You wouldn’t think we need permission from total strangers, friends and extended family to grieve but many times it feels like we do.
Odd looks, questioning stares and wagging tongues can make a heart doubt whether it’s really OK to do this or that while trying not to fall apart.
Well I’m here to tell you-ignore all that!
Read the rest here: Permission To Grieve
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?
Read the rest here: Can We Talk?
This came across my Facebook newsfeed and I really liked it.
Concise, it also acknowledges that most bereaved parents understand folks generally mean well, even when they say something less than helpful.
Honestly, this is great advice for what not to say to anyone going through a tough patch.
Read the rest here: Helpful Advice on What Not to Say to a Grieving Parent
You’d think I’d know how valuable tears are by now.
But sometimes I forget.
Tears cleanse, they provide release for emotion too deep for words. They are precious.
And when you have someone who understands that, who sits silent in the sacred space where tears fall freely, that is a beautiful gift.
Let me come in where you are weeping, friend,
And let me take your hand.
I, who have known a sorrow such as yours,
Can understand.
Let me come in — I would be very still
Beside you in your grief;
I would not bid you cease your weeping, friend,
Tears can bring relief.
Let me come in — I would only breathe a prayer,
And hold your hand,
For I have known a sorrow such as yours,
And understand.
Grace Noll Crowell, To One in Sorrow
Those of you who have followed the blog for a bit know that I’ve said over and over and over: there is no limit to the heartache you may have to endure in this life.
The past three years have been the most difficult since the very first year after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven in 2014.
But this memory popped up in my Facebook timeline the other day and reminded me that along with all the hard, there have been some beautiful blessings.
Two years ago around this time I was listening to day after day after day of witnesses giving first one account and then another of events that happened three years prior trying to frame facts so that the twelve jurors would vote a certain way.
Only my friends and family from miles away helped me hold onto the thin thread of hope that truth would prevail.
It was brutal and not something I ever want to repeat.
If you ever wonder if a phone call, text, card or message make a difference, just ask me.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would not have made it without them. 
Thankfully our family has always turned to laughter as a way of making it through things that would otherwise bring us to tears. So it wasn’t but a couple days past when we got the news of Dom’s leaving we managed a giggle here and there as his friends shared some funny stories with us.
But it felt strange to have laughter bubbling up in my throat even as I couldn’t stop its escaping my mouth.
It wasn’t the unforced expression of joy and merriment it used to be. Instead it was a strangled, mishapen gurgling mixture of the joy I once knew and unspeakable pain I now knew.
It didn’t float airily into the atmosphere, it thudded heavy to the floor.
And then I felt like I was betraying my son.
Read the rest here: Is it OK if I Laugh?
Maybe I’m just old and tired.
Maybe it’s grief brain or my autoimmune disease or some other biological issue of which I’m ignorant.
But I just don’t have the energy to be on guard, to defend my “territory”, to argue with everyone who might hold a different opinion or who might be experiencing life from a different perspective.
Oh, I still HAVE opinions. And I share them with family and close friends in places and spaces where we can see one another’s faces, expressions and hear the intonation in our voices.
But I refuse to debate the cause du jour on social media in hopes of raising a ruckus or getting “likes” or “shares” to feed my ego and feed the frenzy.
It seems to me the world needs more grace and less growling.
So let me just be plain: I’m on your side.
Whatever side you land on.
Masks or no masks. Sending your kids to school or keeping them home. Staying in as much as possible or going out among the people.
Each of us has our own concerns, convictions and must follow our own conscious. I’m not judging.
Be as careful as you can be and be willing to accept the consequences of your choices.
You’ll be my friend either way.
I write a lot about what bereaved parents (me!) wish others knew or understood about child loss and this Valley we are walking. And I am thankful for every person outside the child loss community who chooses to read and heed what I write.
But I want to take a minute to tell those of you who are not part of this awful “club” that I get it-I really do get it–when you need to put distance between yourself and me or other people walking a broken road.
We all love to think that life is a never-ending ascent toward bigger, better and more enjoyable moments.
Our children are born and we think only of their future, not their future deaths.
Read the rest here: I Get It-I Really DO Get It.
There are some things I’d like you to know about grief.
Things I didn’t know until I was the one walking the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Things that can help you companion me and others compassionately, wisely and graciously.
My grief is here-get used to it (please and thank you). Grief has entered my life and while it may be an unwelcome guest, it’s here to stay. I won’t be getting over it or moving on. Grief is the price you pay for love. I will love and miss my child as long as I live, so I will grieve him until my last breath.
The goal of grief isn’t to forget. In fact, the goal of grief work (facing and working through my feelings, my fears and finding a way forward) is to remember and remain connected. I no longer have a physical relationship with my child. I’m trying to figure out how to have one with him in his absence.
I have to do grief my own way. Grief is as individual as a fingerprint. Who I am, who my child is, what my family looks like, circumstances surrounding my loss, previous life experience all inform how I face this challenge. There is no “right way” to grieve. As long as I am not harming myself or others, there’s only “my way” to grieve.
I am the same person, but I’ve also changed. I know you are trying to figure me out post-child loss. I’m trying to figure me out too. I didn’t get a how-to manual when I buried my son. Even six years into this journey I’m still finding ways in which I am profoundly changed. But I’m also still the same person that needs your friendship and longs for compassionate connection. It’s work for both of us but I don’t want to be alone in my grief.
Even when I’m OK, I’m still grieving. It’s normal for friends and family to look for signs I’m “better”. The early days of sobbing and unceasing pain do (usually) morph into a more gentle, quiet and manageable burden. But even when I’m laughing, participating and gathering new, joy-filled memories I’m grieving. My son’s absence is background music to every moment. I’m never free from the feeling he should be here but isn’t.
I may stay connected to my loved one in ways you don’t understand, but trust me, they’re normal. There are SO many ways hearts work hard to stay connected to their missing child! Dominic’s jacket is hung on a peg in our mudroom right where he left it the last time he was home. I see it every day and touch it often. There are other little mementos here and there that keep his presence part of daily life. I have tokens I carry in a pocket that help me take him with me. Other parents sleep with a favorite stuffed toy or their child’s pillow. Some make blankets of old t-shirts or clothing. It’s all normal.
Grief will visit every heart eventually.
If it hasn’t come to rest in yours yet, consider yourself blessed.
I’m sure you have at least one friend carrying this burden.
When you take time to try to understand even a little how they feel, you help them bear the load. ❤
I’ve learned so much in this journey.
I’ve had to unlearn some things too.
One of the things I’ve had to unlearn is that the medical model of “identify, treat, cure” is not applicable to grieving hearts.
Read the rest here: Companioning The Bereaved
