Today is the day on the church calendar when we pause and reflect on the Last Supper, and the last words of Jesus to His disciples.
A year’s worth of sermons is contained in John 13-17 but this week I have been drawn to just one verse:
[Jesus said] ‘Now I am giving you a new command—love one another. Just as I have loved you, so you must love one another. This is how all men will know that you are my disciples, because you have such love for one another.’John 13:34 PHILLIPS
In some liturgical Christian traditions, today is the day the church remembers and honors Mary anointing the feet of Jesus with expensive and rare perfume.
It was a beautiful act of great sacrifice as the perfume would ordinarily be a family treasure broken and used only at death for anointing a beloved body.
It’s also an expression of deep sorrow because somehow Mary knew.
Mary. Knew.
So she poured out her precious gift on the One Who loves her most.
Once the stone was rolled in front of the tomb there was no more denying the fact that whatever the disciples thought Jesus was going to do was not at all what He did.
None of them thought the story was going to end like this and yet here they were having buried their Master and their dreams.
Most of us can relate to a time when we thought our dreams were God’s dreams and we were on the path to victory only to round the next bend and head straight to defeat-or worse.
We live in a noisy world. If we happen to be in a quiet place, we bring our noise boxes with us our pockets.
Does anyone go anywhere without their phone?
Connectivity invites us to constant interaction with others and only the rare, out of the way, unconnected corner leaves us to contemplate our own thoughts or our own feelings.
Yet we need to seek silence. We need to sit with our inner selves and reflect on the work of Christ in our hearts.
If you haven’t watched the body of someone you love lowered into the ground while holding your breath and praying, praying, praying that somehow, some way this isn’t real then maybe you can’t imagine what it feels like not to be spared.
Me? It doesn’t take but a single breath to go from “everything is alright” to “my world is shattered”. I feel every. single. death. added to the tally a mass shooting or tornado destruction leaves behind.
So what do we do if we aren’t rescued? What do we cling to if our family isn’t spared?
What if all the prayers lifted on behalf of ones I love don’t stop death from claiming them?
When Jesus entered Jerusalem He was hailed as a hero. But when He didn’t perform as expected He was cast aside.
Will I choose to believe even when it’s hard?
❤ Melanie
So what if I’m not rescued?
What if my family isn’t spared?
What if all the faithful prayers lifted on behalf of ones I love don’t stop death from claiming them?
Will I still believe?
Will I still trust that God is a loving Father who is in control and working all things together for His glory and my good?
Many of you are aware Dominic was killed the Saturday before Palm Sunday in 2014. I spent THAT day contacting friends and family who needed to know, welcoming the warm hugs and sad faces of folks driving up our long driveway to offer prayers and help, and just trying to breathe.
Waiting, waiting, waiting for my husband to get home from his job in California. Looking desperately for James Michael to make it here from West Virginia. Walking-because I couldn’t sit still-and weeping because I couldn’t contain the sorrow.
By Sunday everyone was under the same roof and we went to church.
Not because of some super-spiritual commitment to show the world we hadn’t lost our faith but because it was a habit and we had no idea what else to do as we waited for Dominic’s body to be released from the coroner’s office at the state capital.
I don’t remember much from that service. I have no idea what the sermon was about or what songs were sung.
I do remember that at one point the pastor asked the question, “If you could have any super power in the world, what would you choose?” and then went on to list a few, including the ability to turn back time.
My surviving children and I locked eyes. No question. THAT was what we longed for. Go back to the moment Dominic left his apartment. Warn him to stay home. Change the story.
I also remember a sweet friend who hobbled over on crutches (she had injured her leg) during worship to just put her arm around me and allowing me to lean into her, telling me with her presence that she was oh, so very sorry.
I can’t testify that after Dom’s funeral I was inclined to show up on Sunday to a space where (by my standard of suffering) folks sang songs about the sacrifice of worship without a clue.
I couldn’t take the pseudo closeness of people physically pressing in and asking me how I was doing when I had no idea. They meant well. They truly did. But it felt like pressure to provide an answer that would assuage THEIR fears that, faced with the same loss, faith would survive.
I can tell you that after eleven years I am headed to my local congregation this morning with a different perspective.
My heart still hurts marking these days. I’ve got to get past Resurrection Sunday and the Monday following before I’ve walked through it all, including his funeral and burial.
But my Shepherd King has been faithful to lead me with gentleness and mercy along this broken road.
He gave me rest when I needed it and pushed me to walk on when I didn’t want to but it was the right thing to do.
I’ve learned that while others may not know MY pain, they have their own and the comfort I’ve received from Jesus is mine to share with them. I know I can’t turn back time and, in my heart of hearts, wouldn’t want to.
Dominic is experiencing the fullness of what we hope one day to see.
The calendar is relentless. There’s no respect for seasons of mourning or grief anniversaries or weeks of sickness or unexpected early births of grandchildren.
The sun rises, the sun sets and another day is crossed off into history.
So somehow-without my permission-I find I’ve woken to mark the eleventh anniversary (do you call such a horrible thing an anniversary?) of Dominic’s death.
It’s humbling to realize I (and my family!) are not only still standing but flourishing. It’s horrifying to comprehend I’ve continued to live and breathe for 4018 days since Dominic left us.
Most days are pretty good.
Today is hard.❤ Melanie
When the numbness wore off (maybe around six months) I remember vaguely wondering what years down the road would feel like.
I tried to project the “me” of that moment into the future and imagine how I might deal with life changes, new circumstances, an empty nest, grandchildren (if there were any) and growing older alongside the heartache of burying a child.
But just as it’s impossible to comprehend how the addition of a child utterly transforms a family, it’s impossible to understand how the subtraction of one changes everything just as much.
We are all so very different than we would have been if Dominic were still here.
Life most likely wouldn’t be any more perfect because we would each grow and change, find common ground and find points of conflict, make new memories and drag up old hurts.
Still, none of us would carry the deep wound and traumatic injury of sudden and out-of-order death.
THATis impossible to ignore. Even eleven years later it’s a red flag, a sticky note, an addendum to every family gathering and holiday.
So we carry on.
Like generations before us who have walked this world dragging loss behind them, we keep going. It shapes us but doesn’t limit us. It informs our views but isn’t the only thing that molds our opinions and frames our choices.
My faith in God’s larger and perfect plan helps me hold onto hope even as I continue to miss my son.
But today is a hard day and I don’t think that’s going to change as long as I live.
I’m getting better at remembering Dominic’s birthday in ways that honor who he is and the man he might have become. I can’t say I’ve figured out any good way to walk through the yearly unavoidable and unwelcome reminder of the day he left us.
I’m learning to allow the grief waves to simply wash over me without resisting them.
Eventually the hours tick away, the day is over and I find I’ve survived yet again.
Tomorrow will be eleven years since Dominic left this life and entered Heaven.
I had someone ask me last week how I was doing and, surprisingly, I could honestly reply I was doing OK.
Today, not so much.
The gap between life lived AFTERand life livedBEFOREis growing and while I cherish every new memory, the old ones are fading.
My cousin asked me about that yesterday and I told her that sometimes it almost seems like a dream-a family of four children, growing, learning and striving toward what I thought would be a future knit together in love and shared experiences.
Oh, you say, “But you still have three children and now you have grandchildren!”
Yes, yes I do. I am thrilled and work hard to be present for them and for every important moment they celebrate or sad moment they struggle through or ordinary moment when we sit having snacks outside under the sun.
But this mama’s heart was enlarged to hold another child who is now forever absent.
And that space is always present and always empty.
Tomorrow I have foolishly agreed to participate in a church event.
I will show up and I will share the gospel with the little children whose upturned faces will remind me that even they are vulnerable to the awful curse of a fallen world.
Pray that I have the strength to be engaged.
Pray that seeds will be sown and lives will be changed.
Pray for those who already carry loss and for those who will face it in the future.
Today is National Siblings Day. It’s fun for those of us who haven’t had to bury a brother or sister to post silly photos and memories.
But for those who have lost a sibling today is bittersweet.
Want to know how to love someone who is missing a brother or sister?
Ask them for a favorite memory. Tell them you recognize it hurts. Don’t dismiss their grief and rush to ask about a surviving mother or father.
Love them. Be there.
❤ Melanie
I am always afraid that Dominic will be forgotten.
I’m afraid that as time passes, things change and lives move forward, his place in hearts will be squeezed smaller and smaller until only a speck remains.
Not in my heart, of course.
Or in the hearts of those closest to him, but in general-he will become less relevant.
But he is not the only one who can be forgotten. I am just as fearful that my living children will be forgotten.
thelifeididntchoose 