Grief can be isolating.
It separates me as one who knows loss by experience from those who have only looked on from the outside.
It opens a chasm between me and people who aren’t aware that life can be changed in a single instant.
And I can feel like no one sees me, no one cares about me and no one notices my pain.
Sometimes it even feels like God has forgotten me-that He isn’t listening, that He doesn’t care.
Read the rest here: He Knows My Name
I’m not brave by nature.
If I have a choice, I will run every time. But there are just some things worth fighting for.
My family is one of them.
I will not let the enemy have them.
I will not allow despair to overtake us, fear to bind us, hopelessness to sap our strength.
I will not let death win.
Read the rest here: I Will Not Be Moved
Joan Rivers was famous for opening her comedic routine with the question, “Can we talk?”
She would launch into a hilarious rendering of topics that were usually off-limits in polite conversation but which everyone secretly wanted to share. It actually helped bring some things into the light that had been hiding in shadows for far too long.
So, I’m going to take a cue from her and ask, “Can we talk?”
Can we talk about my missing son and quit pretending that just because he’s no longer present in the body, he’s not still part of my life?
Can we say his name without also looking down or away like his death is a shameful secret?
Can we share stories and memories and laughter and tears just as naturally about HIM as we do about anyone else?
Can we make a way to represent him at holidays, birthdays and special occasions? It doesn’t have to be a grand gesture-even a photo or place setting or ornament will do.
Can we stop acting surprised that I still get upset when other people’s kids reach milestones my son will never attain?
Can we talk about your feelings as well as mine without devolving into a shouting match or a flurry of accusations about who should be feeling what by now?
Can we make space for tears?
Can we make space for solitude?
Can we make space in our conversations and celebrations that allows joy and sadness to dwell together?
Can we continue to honor the light and life that was (and is!) my son?
Because if we can do this, it will make all the difference.
If you are a bereaved parent and can fly,
drive
or walk to Hot Springs, Arkansas October 6-7
you will want to make the journey.
April Wendland, a bereaved mama with a heart to reach others with hope and love has organized a conference just for us.
And it’s *FREE* to bereaved parents.
From the website:
“THROUGH THIS VALLEY is a faith based conference designed BY bereaved parents, FOR bereaved parents.
We know the deep pain. We know the longing.
We know the questions. We know the heartache.
But we’ve also found some healing. We’ve found some peace for our hearts.
We’ve found some answers.
And we understand the Healer in new & grateful ways.
It is our desire to share what we’ve learned with other bereaved parents who are searching for answers. And being together with others who have gone through similar experiences somehow gives us all a little more strength & comfort too. You are not alone. There is hope. This conference will change the lives of those who have open hearts & ears to hear.
There is no charge to the bereaved parents for the THROUGH THIS VALLEY conference.
All speakers, attendees & most staff are bereaved parents.”
I’m going.
Wanna join me there?
Click here for more information or to register: Through This Valley
I’ve come to believe that my wounds and the grace God has provided in my woundedness are not my personal possession.
God did not cause my pain, but He is redeeming it. He is molding me into a different person than I would have been if Dominic hadn’t run ahead to heaven. And that person has more compassion and grace and mercy and patience than the person I was before.
If I hide my wounds then I am hiding the hope He has hidden in my heart.
I won’t do that.
“Now that we know what we have—Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God—let’s not let it slip through our fingers. We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help.”
Hebrews 4:14-16 MSG
Nobody escapes being wounded. We all ar wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not ‘How can we hide our wounds?’ so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but ‘How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?’ When our wounds cease to be a source of shame, and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers.
Jesus is God’s wounded healer: through his wounds we are healed. Jesus’suffering and death brought joy and life. His humiliation brought glory; his rejection brought a community of love. As followers of Jesus we can also allow our wounds to bring healing to others. ~ Henri Nouwen
Thank God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, that he is our Father and the source of all mercy and comfort. For he gives us comfort in our trials so that we in turn may be able to give the same sort of strong sympathy to others in theirs. Indeed, experience shows that the more we share Christ’s suffering the more we are able to give of his encouragement. This means that if we experience trouble we can pass on to you comfort and spiritual help; for if we ourselves have been comforted we know how to encourage you to endure patiently the same sort of troubles that we have ourselves endured. We are quite confident that if you have to suffer troubles as we have done, then, like us, you will find the comfort and encouragement of God.
2 Corinthians 1:3-7 PHILLIPS
Sharing our wounds makes us vulnerable.
When we allow ourselves to become vulnerable, we invite others to do the same.
In this community of mutual vulnerability, healing is possible.
You’d think that being on the other side of untimely or even painful comments would shape my conversation so that I am not the one blurting out hurtful or thoughtless words.
Sadly, that’s not the case.
While I am much more careful about what I say and how and when I say it, I still put my foot in it on a regular basis.
I talk instead of listen-rushing ahead to share MY pain instead of sitting silently while someone else shares theirs.
I make comparisons instead of extending boundless compassion.
I focus too much on the words and not enough on the wordless communication of facial expression and body language.
I try to “fix” the problem or person instead of simply being present.
I overwhelm a hurting heart with too much information. Even good information delivered from a firehose instead of a water fountain is unhelpful.
I interrupt, cut people off, turn away and shorten uncomfortable conversations.
I want to do better.
I want to be the safe space hurting hearts need.
I want to be full of grace and mercy and kindness.
I know I fall short, but I’m still learning.
I need to remind myself of this every few days.
I’ve mentioned it before.
I’ve encouraged others not to resist.
But I want to be absolutely clear: Losing my son made me doubt EVERYTHING.
Read the rest here: He Will Hold Me Fast
I confess: I AM a cat lady.
Not the one with the dozens living in the house and stinking up the place but the one who relies on her furry pal to get her through hard days.
I raised Roosevelt from the day he was born.
His mom was a sickly outdoor cat that had never made it through a successful pregnancy and was not a candidate for being spayed because she wouldn’t have survived the anesthesia.
So the day I heard a tiny “mew” outside my window I hardly expected the sight I beheld. Here was mama kitty utterly amazed that she had birthed a baby, walking off the edge of the porch with a tiny black something still attached by the umbilical cord.
She could have cared less.
I grabbed scissors and a towel and rescued the little darling without much hope of his surviving.
But he did.
That was seven hospitalizations, two surgeries and one giant heartache ago.
He has become my comfort companion, my purring pal, the one who knows before I do that my RA is flaring, my heart breaking.
I am thankful for this oasis of comfort in a desert of hurt.
I am thankful that the God Who made me also made animals to bring healing in the midst of heartache. Oh, so thankful for a husband that puts up with my crazy “save everything that breathes” personality and doesn’t mind if a cat sneaks up the side of the bed in the middle of the night to get cozy in the covers..
When Dominic died, I remember sitting in my chair as the parade of sweet friends and family came over to cry with us. Roosevelt sat with me the entire time. His warm body reminded me that I was still here even when my limbs seemed to float away into the ether and my mind wasn’t entirely certain that what I saw or heard was real.
I have learned to count my blessings.
And while the majority of them walk on two legs, at least one has four.
I’m a stickler for accurate theology.
While that might make for interesting and lively debate with fellow believers, force of habit limits my imagination when it comes to what I believe with certainty about Heaven.
So on the other side of sending my child ahead of me to live with Jesus, I find I wish I were more free to make up scenes of what he might be doing there. But I cannot, no matter how hard I try, create a movie-style narrative that includes him and the saints that have gone before.
And that leaves a gaping hole in addition to the unfillable abyss in my heart of where Dominic used to be.
I also do not believe my son sends me signs from heaven. I wrote about that here a few months ago. Although I do believe that God Himself can and does use the natural world to encourage my heart and give me hope.
And approaching the third anniversary of Dominic’s leaving, I need a little encouragement to hope.
So a few weeks ago I did something for myself that I probably should have done long before. I bought six beautiful sets of windchimes-different lengths, different tones-and hung them all around my house under the porch eaves where even the slightest breeze sets them swaying.
They help me remember what Jesus told Nicodemus, “The wind blows all around us as if it has a will of its own; we feel and hear it, but we do not understand where it has come from or where it will end up. Life in the Spirit is as if it were the wind of God.” ( John 3:8 VOICE)
They help me remember that God drew Dominic to Himself by His Spirit when he was a little boy in ways I can’t see or fully understand.
They help me remember that God was present and working on the day He called him Home.
They help me remember that God is working right now to hold my heart steady and help me rest firmly on His promise that we will be together one day for eternity.
God has not abandoned me.
Every tinkling sings hope to my heart.
I had no idea that the last time I spoke with Dominic would be the LAST time I spoke with him.
How could I?
He wasn’t hanging on to life by a thread, threatened with a deadly disease nor involved in risky behavior. So I wasn’t weighing my words like I might have if the last time I saw him was in a hospital bed or after springing him from rehab.
No, it was just another casual evening “check in”, another random exchange that ended with, “See you tomorrow. Love you.”
Except tomorrow never came for Dominic even though it surely came for me–with claws and fangs and growling horror.
For some bereaved parents the last words they exchanged with their missing child were awful. They may have been angry or dismissive. They may have been distracted and forgot to say, “I love you.”
And even for us whose words were kind, there is this nagging sense that if we had only known (but how could we?) we would have said something profound, something that would be worth hanging onto if they were hanging onto anything in those last moments before breath left their bodies.
But I honestly believe that our children-in the Presence of Jesus-are not reciting anything that happened before they reached their beautiful eternal Home.
ALL of my mistakes and sins were nailed to the cross.
That is why there is therefore NO condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. I know it doesn’t take away the feelings of condemnation or guilt, but if Christ’s sacrifice is sufficient (and it IS) then my feelings are lying.
My relationship with Dominic was filled with love, laughter, affirmation and acceptance.
He knew that then and he knows that now.
I have to remind my heart of the facts until it can hear and embrace them.
And when it forgets, I remind it again.
thelifeididntchoose 