child loss – Page 246 – thelifeididntchoose

Repost: Help! I Need Somebody!

So, almost twenty years on a farm and I can NOT back a trailer. Nope. Can’t do it.

One day I spent hours trying to teach myself how to do it. Never was able to do anything other than manage to jackknife the trailer, go unhook it and start over.

So when I go somewhere with a trailer I do one of two things: (1) I find a space where I can drive in and be able to just make a loop or (2) I find the nearest person who CAN back a trailer, hand them my keys and ask them to do it.

I feel NO shame.

But that’s not the case with other things I can’t do.

Read the rest here: Help! I Need Somebody!

A Mother’s Love: Wisdom from Wendell Berry

There are many reasons I love Wendell Berry’s writings.

He is committed to living gently among people he loves and caring for the earth that sustains our lives even if we won’t admit it.

He is unafraid to speak uncomfortable truth.

But mostly I love his poetry.

I could share dozens of pieces that have touched my heart and made me cry but today, in honor of mamas everywhere, I choose this one.

Read it slowly. Savor it like fine wine or good chocolate.

Let it sink in where it can do you good.

To My Mother

by Wendell Berry

I was your rebellious son,

do you remember? Sometimes

I wonder if you do remember,

so complete has your forgiveness been.

So complete has your forgiveness been

I wonder sometimes if it did not

precede my wrong, and I erred,

safe found, within your love,

prepared ahead of me, the way home,

or my bed at night, so that almost

I should forgive you, who perhaps

foresaw the worst that I might do,

and forgave before I could act,

causing me to smile now, looking back,

to see how paltry was my worst,

compared to your forgiveness of it

already given. And this, then,

is the vision of that Heaven of which

we have heard, where those who love

each other have forgiven each other,

where, for that, the leaves are green,

the light a music in the air,

and all is unentangled,

and all is undismayed.

I believe that a child’s first taste of gospel freedom is found in a mother’s unconditional love.

“causing me to smile now, looking back, to see how paltry was my worst, compared to your forgiveness of it….”

Mother’s Day 2018: A Letter to My Living Children

I wanted to do a version 2.0 of this post but felt like I couldn’t really add much to what I’ve already written.

So here it is again-a letter to the children still walking planet Earth with me.

You are every bit as important and loved as your brother that is waiting for us in Heaven.

I love you.

You are my breath, my life, my heart walking outside my body. ❤

I never thought it possible to love you more than I already did.

But I do.

Your brother’s untimely departure has opened my heart in a whole new way to the glory that is your presence. It has made me drink you in like water in the desert.

Read the rest here: A Letter To My Living Children*

From The Child Not Here on Mother’s Day

My daughter, Fiona, wrote this last year, in the voice of her brother who ran ahead to heaven.

I am so thankful for her and so sorry that she has gained this wisdom at great cost.

Some of the bravest, most loving women I know are those who have suffered one of life’s greatest losses. I hope you know how truly beautiful you are.

“Dear Mom,

I know most days your eyes are misty with tears, your mind full of questions, your voice quieted, your heart broken by the pain of living without me.

There are only two ways to gain a child: birth or adoption.

But nobody and nothing in this world prepares you for the harsh reality that there are countless ways to lose one.

I can’t dry your eyes or answer your questions; strengthen your voice or fix your broken heart. But today, the day you stand with empty arms or a few empty chairs while others’ hearts and homes are full, I want to remind you of a few things:

It is not your fault.

You are a great mom.

It’s OK to wish for more time.

Broken crayons still color and the world needs your tear-washed rainbows to remind them that stormy clouds are not the end of the story.

I’ll see you soon.

<3,

The One Not Sitting at Your Table”

Bereaved Moms and Mother’s Day Celebrations

It was only last year that I found out there was such a thing as International Bereaved Mother’s Day celebrated on the first Sunday in May.

I hope that my fellow sisters-in-loss took advantage of that opportunity to think about and honor the child or children that won’t be here to celebrate Mother’s Day this Sunday.

Even if you did, it’s not going to be much easier to face a day full of “Happy Mother’s Day!” greetings when your heart may feel anything BUT happy.

Thankful for the opportunity to be a mother-yes. Thankful for children still here on earth with me-yes. Thankful that God has given me the strength to carry on in the face of unimaginable pain and loss-yes.

But “happy”–probably not.

So if your heart is a heavy looking toward tomorrow, I hope this post helps a little.

It’s OK to not be OK.

Read the rest here: Mother’s Day as a Bereaved Mother

Rude Awakening

Even though I got the news from a knock on the door and not a phone call, ever since Dominic’s accident I sleep with my home phone and cell phone next to the bed-I have to be absolutely, utterly reachable.

There have only been a couple times since he left us that they have rung in the dark of night or early morning, but each time my heart is jolted into overdrive and I cannot go back to sleep.

Yesterday morning I received a series of three (obviously wrong number!) calls around 2:15 a.m.

It was a fax machine-probably auto-dialed-and oh, so annoying because I didn’t even have the satisfaction of calling them back and fussing about their lack of courtesy and bad timing.

The only good thing about it was that the *beep*beep*beep* on the other end told me instantly it was not an emergency call from a family member.

I tried to go back to sleep.

I used all the tips and tricks I’ve learned in these four years to calm my heart and distract my thoughts. The two cats that sleep with me worked their magic and together tried to purr me back to sleep.

It was a no-go.

So I got up and came downstairs. Made the coffee, made the rounds and dropped feed in bowls inside and outside.

Sat down and started writing.

I do love writing in the wee hours of the morning-my mind is clearer and less prone to distraction.

But I hate rude awakenings.

It will take half the morning for the adrenaline to work its way out of my system and I’ll be dragging this afternoon just when I need to get things done.

I used to be able to roll over and go back to sleep no matter what woke me in the middle of the night.

Not anymore.

Repost: The Authority of Compassion

I don’t like pain.

I don’t enjoy suffering.

But deep pain and suffering have left a lasting impression on my soul. Experiencing the loss of a child has enlarged my heart and sharpened my senses to the pain and suffering around me.

Choosing transparency in pain is hard and vulnerability is frightening.

But when I let others in, they see that I am just like them. I struggle, I cry out for mercy, I need God’s grace, mercy and strength to carry on.

And that lends authority to my invitation to meet Jesus.

The Authority of Compassion

Courage Requires Vulnerability

It’s a funny thing.

If you’ve never faced anything very frightening, it’s easy to think that those who do and march on through are somehow immune to fear.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

Courage is not the absence of fear but the mastery of it.

Yet you cannot master something you deny. You cannot resist that which you claim doesn’t exist.

Child loss is frightening.

So frightening that those not forced to walk this road usually choose to pretend (in practice if not in words) that it simply isn’t part of the world they live in.

It’s so frightening that most bereaved parents experience a period of time we would describe as “being numb” and “shock”.

It was probably six months until my heart truly understood the fact that Dominic was not coming back.

Ever.

It was frightening on so many levels-I had to face the fact I was not in control, had to face the fact my life was never going to be what I had envisioned it to be, face the fact that my surviving children would be shaped by grief in ways neither I nor they could anticipate, face the fact that I would live out my years carrying this heavy burden, and face the fact that no matter how hard I wished things were different, they were never going to be different-my child was dead.

And when the numbness began to wear off and fear creep into my heart, I had to choose: Was I going to embrace and experience this awful, devastating fear or was I going to try to deny it, distract myself from it or try to dismiss it as inconsequential?

Facing fear requires facing my own weakness.

Facing fear means becoming vulnerable-admitting that I am hurting, admitting that I cannot do this on my own, admitting that maybe, just maybe, I can’t climb this mountain without help.

Choosing vulnerability was its own challenge.

What if others mocked me? What if no one helped me? What if I just wasn’t up to the task?

I decided that NOT facing fear was not an option. As long as it lurked in the shadows I would be its prisoner.

So I turned and looked it square in the eyes. And I found, with God’s enabling help, I could master that fear.

Two verses became my touchstone:

When struck by fear,
    I let go, depending securely upon You alone.
In God—whose word I praise—
    in God I place my trust. I shall not let fear come in,
    for what can measly men do to me?

Psalm 56:3-4 VOICE

When I admitted my weakness, His strength was sufficient.

Choosing vulnerability and facing fear opens the door for God to show His power in and through me.

Child loss is still scary.

I’m still afraid.

But the Lord gives me strength to master the fear.

Post # 1000: Thelifeididntchoose By the Numbers

This is one of my favorite photos of my son Dominic-the inspiration for this blog. I love it because he was doing something he loved. He was traveling in Brazil and went mountain climbing on his 21st birthday.

It’s pure Dom-shorts and sleeveless shirt (he was always warm-natured) and what you can’t see in this photo is he was in flip-flops-hardly appropriate footwear for the mountains.

Strong, fearless, brave and adventurous-God I miss him!

Until the day my pain is redeemed and my heart restored, I’ll keep sharing the life I didn’t choose.

I am thankful for every reader who now carries a tiny bit of my son in his or her heart too. ❤

I rarely pay attention to all the statistics offered by WordPress when I log into my account.

I can see how many views a post has received, where my readers are and how they got to the post-whether via Facebook, Pinterest, search engines, etc.

Sometime last week I did notice a tiny number at the top of the list of published posts and realized I was creeping close to having made 1000 posts.

It floored me.

When I started writing in September, 2015 I envisioned a once-in-a-while update on my grief journey primarily for family and friends. I had started blogs in the past but never had the mojo nor the commitment to keep them up much longer than a few months.

And then I discovered that writing for a bigger audience than myself and God was helpful and freeing. I found out that putting words out in public forced me to refine my thoughts and dig deeper than I was otherwise willing to go. I found out, like Flannery O’Conner, that often I don’t really know what I think until I write it down.

I made a commitment in November, 2015 to write every day and thought it would only last a month.

But it’s lasted now for nearly two and a half years!

Sometimes I’m too exhausted to produce fresh material so I will repost an old entry. Sometimes I recycle a post because it was well-received and I feel like it needs to be put out there again.

Most days I write something fresh that reflects where I am right now.

I decided early on that writing here was going to be a way to honor Dominic, my family, my journey and God so I would not monetize it in any way. I plan to stick to that commitment.

Free of any commercial expectations or limitations I can write what I want, when I want, how I want.

Interacting with readers and with others on Facebook sent me in new directions and challenged me to explore the corners of my experience and try to put it into words that might help others feel less alone and misunderstood.

The result so far is one thousand posts!

I can hardly believe it.

So here are a few statistics for Post # 1000 that I find fascinating:

Number of countries where at least one person has accessed a post: 189–including Iraq. The Palestinian Territories, The People’s Republic of China and Uzbekistan! There is even a fairly large group that accesses daily posts from South Africa.

Obviously I knew in my head that the Internet has no borders, but this has really proven it to me in a very practical and surprising way!

Total number of views: (at the time of writing) 794, 980

Total number of visitors: 492, 058

Several posts have been shared thousands and tens of thousands of times which is another fascinating and surprising statistic that I find hard to grasp.

There have been a few moments when choosing to be so public has been painful.

Sometimes I’ve gotten comments that try to pick a fight over theological positions that I consider tangential to the central tenets of Christianity. Sometimes I’ve had to ward off people who really just want to rant and rave in their grief-I’m truly sorry for their pain but I’m in no position to be an endless source of support and affirmation.

Once or twice my material has been stolen and circulated by others and that hurts because it is a record of MY journey and a tribute to MY son.

But all in all I have been blessed.

Blessed by the folks who take time to comment on the blog or comment on the public Heartache and Hope: Life After Losing a Child Facebook Page. I’ve been blessed by people who let me know that they look for the post every morning and that it gives them strength to get up and go on.

Mostly I’ve been blessed by knowing that I am doing the work that God prepared in advance for me to do.

Dominic’s death was no surprise to the Lord.

He knows the end from the beginning. I am so thankful that I don’t. But I can see how He was preparing me for decades to be able to put this journey into words and share it with others.

I don’t like my subject.

I would give anything-literally ANYTHING– for the calling on my heart to be something else.

But until He tells me to stop or I run out of words, I’ll be here.

I hope you’ll continue to join me.

Ain’t Nothing Easy About It

I’ve been doing this for 1,487 days.

If it takes two weeks to form a habit, I’m way past habit by now.

Except that, as C.S. Lewis says, “in grief nothing ‘stays put'” so even though it seems I am traveling the same road, walking the same territory, it shifts and moves so that I’m never quite sure of my footing.

And there ain’t nothing easy about it.

No flat spots to catch my breath. No downhill slope regardless of how many hills I climb. It seems that I never reach a patch that’s just a little less strenuous.

I wish I would.

I wish so badly that I could have two days strung together where I could just kind of coast along-no real effort required.

Last week I visited my oldest son in Florida. He’s really into CrossFit and while my joints preclude my participation, he convinced his younger brother to join in a friendly intra-gym competition.

As I sat watching Julian lift that weighted bar over and over all I could think of was, “This is hard, but it’s not the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

When you’ve buried a brother (or a child) and lived each day since, there aren’t too many things that measure up to that level of difficulty.

I wish I could say that I’m better at this by now, but I’m not.

There are better days-I can laugh and rejoice and even sing-but when grief rolls over me it is just as devastating-every. single. time.

It doesn’t last as long.

And for that I’m thankful.

But ain’t nothing easy.

It’s still hard.

For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.

~C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

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