Tag: bereaved grandparents

Hope in Bare Branches

The sun rises behind bare branches and they look beautiful.

In just the right light and at the perfect angle, anything can be lovely.

bare winter branches

It’s true that every living thing needs rest.  Every working part must be oiled.

And while winter can be hard and heartless and cold and cruel, it is also space and time for re-creation.

If I only look harder I can already see tiny buds of springtime promise on the tips of branches overhead.

Death is winter.

Cold, hard, gray.  Every lovely thing fallen and dry underfoot.

A season of rest-not chosen, unwelcome, resisted.

But rest just the same.

Yet the sun still shines and spreads warmth and light on even these bare branches.

winter sunrise pines and zeke filter

After such a long time can the sap still rise?

Is there life left here?

Will spring come again and flowers bloom?

I’m counting on it.

IMG_1795

It will all happen so fast, in a blink, a mere flutter of the eye. The last trumpet will call, and the dead will be raised from their graves with a body that does not, cannot decay. All of us will be changed!  We’ll step out of our mortal clothes and slide into immortal bodies, replacing everything that is subject to death with eternal life.  And, when we are all redressed with bodies that do not, cannot decay, when we put immortality over our mortal frames, then it will be as Scripture says:

Life everlasting has victoriously swallowed death.
     Hey, Death! What happened to your big win?
    Hey, Death! What happened to your sting?

Sin came into this world, and death’s sting followed. Then sin took aim at the law and gained power over those who follow the law.  Thank God, then, for our Lord Jesus, the Anointed, the Liberating King, who brought us victory over the grave.

My dear brothers and sisters, stay firmly planted—be unshakable—do many good works in the name of God, and know that all your labor is not for nothing when it is for God.

I Corinthians 15:52-58 VOICE

An Uncomfortable Exchange

The other day I had an uncomfortable exchange with someone that started with a phone call and ended with a series of texts.

I’ve learned a lot about the unhelpful things folks say to grievers and at this point I can let most remarks roll off like raindrops.

When someone says, “God needed another angel” or “I know just how you feel” (and they do not share my experience) or “at least you have other children/grandchildren” I usually smile, cut the conversation short and hang up or walk away.

So when this old family friend called and asked in a chipper voice, “How are you??!!”, I told them not well since my granddaughter just went to Heaven two days ago.

That invited several platitudes.

I endured them, hoping for a quick end to a painful conversation.

Then the spouse chimed in because they could not contain themselves and felt compelled to share a bit of friend circle news with me.

When I said, firmly but politely, I could not listen to that right now, they got upset.

I genuinely try to educate people outside the grief community when I can so I sent a text explaining that (especially!) when a loss is fresh, such conversations are incredibly painful.

The person responded by telling me I was rude and they were highly offended.

In the early days after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven, I would have curled up on my bed and slept away the pain such an exchange inflicted on my wounded heart.

I’m stronger now.

And I’m not just fighting for myself, I’m fighting for my newly bereaved son and his wife.

So after giving it some time and some thought, I wrote a text.

People might consider it harsh but I will not make death easy for others. It’s not easy on the families directly impacted and it’s not my responsibility to manage the feelings of folks who are not even in the grief circle.

I gave graphic details (which I will not recount here to spare my precious readers who actually lived through things like them) regarding the brief life and difficult death of my precious Holly.

I wanted to shock them into realizing the giant gap between the imagined experience of child loss and the LIVED experience of child loss.

I concluded by saying that if “rude” was the epitome of awful in their world, I was thankful they didn’t have anything to compare it to.

I am quicker to extend grace after all these years because I know many, if not most, folks are genuinely doing the best they can.

But I have boundaries.

I am not required to set myself on fire to keep others warm.

And I’m doing no one a favor by allowing someone who wields words like swords to go unchallenged.

There are still lots of times I remain quiet.

This wasn’t one of them.