compassion – Page 7 – thelifeididntchoose

Grief, Like Love, Lasts a Lifetime

At first grief felt only like sorrow and longing and brokenness.

Then it felt like confusion and anxiety and despair.

A little further along this journey it mostly felt like apathy.

Now it feels like love.

It’s the same love that helped me hold on when I was face first in the toilet every morning for seven months. Morning sickness with Dominic lasted nearly the whole pregnancy! With two young children already in our home, it was one of the hardest seasons of my life.

It’s the same love that demanded they bring me my baby when they whisked him away due to “concerns” after birth. Twenty-four hours later, c-section or no c-section, I told the nurse I’d be marching my butt down to the nursery if they didn’t bring him to me right away. (It was a different time-no real “rooming in”.)

It’s the same love that worked with my frustrated little boy to make his words sound clear and correct. Slow down, hit the hard consonants, be precise in how you form your lips. He grew up to give the undergraduate address when he graduated from UAB in front of thousands.

It’s the same love that listened when he told me his troubles, his fears and his dreams. So, so many nights he’d come in, flop down backwards on my bed and proceed to talk until I was just about to drift off to sleep.

It’s the same love that held his hand as people walked by expressing condolences.

It’s the same love that kissed his cold cheek before they lowered the casket lid. Told him, “Good-bye” and walked upright from the sanctuary.

I refused to dishonor his brave life by giving in to my personal fear.

Grief is really just love.

Dominic has been my son since he sat safely in my womb.

He’s still my son.

My love is not diminished because I can no longer touch him.

Love lives.

Forever.

Sunday Prayer for a Grieving Heart

Father God,

I long to be enveloped in the sweet peace and safe cocoon of Your people.

But my heart feels oh, so isolated by this great grief it carries inside!

I take my place in the pew and am distracted by the intact, happy families surrounding me. Every bit of chatter about last week’s activities and this week’s plans reminds me I can no longer whisper a reminder to or share an inside joke with my missing child.

Help me come-broken as I am-and offer what’s left of me to You.

Open my heart and apply the Balm of Gilead to my wounded soul.

Speak courage and comfort to my spirit.

Lead the people You call and assemble to practice compassion and to actively reach out to the ones who struggle just to show up.

Thank You for seeing, hearing and loving me even when I feel unseen, unheard and unloved.

Amen

When You Have to Live With Unanswered Questions

It’s been over two decades since the Towers fell. Hard to believe-no matter how great the tragedy, life goes on.

Like many, I was watching things as they happened that day.

My husband, an architect and engineer, saw the wobble in the first tower and knew, he knew, it was going to collapse. Horrified I began to understand that whoever was still in that building was running out of time.

And I cried, oh, how I cried. It was awful.

Since then I’ve lived my own tragedy.

My son was unexpectedly and instantly taken from us in an accident.

So when I’m reminded of 9/11 my heart takes me right to those left behind.

And while politicians and pundits can debate the reasons for the attack, can argue about what could have been done, should have been done and why and when-they can never answer the real question in the heart of every family who buried a loved one because of the events of that day.

Why MY husband, wife, daughter, son? How do I make sense of this senseless tragedy?

The answer is, “You can’t.”

You cannot know why one person chose to go this way and lived and another went a different direction and died. It’s impossible to understand the series of events that made someone late for work that day but lead another to show up early.

Last minute travel plan changes saved some from being aboard the fateful planes and put others in a seat.

I can’t know exactly why my son lost control of his motorcycle that night. I will live the rest of my life without an answer to that question.

It’s an ongoing challenge to face the discomfort of things NOT making sense. It goes against human nature to acknowledge that the world is far less predictable than we like to believe.

It takes courage to greet each new day with knowledge that ANYTHING might happen-not only beautiful and wonderful things, but ugly and awful things as well.

If I let my heart dwell on the questions of “why?” and “control”, I am paralyzed, unable to take another step.

There’s no clear path through a world filled with the rubble of broken lives and broken people.

So I turn my heart toward Christ and His promise to never leave or forsake me.

And I am emboldened to take the next step because I know He is already there, even in the dark.

World Suicide Prevention Day 2025: Light a Candle

I’m always cautious when I write about suicide. It’s not part of my own lived experience and I never, ever want anyone to think that I am trying to represent those for whom it is.

But I know so, so many parents whose children left this life by suicide and don’t want to shy away from the subject just because I need to be careful in addressing it.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day.

The name, in itself, is fraught with emotion.

Who doesn’t second guess whether they missed a clue that the person they love is so desperate that suicide seems to be the only way out of their pain? I am loathe to add one iota of guilt or doubt on the heart of a grieving parent!

But I think most folks whose loved one completed suicide would join the host of experts and others who say: Pay Attention! Don’t Be Afraid To Ask Hard Questions! Take Comments About Self-Harm Seriously!

It’s absolutely, positively true that some individuals fall quickly and silently down the pit of despair. There are no tell-tale outward signs warn of their intentions.

Many, though, begin the descent in predictable and observable ways.

So today, in honor of those who are missing someone who is no longer here, take a moment to familiarize yourself with these warning signs.

Commit to reach out and to ask hard questions.

Be an encourager and a hope-speaker.

And light a candle.

For the ones who didn’t make it, for the hearts who love them and for the ones who are looking for any sign there is more to this life than pain and darkness.

*If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, please reach out for help. There are many resources available to provide support and guidance.

National Hotlines:

Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: A 24/7 hotline for immediate support.

NAMI HelpLine: 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)

Some Days are Hard Stops. When I Can’t Ignore the Missing…

Most of the time I’m just kind of rolling along.

There are things to do, places to go, people to see, animals to feed.

I get up, get going and get on with it.

But there are some days that are what I call “Hard Stops” on this journey. They are the days that force my heart to take special notice of the fact that Dominic isn’t here.

Sometimes they are milestone days like birthdays or holidays or the anniversary of that awful knock on the door.

Sometimes they are events where he should be there-like seeing his brother one more time before he deploys half-way around the world.

These days make my heart measure the time since I last hugged his neck, heard his voice, saw his strong, square hands reach across the table for the salt shaker-and I am overcome with how long it has been!

Then my heart shifts to the months and likely years I will have to live with this aching empty place where he should be but isn’t and I fear I just can’t do it!

Many days I’m able to distract myself from the sorrow and to live with the missing.

But these “hard stop” days force me to face it head on. and it is overwhelming.

Every. Time.

So what do I do?

When my heart is overwhelmed, I take it to the Rock that is higher than I.

I run to the Refuge of my Faithful Father.

I turn my eyes to my Savior Who will redeem and restore.

I put my hand firmly in the hand of my Shepherd Who will not leave me in this Valley of the Shadow of Death.

And I pray for myself-and every heart having a hard time holding onto hope today-that we will feel the Father’s loving arms around us and that He will give us strength to stand.

It’s Never Too Late to Step Up. There’s NO Expiration Date on Grief.

I belong to several online closed groups for bereaved parents/ grandparents. A current topic is “How did family support you in your loss?”.

I am stunned at the number of bereaved hearts that were abandoned.

I am thankful I’m not among them.

Happier, pre-loss days. My amazing family-all in one place.

If you stepped back instead of stepping up when a family member experienced loss there is still time.

Admit your fear, failing or whatever and offer support NOW.

They still need you.

There’s no expiration date on grief.

In The Early Days of Grief, Everything Hurts!

It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t walked this path.

Deep pain and unfathomable sorrow stripped me of any reserve, any defense, any padding between the wider world and my oh-so-fragile heart.

I was a walking nerve.

Every awkward and less-than-thoughtful word or deed by friends, family and acquaintances rubbed me raw. I was utterly incapable of extending grace even as I knew I should and understood that most often their intentions were kind.

I had suffered a grievous wound and spent most of my energy just trying to protect what was left of my heart.

All I wanted to do was retreat to the safe cocoon of my own home. I unfollowed people on social media, I screened telephone calls, I rarely ventured out for anything but the most necessary supplies. It was the only way I could provide the space and time needed for my heart to heal enough to bear even the slightest brush with folks who might say or do the wrong thing.

It helped.

Eventually I found the strength to venture beyond the safety of home, family and the few friends with whom I felt comfortable and secure.

I could scroll through Facebook once again without reacting to every single post.

I went back to church and even showed up for covered dish socials where I couldn’t be certain which way the conversation would flow or who might get me blocked into a corner and ply me with questions.

I attended a few large gatherings: graduations, weddings and a Stephen Curtis Chapman concert.

So if you are in the early days of this hard, hard journey, do what you have to and find the safe circle that gives you time, space and grace to help your heart toward healing.

It may take longer than you’d like, but resting from the constant pressure of trying to protect yourself from the hustle and bustle in a world where child loss is misunderstood and frequently ignored will make a difference.

And one day, like me, you might well wake up and realize that what once felt like personal attacks are simply folks saying and doing foolish things because they haven’t been forced to learn the wisdom of compassion through unfathomable loss.

I’m still more sensitive than I used to be.

There are times I just can’t take crowds, unpredictable settings, offhand comments about death, dying, grief and heartache.

But I’m finally able to walk in the world without feeling I have to protect my heart at every turn.

It’s liberating and I’m thankful.

Remember Who They Were, Not How They Died

Another shooting.

Another tragedy.

Lives lost, families ripped apart, lives changed forever.

The quote that reverberates in my head is from the dad of one of the shooting victims, “We want people to remember who he was, not how he died.”

The cry of every bereaved parent’s heart.

No matter how our children leave for Heaven, what we want most is for folks to remember the light they were when they were here, impacting others, laughing, living and making a difference.

Dominic left in a tragic, could-have-been-avoided single vehicle motorcycle accident. I’m sure there are people who judge him, who judge me, who think that if it had been THEIR child, they wouldn’t have been going too fast in that curve.

It’s something I live with every single day.

But there’s nothing I can change about that night. There’s no way I can reach back across time and make things different.

So when you interact with a bereaved parent, please don’t focus on the illness or the addiction or the tragic circumstances that transported their child from time to eternity.

Ask them about who they were, what they liked, where they found the most joy in life.

Give them permission to share their life, love and light with you, not only their death.

Our children are so. much. more than how they left this life.

They are potential unrealized, lives lived, love spread to others.

Let us tell you about that.

Grief Work 2025: Loss is Relentless

My family has opened our eyes to thousands of mornings knowing the one thing we would change if we could is outside our control.

When the world faced the pandemic these past years, it was a new and disturbing feeling for millions (billions?). We are still reaping the consequences of decisions taken during that time.

Eventually, though, most people’s lives have returned to a semblance of normal that makes allowances for the changes.

But some of us emerged on the other side of that season carrying the new and unrelenting burden of loss.

And nothing will ever be normal again.

re·lent·less

adjective

oppressively constant; incessant.

Synonyms: persistent, continuing, nonstop, never-ending, unabating, interminable, incessant, unceasing, endless, unremitting, unrelenting, unrelieved.

Grief Work 2025: Baby Steps Count!

When my daughter was learning to walk, I would hover near-ready to catch her if she fell.

I covered sharp corners or moved furniture so that the chance of injury was minimized. I clapped and cooed each time she made a little progress-pulling up, cruising around the edge of the sofa and coffee table-those tentative moments when she was brave enough to let go and then plop on her bottom.

And finally, when she made her first unassisted steps between the security of holding on and my waiting arms.

It was a judgement free zone.

I wasn’t looking for technical perfection or measuring progress according to any external metric.

I didn’t rush the process. I couldn’t do it for her. I could only support her own efforts toward the goal we both had in our hearts. I never despised her baby steps.

They were a beginning.

And everything has a beginning.

When Dominic ran ahead to heaven, I felt like I was physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually knocked to the floor. I had no idea how I was going to make a life after this great blow. I could barely get dressed, much less do anything that took more thought or energy than that.

I was overwhelmed. I had to learn to walk all over again.

And I did it with baby steps, in a judgement free-zone I created for myself where I refused to gauge my progress against anyone else’s.

Because baby steps count.

Here are some of the baby steps I’ve taken and am still taking:

Got up, got dressed, bought groceries.
Cooked dinner.
Cleaned the bathrooms.
Went to church.
Remembered a birthday and sent a card.
Drove to an unfamiliar place to meet someone for lunch.
Exercised.
Made phone calls.
Went to work.
Volunteered.
Slept through a whole night.
Organized a party.
Showed up to graduations, a couple funerals and a wedding.
Kept doctor’s appointments.
Laughed.

I have yet to hit my stride and I don’t think running is in my near future, but I am moving forward. I’m making progress. I don’t have to meet a timetable or get anyone else’s approval.

It’s my journey.

And baby steps count.

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