This list is adapted from a friend’s Facebook post (with permission) and a list published by Children’s Hospital of Colorado.
BEREAVED PARENT’S WISH LIST:
1. I wish my child hadn’t died. I wish I had my child back.
2. I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to speak my child’s name. My child lived and was very important to me. I need to hear that my child was important to you also.
Read the rest here: Bereaved Parent’s Wish List
I wrote this post December, 2015. It hadn’t been long since I joined an online community of bereaved parents and began to see that I wasn’t the only one who had friends and family that misunderstood child loss.
I was spending a lot of time in my life trying to help others comprehend, just a little, what it felt like to bury a child.
Trying to give them a tiny taste of how this pain is so, so different than any other I had experienced. Begging them to toss the popular ideas bandied around that grief followed “stages” and was “predictable”.
I re-share every so often because it seems to help, a little. I’m re-sharing today in honor of Bereaved Parents Month. ❤
People say, “I can’t imagine.“
But then they do.
They think that missing a dead child is like missing your kid at college or on the mission field but harder and longer.
That’s not it at all.
What Grieving Parents Want Others to Know
The best way to help a struggling heart is to simply be available.
Anyone can choose to be a safe space for others to share their hearts.
Anyone can make room for honest conversation, welcoming another soul to unburden itself of whatever heaviness is weighing it down.
All it takes is a listening ear and time.
Sticking with a friend whose life is hard and is going to continue to be hard is not for the faint of heart.
Not all wounds can be healed.
Not all problems have a resolution.
Not all relationships follow a path that leads to a happy ending.
So here’s to the friends that don’t give up, that refuse to leave and whose presence remind me that while life is painful, it is also beautiful.
Here’s to the ones whose commitment to love me in the dark places reminds me that love still lives.
You’re my lifeline.
“A joy-filled heart is curative balm, but a broken spirit hurts all the way to the bone.” ~Proverbs 17:22 VOICE
Laughter is good for my heart. Not just my physical blood-pumping organ, but the emotional center of my being.
And in this Valley of the Shadow of Death, laughter can be a real life-saver.
It’s not betraying Dominic-although it kind of felt that way in the first few weeks-it’s honoring his sense of humor and celebrating his life.
Our family spent hours laughing around the table, in the living room and passing wry texts back and forth.
I firmly believe there will be laughter in Heaven. I think that part of joy is great big belly laughs that will shake me from head to toe.
In the meantime, I’m going to keep practicing down here.
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
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
Last week I wrote about some strategies I employ when in a social situation: Surviving Social Situations After Child Loss.
But if you are the friend, family member or acquaintance milling around who bumps into me or spies me across the room, here are some things you can do and say that will help me as well:
Be aware that the greeting, “How are you?” sometimes feels like a challenge instead of an invitation. I’m scrambling for words to express my true condition without ruining the mood of the gathering. It would be so much better if you simply said, “Hello” or “I’m happy to see you” without additional comments about how long it’s been.
Don’t pose or push for answers to questions that are primarily designed to satisfy your own curiosity. If I give a brief reply, take the hint and move on. If I say I can’t talk about it, drop the subject. If I turn the conversation back to you, pick it up and carry the ball. Public spaces are not the place to try to draw me out. If you are concerned about me or want to REALLY know how I’m doing, take me to lunch or bring me dinner or invite me out for coffee.
Notice my body language. If I am fidgeting or hugging myself or backing away or crossing my arms it’s time to let me go. I may hold my tongue but my body will give you abundant clues that I’m nearly at my limit for social interaction. Give me permission to end the conversation and preserve my dignity.
Hugs are almost always wonderful. Physical touch conveys love and compassion without requiring any response. If you know me well enough to hug me or squeeze my hand, please do.
Don’t corner me-physically, emotionally or spiritually. Backing me into a tight space makes me feel trapped. If I’m on the end of a pew or aisle, don’t ask me to scoot down so you can join me. I’m there in case I need to make an exit. Don’t stand too close to me while we’re talking-my need for adequate personal space has greatly increased since Dominic ran ahead to heaven. Don’t throw Bible verses at me or ask me how Jesus is meeting me in my sorrow. These are things we can talk about together, in private, in a way that makes space for me to be honest and express emotion without fear of embarresment.
Don’t make comparisons between my missing child and person featured in the wedding, baby shower or engagement party we are attending. Trust me, I’ve already done the math. I already know the distance between Dominic’s homegoing and this day. I am already mourning one more thing I’ll never get to see him do.
Please don’t use this time to tell me about another bereaved mother you “just want to introduce to me”. I am open and willing to walk with others on this journey, but this is not the time nor the place to put me on the spot. If you know of another mom that needs my help, write me a note, give me a call or text me.
If I leave a room, don’t follow (unless you are a very close friend). Let me go. I will return if I can and if I can’t, I won’t. Text me if you’re concerned. If I come back, let me slip in without any fanfare.
If I cry, hand me a tissue or a handkerchief. Don’t ask, “What’s wrong?” Besides the obvious, I may not have an answer for you.
Please help me move conversation along when I lose my train of thought or seem at a loss for words. Grief makes it hard to think sometimes, especially when in a crowd and/or a place with lots of background noise. Give me permission to end a conversation-it probably doesn’t have a thing to do with YOU-I’m just running out of steam and need a few minutes’ respite from having to talk.
Attending social events is exhausting for me now. I want to celebrate birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, graduations-but that means a lot of people and a lot of unknowns. Dozens of potential triggers, any one of which might conjure a grief wave that can drown me.
I do what I can to be prepared.
But I’ll take all the help I can get.
I was absolutely overwhelmed in those first days.
Cars, cars, cars filled my long driveway and front yard.
People spilling out like ants scrambling after the hill is disturbed.
Oh, our hill was disturbed-knocked wide open by that deputy’s visit. Phone calls to let others know. Phone calls from people who couldn’t get in touch with him and were just checking “in case something had happened”.
It had happened.
It. HAD. happened.
After the customary ceremony and handshaking and food, the cards flooded in. Some with hand-written heartfelt messages of, “praying for you”, “we are so very sorry”, “we love you”. Some with pre-printed poems that absolve the sender of the need to find words for things for which there are no words.
My son is dead. What can you say to that?
And then the silence. The morning that I woke up to realize I had done all I ever could do for Dominic. My last act was to find his body a resting place and pray his soul to heaven.
He was home.
I was left in a strange country filled with landmarks I no longer recognized and a language I no longer understood.
Who comes into that?
Not many. Only a few brave souls stick around for the after-only a few true friends keep calling and coming and caring for the long haul.
Because sitting with me in my grief, listening to me question my faith, keeping company with uncertainty and loss of control is frightening. It takes great self-control to simply be present and not try to say something or do something to try to fix the unfixable.
If it could happen to MY family, it could happen to theirs. And no one wants to think of that unless they have to.
So many leave.
Not immediately and not flamboyantly. They just drift away like unmoored sailboats caught in the rising winds of life and busyness and school plays and church socials.
My personal tragedy is a footnote to their life journal-and who reads footnotes?
But there are a few who purpose to make my burden their burden.
A few who call and write and text and message on the important dates like when he died, his birthday, Christmas, Easter. Even fewer who call and write and text and message just because-just because they heard a song or saw a sunset or remembered for a moment that there is a mama out there who carries this grief 24/7.
I have no idea how Jesus will reward His followers when they make it Home. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the ones who choose to run in when others run away will receive a crown. Because their faithful love in the dark places brings life and light to hurting hearts.
And isn’t that the essence of the gospel message?
You are not alone.
You are loved.
There is a way forward.
When you have exhausted all your own resources, God has made a way where there was no way. Even when you can’t take a step on your own-especially when you can’t take a step on your own-Jesus will carry you.
The ones who stay sing the gospel song to my heart.
They remind me that Jesus hasn’t forgotten.
