My friend and fellow bereaved mom, Margaret Franklin, Ryan’s mom, shared a beautiful Dutch word with me “Sterkte” (pronounced STAIRK-tah).
It literally translates “strength” or “power” but culturally means much more. It means bravery, strength, fortitude and endurance in the face of fear and insumountable odds through the empowering strength of God in me.
Not MY strength, but HIS.
Read the rest here: Trust After Loss: Appropriate God’s Strength
“I wake before the morning light. Every. single. morning.
I get my coffee, sit in my chair and wait for sunrise.
I never worry that today it might not happen.
Read the rest here: Trust After Loss: Access the Truth
Grief forces me to walk Relentlessly Forward even when I long to go back.
I can’t stop the clock or the sun or the days rolling by.
Those of us who are more than a couple months along in this journey (or any journey that involves tragedy and loss) know that it is ABSOLUTELY POSSIBLEto feel worse than in the first few days.
Read the rest here: Trust After Loss: Acknowledge Doubt and Ask Questions
Child loss is Unnatural-no way around it.
Out of order death is devastating.
When my perfectly healthy, strong and gifted son was killed instantly in a motorcycle accident on April 12. 2014 my world fell apart. My heart shattered into a million pieces. And after three and a half years, I’ve yet to even FINDall of those pieces much less put them back together.
So what does a heart do when that happens?
Read the rest here: Trust After Loss: Admit the Pain
For the next few days, I’ll be sharing these previously published posts in a series born from a speaking engagement last October.
If you struggle with squaring God’s sovereignty, His love and man’s free will, then I invite you to join me.
I hope it helps your heart. ❤
If you’ve read the blog for very long, you’ve learned two things about me: (1) I am up front and honest about my feelings, my doubts, my faith and my heart; and (2) I’m not afraid to explore topics that often make the church uncomfortable.
So here I am again.
Read the rest here: Learning To Trust God Again After Loss
I wrote this originally two years ago-about 20 months after Dominic ran ahead to heaven.
While I continue to grow stronger, to heal a bit more, to find more joy in the every day and the special days, I am can still be felled by a single scent, thought, song or memory.
Truth is, I miss him. I miss my son.
And there is no cure for that.
No matter how tightly I strap on my armor, grief sends arrows through the tiniest unprotected chink and pierces my heart.
There is no defense against the sound, the smell, the wayward memory that sends me back in time to when Dominic was alive and with me.
And once there, to drag myself forward to today—where he is neither—is torture.
Read the rest here: Not as Strong as I Look
This was shared in a bereaved parents’ group to which I belong and I really like it.
It’s a great reminder to those of us traveling this road that it is a lifelong journey.
It’s also a good explanation of why there is a gap between our experience and those who have never experienced child loss.
They want to apply the mechanical or medical model to us but it just doesn’t work.
We can’t be “fixed”, we can only learn to make adjustments that incorporate our new reality.
When your car breaks down, you go to a mechanic. He puts in new parts, makes adjustments, and your car runs fine again. When your body is ill, the doctor examines you and makes a diagnosis. Medication or surgery can cure the problem. With treatment, you’re healthy again.
The mechanical and medical models do not help when it comes to grief. Part of you died when your child died. That part of you is irreplaceable. There are no interchangeable parts to get you through grief. You have to adjust. There is no simple process.
Think of your journey through grief as a kind of rehabilitation. When a woman loses her eyesight, there are ways of coping. She can learn to read braille, get a seeing eye dog, and learn to navigate with a cane. If a man loses his hearing, he can get hearing aids and learn to communicate through sign language and lipreading.
Living through the aftershock of death can teach you new ways to adapt and survive. Life is never the same after a loved one dies. You will need to learn new ways of thinking, acting, and feeling.
Life is still worth living, but there are adjustments to make. They are not easy, because they require admitting that your child is no longer there. The adjustments can include not making as much food for a family meal; missing that precious face at the dinner table; not tucking your child into bed at night; buying fewer Christmas presents (or no birthday gifts); having tears come unbidden when surprised. You can make these adjustments as you walk through the grieving process. Determine that you will learn the skills needed to survive.
You will never forget your child. Your life will not be the same. As you go through the changes, you can hang onto God, because he never changes: ‘Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever’ (Heb. 13:8). His love surrounds you. His strength is available to you, and he will help you face each demanding new day.
~Warren Wiersbe, Gone But Not Lost
I had no choice in child loss.
When Dominic first left us, it felt like I would never get to choose anything again-it felt like I would always be at the mercy of life just happening TO me.
But in these months and years since, I’ve found that I DO have choices.
I have many, many choices every. single. day.
I can choose bitterness or I can choose love.
I can choose blame or I can choose grace.
I can choose to isolate my wounded heart or I can choose to integrate my experience into who I am and invite others to join me on the journey.
I can choose to live in the past-which isn’t really living at all-or I can choose to face each new day and see what it has to offer.
I can choose to elevate my missing child so high that his siblings have no hope of measuring up or I can choose to remember the good AND the bad of who he was and how he walked in the world.
I can choose to complain about how others don’t understand or I can choose to educate them on what child loss feels like, how it impacts all aspects of my life and how it will be part of my experience until the day I join my son.
I can choose to be ashamed of my tears or I can choose to display them proudly as testimony of the love I have for my son.
I can choose to be upset that others fail to mention his name or I can choose to mention it myself, making him as natural a part of the conversation as my living children.
I can choose to ignore the way grief impacts my ability to do all the things I once did or I can choose to make wise accommodations for my limitations.
I can choose to close my heart to love and laughter or I can choose to honor Dominic by loving and laughing anyway.
I choose life.
Because as long as I breathe, I carry the light of Dominic’s life with mine.
❤
As another Christmas without Dominic rapidly approaches, I am pondering the question: “Why, oh why, is Christmas so hard?”
I think I’ve figured out at least a few reasons why.
For me, probably THE biggest reason Christmas is hard is because it throws off the routine I depend on to shepherd my heart through a day. It’s easiest for me to manage when I have at least a couple of hours of quiet time each morning. I need those silent moments to let my heart feel what it needs to feel, to cry if I must and to orient my thoughts after, once again, “remembering” that Dominic isn’t here.
Changing schedules and extra commitments mean that some nights I stay up later than usual and can’t manage to get out of bed in time to have those hours. Extra people in the house mean that they may get up and join me in the living room. While I love the company, I have to be honest and say I would love it more a little later in the day 🙂 ,
Another reason I struggle at Christmas is because all (almost all!) the family is together in one place. This may sound odd to anyone who hasn’t buried a child, but when every single person I care most deeply for is together, it highlights the space where Dominic SHOULD be but ISN’T.
Other times of the year we are more or less a full circle-as long as one or two others are missing, it kind of feels like maybe, just maybe, Dominic is away for awhile instead of away for the rest of my life. But when we are all gathered round the table or the tree or the fireplace, it is oh, so obvious that he isn’t here.
Buying presents and filling stockings I go down the list. I have to skip Dom because he won’t be here to open gifts or pull out his favorite candy from a Christmas sock. I can’t even mail him a package where he is. So I try to focus on the fact that his Christmas is the best one, because he is with the One Who IS Christmas.
But my heart still hurts, still yearns for one more hilarious morning when the camcorder won’t work or one of our sleepy young adults refuses to roll out of bed while the rest of us are waiting.
We are waiting now for a different kind of morning-one where the light dawns and never dims.
While I am in no way ashamed of the grief I carry-great love means great grief- I do try not to burden others with my tears at events or in places where smiles should rule. The Christmas season multiplies those occasions and calls for so. much. energy. just to maintain my “happy face” for the masses. It’s exhausting in a way only other grievers can truly understand.
And, of course, we celebrate Christmas in the US during what my grandmother used to call “the dark of the year”. Shorter days, longer nights means less time outside, less sunshine to generate the feel-good hormones I depend on to get me through each moment. When the nights come early and linger long, my mind has more time to ruminate on what was and what will never be again.
Finally, because Christmas is stressful for everyone for different reasons, people can just be a little harder to deal with-less flexible, more impatient, quicker to take offense or give it. All that emotional drama can overwhelm my heart in a flash-leaving me speechless, crying and anxious. It’s no one’s fault. It just is what it is.
For all these reasons-and dozens more-Christmas is an especially difficult time of year for this hurting heart.
So I try to be gentle to myself and to extend the same grace to ME that I extend to others.
I remind my heart that it is perfectly OK to turn down invitations when I just. can’t. go.
I lean into the Promise born in the manger-Emmanuel, God with us-and hold on with both hands.
Christmas is fast approaching so I’m posting this one last time. I hope it helps someone who is struggling to share how hard it can be to “make merry” when a heart is broken. ❤
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
thelifeididntchoose 