A conspiracy of silence forces those who are suffering to hide. It creates huge gaps between what goes on behind closed doors and public image.
And it causes those who are wounded to question the authenticity of their own experience.
I will tell my story because even though it is hard, it matters. And even though it hurts, it can help heal another. And even though it isn’t finished, it can blaze a trail for others to follow.
Read the rest here: Courage is a Heart Word
I’m no quitter.
I grew up with the mantra, “You can be anything you want to be if you want to be it badly enough” ringing through my childhood.
I added this one for my kids: “Failure is not an option.”
But I’ve got to admit, while both are great motivators when motivation is the missing ingredient, they are lies.
I cannot be “anything I want to be”. I can be the best me possible, but I cannot be anyone but me.
And failure-well, how do you want to define that? Is it failure when you have poured every ounce of energy into a person or a project and things just don’t work like you hoped they would? Is it failure when despite all the planning, pursuing and perseverance a heart can muster life takes a giant left turn you never expected?
One of my favorite but most exasperating memories of Dominic is when he was about six months old and would wake every morning close to 3 a.m. and refuse to go back to sleep. Now, judge me if you want to, but this whole “let them cry it out” thing was not in my parenting wheelhouse. With two other siblings and a small house, if he was crying for hours, it meant soon everyone would be awake.
So after nursing him and trying to get him to go back to sleep, I finally gave up and just went into the living room and let him play.
This went on for weeks-my body was so, so tired and I was frustrated beyond imagination.
Until I realized that I was burning more energy being upset over the inevitable than I was in just getting up and enjoying the one on one time with my baby.
So instead of fussing every early morning, I started getting up, making coffee, playing with him and then doing necessary chores while he prattled on with his toys.
I accepted what was out of my control and made the best of it.
That’s how I feel this side of Dominic running ahead to heaven.
I am not the person I used to be.
I cannot do all the things I used to do.
I need to acknowledge that. I need to let go of unrealistic expectations that only drive me to distraction and despair.
I’m freeing myself to lean into the life I have NOW by admitting it’s not the life I USED to have.
I’m not giving up.
I am letting go of excess emotional baggage.
But I’m holding onto hope with both hands.
I told the two children with me that morning that we were going to survive this awful blow.
And we have.
It has been hard and ugly and more painful than anything else we’ve ever had to do.
But we’re still standing.
And I want to encourage the hearts that are just starting down this broken road: You really CAN make it.
Some of you reading this are saying, “But I don’t want to make it. I want to lie down and give up and be out of this pain.”
I don’t blame you.
That’s precisely how my heart felt for months and months. The only thing that kept me holding onto hope was a strong desire that my precious family not have to bury another person they loved. It was enough to force my lungs to draw one more breath, and then another, and then another.
The breaths turned into minutes turned into hours turned into days-then weeks, months and finally, years.
Here I am, six plus years into this Valley and I can tell you this:
Sorrow is no longer all I feel and my son’s absence no longer all I see.
Yes, every single minute grief runs like background noise in my brain. I can go from OK to devastated in a heartbeat.
Yes, I miss Dominic like crazy.
I miss the family we used to have.
I miss the me I used to be.
But I am also living, loving and even laughing my way through many days.
I can go from tearful to joyful in a heartbeat too. I am even more grateful for the children that walk the earth with me. I try harder to be present, to listen, to lean in and love more fully.
The broken me is a more compassionate woman who knows the value of a minute spent with someone you love.
I’ve learned to shift the weight of grief to one hip and make room for other things.
It’s hard.
It’s going to stay hard.
But with God’s help, I’m strong enough to make it.
I’ve always been a bit of a cheerleader.
Not THAT kind of cheerleader!
But the kind that stands alongside the road handing cups of water to the struggling stragglers in the far back of a marathon.
Because I believe in doing your best and finishing the race, even if it’s hard and even if it’s not pretty.
I also think that often the difference between giving up and giving in or going on and getting done is courage.
Not the “in your face I’m gonna fight you” courage of action movies but the quiet, everyday courage of simply carrying on when you’re tired, worn down and empty of hope.
And the thing about courage is this: I can lend you some of mine.
That’s really what cheer leading is all about-calling courage to another heart, lending courage from the sidelines.
So many wounded hearts are walking around, barely holding onto hope, and all it takes is a few minutes, a few words, an outstretched hand, a smile, an open door or a pat on the back to strengthen their grip.
So when you see that downcast face, that defeated stooping shoulder, that exasperated mama toting three kids into the grocery store-don’t turn away.
Reach out.
Hand a cup of kind words in the name of Jesus.
Help a heart hold onto hope.
When I started writing, Dominic had been gone nearly 18 months.
Before I went public with my thoughts, I had filled six journals with page after page of ramblings, Scripture, quotes from books, questions and tears.
Those are some of my most precious possessions because when I look back I can see how even in the very first hours (yes, I started writing that morning) God was already bringing truth and healing to my shattered soul and broken heart.
In a couple months it will be three years since I started sharing here. And while I rarely look back on the posts in any orderly way, I can see that God has continued His faithfulness when I do.
But just like I promised when I wrote the introduction to my site, I will always be as honest as possible when I share.
So let me just tell you: It’s STILL hard.
Not in the same first, breath-robbing, soul-crushing, can’t-lift-my-head sort of way that makes a heart certain it can. not. survive.
But in a slow-leak, not-enough-air-in-my-tires sort of way that makes every road less comfortable to travel and necessitates lots of stops to make sure I can keep going.
I’ve just endured two weeks of one bad thing after another.
All of them have a solution which (on my scale) makes them hardly worth noting.
But each disrupted my life and will require significant time, energy and resources to address.
And for a heart that has learned how to make it by going slow, choosing predictable paths and incorporating lots of stops along the way, those kinds of disruptions create stress and strain on an already taxed system.
I will absolutely survive.
I’ve already survived the cruelest and most difficult days of my life.
But it’s no cake walk.
It’s still hard.
You know what breaks my heart all over again?
The fact that so many bereaved parents tell me they don’t feel they can share their experience on their own FaceBook or other social media pages.
That’s just WRONG!
They have been shushed to silent suffering because when they break open the vault of emotions and let others see what’s inside, most people turn away-or worse, they condemn that wounded heart for sharing.
SHAME on you if you are one of those people.
I’ve written about this before here:
In recent years we have dragged many topics into the light. We’ve made space in the public square for discussion of things we used to pretend didn’t exist.
But life after child loss is still a hushed topic.
The long road to healing after burying a child is rarely acknowledged outside the community of bereaved parents.
We have splashed all kinds of garbage across the Internet because in one way or another it makes us feel good (yep, admit it-it feeds some place in your soul) but we will not tolerate someone being utterly honest about how impossibly hard some things are to bear in this life.
Because THAT makes us uncomfortable.
Not every hurting heart is brave enough to risk negative public opinion. I understand that completely. This post is not for THEM, it’s for the hundreds and thousands who want to shut them down and shut them out.
This may be for you, if you have ever scrolled past a plaintive post or made some glib comment like, “God has a purpose in this for you” or worse, written a private message scolding someone and telling them they are begging for attention, refusing to “move on” or hanging on to hurt.
Think for one minute-literally 60 full seconds-how it would feel to hold the cold hand of your dead child, bury your child, go home to his empty room and then live the rest. of. your. life. without the earthly companionship of the child of your heart.
Then think again about censoring your friend who’s grieving.
Instead, speak courage to his or her heart.
Strengthen their hold on hope don’t destroy it.
Courage is a heart word. The root of the word courage is cor – the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage meant “To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.” Over time, this definition has changed, and today, we typically associate courage with heroic and brave deeds. But in my opinion, this definition fails to recognize the inner strength and level of commitment required for us to actually speak honestly and openly about who we are and about our experiences — good and bad.
~Brene Brown
I call my parents pretty much every morning.
It was a habit started years ago after my mother had a bad spell and ended up in the hospital. I like to start my day knowing how she and my dad are doing.
The other day Papa and I were talking about the movie, “Unbroken” we saw a couple years ago.
There’s a scene where the main character was forced to hold a heavy beam over his head in a Japanese POW camp for hours. If he let it fall, he would be shot and his torture over. Malnourished, mistreated and disheartened, he somehow found the strength to do it.
He endured.
His courageous example lent courage to the others in that camp. His victory was in not giving up or giving in, though he bore the scars for the rest of his life.
These past months have been difficult ones for both of my parents. Mama’s fall, heart attack and multiple hospital stays have left her very different than she was last summer. Someone needs to be with her all the time.
That means my dad-who has no physical limitations-is as housebound as she.
Papa is absolutely committed to caring for Mama and he’s doing a great job.
But it’s hard on a heart to be confined when you are surrounded by so many chores that need doing and so much wide open space that begs you to get out in the sunshine.
He is enduring.
And I am thankful for his example.
So few of us will have an opportunity to do really grand things that make headlines. But most of us will have a chance to be faithful in hundreds of small things that make up meaningful lives.
Quiet, everyday commitment to not giving up when life is hard and rest seems so very far away is victory even when it doesn’t feel like it.
It speaks courage to other hearts to hold on.
Truly.
Always.
I love, love, love sunflowers!
Always have.
I love their bright aspect that brings a smile to my face no matter what mood I’m in or what trial I’m facing. Their happy, heavy heads declare that today is a day to shine!
Last week as I was walking, getting some *fresh* air in congested California I passed a house where some precious soul had planted a row of sunflowers and they were standing bravely, boldly behind the fence that declared, “This far and no further”.
Their heads were turned toward the eastern sky, soaking in the sun’s rays and reflecting back the light and life that sun brings to everything on earth.
There is no denying that sunflowers sing praise.
They sing praise to a new day when their heads rise to meet the sun.
They sing praise to provision when they follow the light as it moves across the sky.
They sing praise to rest when their heads droop as the sun sinks low in the western horizon.
They are a living testimony to our Creator.
I want to be like the sunflowers-compelled to turn my face to the Son.
I want to be a witness to the life He gives and sustains.
I want to reflect and represent Him boldly, bravely and big.
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”
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.
thelifeididntchoose 