I used to position myself at the end of the pew, just in case someone I’m not too comfortable with might come along and try to sit down.
It saved us both that awkward conversation where they ask if they can join me and I say “yes” with my mouth but “no” with my body language.
Read the rest here: Move Over, Make Room for the Broken
Remember the childhood riddle, “Which is heavier, a ton of bricks or a ton of feathers?”
It was great fun to catch someone giving the wrong answer.
Because, of course, a ton is a ton is a ton. Weight is an absolute measure.
But it takes fewer bricks to reach that quota although it takes just as much strength to lift the burden.
One thing I’m learning in my grief journey is that there are so many people carrying a load.
I find my compassion radar has been fine-tuned to hear even the faintest whisper of hurt in someone’s voice, to see the tiniest gleam of a tear, to notice the smallest stoop of shoulders or the beginning of a frown.
And while some of us have had our ton of pain and sorrow delivered via bricks-suddenly, forcefully and overwhelmingly dumped-others have acquired their ton over a lifetime of disappointment, struggle and testing.
They both weigh a ton.
And they both require great strength to carry.
It’s a challenge to resist the urge to rank my experience on a continuum of pain.
Although I bridle when people compare their loss of a pet or job to my loss of a child (as I wrote about here), I do try to extend grace when others expose their own wounds.
I want to comfort other people with the comfort I have received. Not only the comfort from Christ-which is the ultimate comfort-but also the comfort I’ve received from wise friends and caring sisters-in-loss.
I want to be a listening ear, a compassionate heart and an outstretched hand.
I want to be a witness, a fellow traveler on the journey, an encourager.
Grief
is grief
is grief.
A ton is a ton is a ton.
It’s OK to not be OK.
If you are grieving, you are not responsible for making others feel better about YOUR pain.
Read the rest here: You Don’t Have to Pretend
It’s nice to get flowers or chocolate or balloons or cards that say, “I love you”.
But true love can’t be bought.
True love is marked by sacrifice, ongoing support, genuine compassion and willingness to do whatever it takes to “be there” for another person.
It means standing with someone even when walking beside them includes bearing the unbearable.
So I have a radical suggestion for this Valentine’s Day-instead of lining the pockets of America’s merchandising gurus-take a moment to write a note to someone who has truly loved you.
Tell them how their love has changed your life.
How their patience gives you space to grow.
How their kindness sings hope to your heart.
How their refusal to envy, boast or brag allows you to rejoice in their blessings without feeling left out or less than.
How their humility and gentleness invites you to share the deepest things, certain your secrets are safe.
How their refusal to keep a tally of the ways you’ve disappointed them grants freedom to try again.
How their trust and hope shine light in your life and give your heart something to hold onto.
How their enduring love gives you a glimpse of heaven.
Let the ones who love you well know that what they do makes a difference.
Every. Single. Day.
I love the idea of Random Acts of Kindness-it’s a beautiful way to spread love and joy in our broken world.
With a few dollars or a few minutes, I have the opportunity to make someone’s day brighter, their burden lighter and remind them that not everyone is “out to get them”.
BUT-as I’ve written before here: Relational Acts of Kindness, it’s relatively easy to do my good deed and walk away.
When I bless a stranger, my work is done.
I feel good, they feel good-it’s all good.
I find it much harder to purpose to be kind every day to the people I actually KNOW-the one who may have said cutting things in the past, the one who consistently rubs me the wrong way, the one I feel is lazy or subversive or just holds opinions with which I disagree.
How about the one I thought would show up to help but didn’t? Or the one who has told tales about me or my family? The one who lets her children run wild at church? The one who makes others uncomfortable with her dress, or language, or lack of social skill?
Being kind to THAT person is hard.
I want to turn the other way. I want to make excuses. I want to pretend that my kindness toward strangers balances my lack of kindness to those with whom I walk daily.
It doesn’t.
I am called to be kind at precisely that place where it is most difficult. I am called to act in love toward just that person who is most unloveable. I am called to lay down my life where it looks most likely to be unappreciated.
Denying myself is the very method by which Christ builds His kingdom.
Offering my body as a living sacrifice is the pressure He applies to mold my flesh into His likeness
But Jesus called them to him and said, “You know that the rulers of the heathen lord it over them and that their great ones have absolute power? But it must not be so among you. No, whoever among you wants to be great must become the servant of you all, and if he wants to be first among you he must be your slave—just as the Son of Man has not come to be served but to serve, and to give his life to set many others free.”
Matthew 20:27-29 PHILLIPS
Our family has a reputation: If it’s broke, sick or something just plain hard to do–call us.
We are not miracle workers but we are hard workers. We can’t fix everything, but we will try to do something.
But there’s one thing we can’t fix.
One thing none of our skills can shape into a victory in the shadow of defeat. One thing that will not give in to elbow grease or commitment to persevere.
We can’t fix Dominic’s being gone.
We can’t make it better.
We can’t undo the deep hole his absence has carved in our hearts and our lives.
And that is very, very hard to live with.
I can see her all the way down the aisle-even if she doesn’t say a word, I know.
I know.
She‘s carrying a burden wrapped in love and buried deep inside. Someone she poured life into is no longer here. The missing and the daily sorrow is etched on her face even as she smiles.
What to do? What to do?
Making a decision without her better half to help her is overwhelming. She wants to cry but holds back the tears because, “What would people think?”
So I go up to her and tell her what I think: “Would you like some help?”
That opens the floodgates.
“I’m looking for hairbands-something to match my white hair. I have so little left-losing it because of stress, you know. “
Silence while I help her look.
“My husband passed three months ago. We were married 60 years. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
I tell her about Dominic-brief version-so she knows that I understand.
“He’s not suffering anymore and I guess I should be better. But I just miss him!”
I take her hand and look into her beautiful eyes-eyes that are full of love and compassion and sorrow-and tell her that she will miss him as long as she lives. That’s how we’re made.
Great love means great grief. A shared lifetime can’t be severed by death. We carry that sorrow because our hearts still carry the love.
And I tell her that no one has the right to rush her along. Her wounded heart is a witness to love. It’s a tribute to her husband and the life they shared. It’s testimony to the power of God in her that she can bear the wound and still remain.
We prayed, and hugged and both went away refreshed.
Walking wounded has made me much more aware that God places people in my path who are wounded too.
I want to be the person that stops, no matter what. I want to be who God created me in Christ Jesus to be. I want to walk in the good works He has laid out for me ahead of time.
It’s a way of redeeming this sorrow and weaving something beautiful from my tears.
God has made us what we are. In Christ Jesus, God made us new people so that we would do good works. God had planned in advance those good works for us. He had planned for us to live our lives doing them.
Ephesians 2:10 ICV
I can’t help it.
I think too much. I wonder too often. I work too hard to make sense of things.
And the thing that is puzzling me right now is why people pull away from those experiencing deep and lasting pain.
Read the rest here: the cost of compassion
On the other side of child loss, many things that used to be easy just aren’t anymore.
It takes so much energy to get through a day and navigate the minefields of conversation.
I wrote this a few months ago as I was pondering this aspect of my new life:
“One of the things I’ve been forced to embrace in the wake of child loss is that there are very few questions, experiences or feelings that are simple anymore.”
Read the rest here: It’s Complicated
My husband is the child of immigrants. And even thirty years after coming to America, my in-laws preferred their native Italian to English.
So when we would be in a crowded room, comments flying, I struggled to keep up with what was being said because I didn’t speak the same language.
Sometimes feelings got hurt because what one of us thought we were saying was not what the other person heard.
Read the rest here: Subtitles
thelifeididntchoose 