ask for this to be my life.”

Read the rest here:  Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family

Some Days, I’m Just a Mess

weakness1

The other day a conversation about the upcoming holidays devolved into a confrontation.

What I was trying to communicate came out wrong and one thing led to another until I fled- a crying, trembling mess. 

I am trying so hard to manage this life I have left.  

I work out plans in my head to navigate what I know will be challenging events or days or gatherings.  I execute the plan as best I can and when I feel overwhelmed I try to escape to a quiet corner or a bathroom or outside for a moment to regather my composure.

But it doesn’t always work.

There are so many variables-people, lack of sleep, random added stressors, physical pain, grief triggers, and even low blood sugar-any one of which, or a combination of which, can sabotage the carefully constructed plan I’ve made.  

I feel like there are no easy days.  I feel like there are no moments when I don’t have to be on alert.  I feel like I am constantly doing battle.

I stop by the store and meet someone I haven’t seen in awhile.  They ask, “How are you?”

So I go down the line of my living children and give a description of what they are doing-leaving out how they are feeling.  I don’t mention me. The person never notices but I’m reminded again of the disconnect between what others see and what I know to be true.

Sunday’s sermon is taken from a text that could be interpreted to mean that God protects His faithful people from physical harm.  I’m hemmed in by someone on the end of the pew but I want to get up and run from the sanctuary.  

Is my son’s death judgement on my unfaithfulness or on his?

It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster to remain in place.  No one is even aware of the battle raging inside.  

I walk through each day pushing down the pain, shoving aside the rising tide of tears.

I measure my words, measure my reactions, measure my emotions-trying so very hard to keep it in.

I wish I could crawl in bed, cover my head with the blanket and just stay there until this all went away.

But I can’t.

So I muddle through the best I can-hoping that one day I will figure it out.

Probably not today.