I was reminded once again this week how the events surrounding death and burial are inadequate indicators of the profound change that has taken place in the lives of those left behind.
Standing at the graveside of a precious friend’s father, I remembered watching Dominic’s earthly shell lowered beneath the ground.
I was wholly unprepared for the days and weeks and months that followed.
No one had told me it was only a beginning…Loving Well: Transitioning From “Good-bye” to Grief
I don’t get to choose.
I don’t get to plan the way life is going to be.
Oh, I bring out the calendar and mark down the days: birthdays, holidays, special events and obligations.
But then one dark morning a knock stops the clock and makes the world spin faster all at once.
I’m suspended and plunged under in the same breath.
Frozen. Broken. Horrified.
How did this happen?
How is this my life?
My head and heart explode in pain.
Months pass. The days march on.
I still don’t get to choose what sunrise brings.
But looking back I’m grateful that when my circle was whole we chose love.
That when the days were unfolding we chose faith.
That even as the night closed in and the days grew dark we continued to cling to the one Hope that proves true.
I’m thankful that my heart was full of praise songs and Scripture and that when I couldn’t lift my hand to turn the pages of my Bible the Spirit used them to whisper courage to my soul.
This Valley is deep and the sun is often hidden by the towering mountains on either side.
I have learned two things:
I can’t determine how life unfolds,
but I can decide where to place my hope.
“I admit how broken I am in body and spirit,
but God is my strength,
and He will be mine forever.”
Psalm 73:26 VOICE
One year ago today I began sharing my grief journey publicly on this blog.
You can read that first post here.
It was (and still is) scary to expose my thoughts and feelings to a wider audience than just the pages of my personal journal.
I’m never certain that what is helpful for me is necessarily helpful for anyone else. But in writing it down I find that I am able to sort through things better than when I leave it bouncing around in my own head space.
I decided upfront that I would be as honest as possible about what I felt and how I was coping. I wasn’t sure if I would post only a few times or a lot, if it would turn into a day-by-day diary or a more sweeping revelation of deeper things.
I think it’s kind of been both at times.
And here we are, 366 days (it was a leap year) and 355 posts later and I’m still here and you’re still listening.
I don’t claim to have any special gifting or knowledge or ability. I am simply one mama whose love for both her child in heaven and her children still here demands that I speak out.
My heart is full of love and pain.
And my heart has been blessed beyond measure by those who read and share what I have written. I’ve met-in person and virtually-many bereaved parents who are helping me as I continue down this road.
I am so very thankful for each one.
I pray that for those who read these words and know the pain of burying a child, I am speaking things you may think or feel but are not willing or able to express.
And I pray that in hearing them spoken aloud, you are affirmed and encouraged that you. are. not. alone.
Dominic matters.
Your child matters.
It’s not only OK but absolutely necessary to admit that life after child loss is a struggle. It is also just fine to take your time working through the pain and sorrow and overwhelming changes child loss brings.
For those who read my posts and do not share this pain, I pray you gain insight into what bereaved parents feel and how burying a child changes EVERYTHING.
I hope you are better equipped to offer the ongoing support we need and crave. I hope you learn that this is not something we have chosen, it is something that happened to us.
And I pray that all of us will be more willing to extend grace, mercy and love to one another.
Words are not neutral.
They bring life or death.
They wound or heal.
May each of us be an instrument of healing for someone’s hurting heart.
“Those who wait for Me with hope will not be put to shame.”
Isaiah 49:23c NLV
We love stories of overcomers. We invite testimonies that end in victory.
We applaud members of the Body who have a “before” and “after” tale of how Jesus plus willpower took them from the dust of defeat to the pinnacle of spiritual success.
But we hide the strugglers and stragglers in the back pews.
If suffering lingers long, whether or not it is in the hands of the one who suffers to do anything about it, we cringe and pull back and hope they go away.
We don’t offer them the pulpit or the Sunday School hour to speak of how Christ continues to be the hope to which they cling.
Because deep down, we think there must be something wrong with them, something wrong with their brand or quality or strength of faith. If they only got it “right”, they too, would have the victory.
We would rather shush the suffering than face the tension between God’s goodness and His sovereignty.
We shame them to silence by implying they have nothing to share until they are able to wrap their story with a perfect spiritual bow.
We add insult to injury when their need for help exceeds the allotted three weeks or six months or whatever arbitrary deadline we impose on the prayer list and our patience.
But maybe what God has for me and others who suffer long is not a victorious tag line that can be slapped on a photo or shared on social media.
Maybe it’s only in the continued press of suffering that God reveals Himself in ways the non-suffering never see.
Maybe a dash to declare victory is actually rushing past what God has for us in deep pain and ongoing struggle.
Maybe waiting in hopeful expectation for what God is doing and will do in me and through me IS the victory.
We wait for Yahweh;
He is our help and shield.
For our hearts rejoice in Him
because we trust in His holy name.
May Your faithful love rest on us, Yahweh,
for we put our hope in You.
Psalm 33:20-22 HCSB
The Vietnam Memorial is a beautiful and meaningful reminder of those who gave their lives in that war. The stark black stone highlights the 58,307 names engraved in its surface.
I shared this a few months back as part of a “Loving Well” series of posts about what grieving parents feel and what ministers to their broken hearts.
I long to know my son is remembered and still matters.
Please, Just Say His Name.
Last February I ran a series of posts about “loving well” during loss.
Other bereaved parents graciously shared both what helped and what hurt in the first few days, weeks and months after losing a child.
I wanted to share this one again because I’ve been reminded recently that it’s hard to know what to do and what to say when a friend or family member is facing the devastating pain of child loss.
If you long to help someone in meaningful ways when they are struggling in a storm of grief, read this: Loving Well: Some Things Hurt
For a moment–
Between wake and sleep-
All things are as I wish them to be.
Unchanged by time,
by terror,
by tears.
Warm and lovely.
Cocooned in my heart.
A fellow “waiting” mom wrote this and gave me permission to share:
“I coached my oldest daughter through natural labor and childbirth on Wednesday night. She stayed at 9cm for 3.5 hours.
Towards the end she looked at me and said ‘I can’t do this, I’m not strong enough!’
I looked at her and said, ‘You can because you have your husband and me right here with you to give you our strength.’
We held her up while she rocked back and forth moving her little guy down into position.
While I was holding my daughter through such physical trauma I thought about how God held me up after the loss of her sister.
I didn’t have the strength to stand. I felt like I couldn’t do it.
But He held me.
He didn’t take the pain away but He held me up when my strength failed me.”
Her words brought light to my heart.
Here was a mama who has faced life and death and learned something she was willing to share.
Her experience reminded me of this Brene Brown quote I had read months ago:
Faith isn’t an epidural. It’s a midwife who stands next to me saying, “Push, It’s supposed to hurt.” ~Brene Brown
As I reflected on my friend’s words and this quote, I realized there were some lessons here-for birth, for death and for grief.
A midwife does not deny the pain.
It hurts!
It hurts to give birth. It hurts to say good-bye. It hurts to carry grief everywhere I go.
When someone comes alongside and denies the truth of my pain, I shut down and stop listening.
But when they enter in and acknowledge my pain, I receive courage to continue pushing.
A midwife does not offer false hope.
She knows that there is no way through but through. A midwife bears witness and lends strength but she doesn’t pretend it will be easy.
There are no shortcuts to birth and no detours for grief. I can only face the sorrow, missing and hurt and keep going.
But the journey is easier when someone is willing to travel with me, to listen and to help bear the burden.
A midwife understands that though the pain is great and the process long, it will end.
It hurts. But it won’t hurt forever.
She doesn’t throw that truth in the hurting mama’s face. She whispers prayers for mercy.
For the profound wounds of life, there are no quick fixes. There is no easy healing.
We endure because God through His Spirit lends us strength.
We make it through because Jesus promises to redeem and restore.
And because friends remind us with their presence that God is near.
What a gift are those friends who stay near when life is hard,
who choose to stick it out when pain makes us both uncomfortable
and continue to love and lend their strength when mine is gone!
At this stage in my grief journey I have learned to exercise the “just ignore it” muscle that allows me to scroll through Facebook without taking comments personally.
Most of the time.
But yesterday a grieving mama posted a tribute to her missing daughter complete with a beautiful photo collage and a sweet message that included sharing her feelings.
This mama revealed that her heart was broken, that she missed her daughter and that she was oh, so proud of her and thankful for the years they had together.
Many comments were simply, “Praying for you” or “Love you”.
But one comment stuck out. This person said, “She wouldn’t want you to be sad. She’s at peace in heaven with Jesus.”
Really??!!
How is that helpful?
In a single line you have dismissed this mama’s honest and appropriate feelings and implied you know her daughter better than she does.
Of course she’s in heaven with Jesus. As believers in Christ we know that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.
But knowing that, trusting that truth makes grief easier to bear, it does not erase it.
Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, “We do not grieve as those without hope.” (I Thess. 4:13)
NOT “We do not grieve.”
Here’s something you need to know: hurting with hope still hurts. The sting of death might have been removed, but it still stings. No, we might not sorrow as those who have no hope, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be sad.
Levi Lusko, Through the Eyes of a Lion
Grief is the price we pay for love.
Grief is an appropriate and proportionate response to the death (the end of earthly companionship) of someone we love.
If grief is small, what does that say about love?
It can’t be both ways.
We cannot celebrate a mother’s love and then dismiss her grief.
So my answer to that comment was this:
It’s perfectly OK to be sad. Death is awful. And missing is hard. Praying that the Lord will bring a special memory-one that has been tucked away in your hearts but mostly forgotten-to mind today and that it will bring a smile to your lips. May you feel the Lord’s Presence today and may He sing a song of love, grace and mercy over your shattered heart
God’s grief over a world of people doomed to eternal separation from Himself was to send His only Son as a sacrifice.
Why was the grief so great? Why was He willing to pay that price?
Because His love is infinitely greater.
This is the fourth in a series on making plans for the holidays after loss.
Yes, it’s early and no, you might not want to think about them-it’s really hard to imagine Thanksgiving and Christmas without the child you love. BUT, the days will come whether we want them to or not. Here’s some help to navigate them.
If you missed the first three posts you can find them here:
Grief and Holiday Plans: Working Out the Details
Grief, Holidays and Hard Conversations
Grief and Holidays:What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family.
It cannot be overstated: holidays are extremely hard after loss. Every family gathering highlights the hole where my son SHOULD be, but ISN’T.
There is no “right way” or “wrong way” to handle the holidays after losing a child.
For many, there is only survival-especially the very first year.
These days also stir great internal conflict: I want to enjoy and celebrate my living children and my family still here while missing my son that isn’t. Emotions run high and are, oh so difficult to manage.
So I’m including some ideas from other bereaved parents on how they’ve handled the holidays. Many of these suggestions could be adapted for any “special” day of the year.
Not all will appeal to everyone nor will they be appropriate for every family. But they are a place to start.
If you have decided to make a Holiday Journal, consider printing these ideas to put inside or copying out the ones that might be helpful for you.
Skip it.
Consider traveling for the holidays.
Change how you do meals.
Let others do the planning/cooking/communicating.
Make new traditions.
Commemorate your child:
Keep the same traditions:
Whatever you choose to do or not do, know that there’s no wrong way or right way.
Be gentle with yourself-this is a hard road. And a long one.
Photo credit: State Farm via Visual hunt
thelifeididntchoose 