Tag: grief journey

Ten Years: What’s Helped and What’s Hurt

If I’m honest, the things that hurt in the first days, weeks and months could fill a book.

But now, I’ve developed a thicker skin and a better perspective.

If you are still early in your journey and, like me, a giant walking nerve, then your list would definitely be different.

I can narrow them down at this point to a few.

What really hurts:

  • Assuming you understand my pain (unless you also have buried a child).
  • Insisting that time=healing.
  • Ignoring the ongoing nature of child loss.
  • Questioning my faith because I question what happened.
  • Refusing space to share about my missing child.
  • Not saying Dominic’s name.
  • Acting like I should “be over it”.
  • Pretending like it never happened or Dominic never existed because it makes you uncomfortable to talk about him.
  • Not acknowledging my surviving children’s grief.
  • Ignoring the times of year when grief is especially heavy like birthdays, holidays, and the anniversary of Dom’s leaving.

What helps:

  • Admitting that you STILL might not know what to say or do to support me and my family in marking the loss of and missing Dominic. It’s OK. I’ll help you.
  • Listening. Even if it’s something you’ve heard before.
  • Reacting to social media posts about Dominic. I’d love to have new photos but I don’t. But I may be sharing a newly recovered memory or exposed feeling.
  • Notes, cards, messages and calls that let me know you KNOW. That you haven’t forgotten and that you still help carry Dom’s light in the world.
  • Granting space and grace when milestones loom large and my capacity for interaction is limited. Don’t ditch me because I don’t get back to you. Please.
  • Accepting that I will never be the person I was BEFORE but that I’m still a person. I need affirmation, love and kindness like everyone else.
  • Asking questions, staying curious and compassionate and allowing me to help you understand how grief is experienced over time.
  • Respecting my boundaries. These have changed since the early days but I still have hard stops that mark the edges of what I can and can’t do and maintain my sanity.
  • Sharing photos or experiences you may have had with Dom. He was an adult when he left us and there are parts of him I don’t know. I always love to see and hear about him. ❤
  • Patience. I didn’t get a manual on how to live after burying my child. I’m learning as I go. I make mistakes, say things I wish I hadn’t said, step on toes. I’m genuinely sorry. I’m doing the very best I can.

I will not say that Dominic’s death is good.

It’s not.

Death is awful and should be recognized for the enemy it is.

But I will say I have gained wisdom through this experience.

I’ve paid a price I would never willingly have paid. And I would trade it all for my boy in the flesh, my arms around him, his deep voice added to the chorus at our table.

I won’t waste it.

I will share it.

I pray every day that it helps other hearts walk this Valley and instructs those walking with us.

Ten Years: Broken Hearts and Broken Lives

I woke this morning to a frantic voice mail left overnight when my phone was on sleep mode which silences all but my few “favorites” from ringing through.

A precious young woman from my family’s past was reaching out because she knew I was a safe person. I wish I had been able to talk to her when she needed me most but I was left with the only option available: call her back and leave a voice mail message.

It’s a poor substitute for being there when someone is hanging on by a thread.

It made me think of the dozens of ways my children and I have learned to “be there” for broken hearts and broken lives.

It’s an easy yes for any one of us when someone calls and says, “Can you talk?”.

Even when it’s inconvenient or worse, we answer the phone and allow that heart to spill its contents until there is some relief and possibly some way forward.

Some days I’m tapped out.

I may not haul feed bags or lift boxes but my heart is wrung dry by mid-morning.

Hours long telephone conversations in which there is no real answer and no way to untangle complex webs of addiction or family history or personal trauma leave me needing a nap.

I try to take a break when I need to and come back fresh when I can.

In this Season of Sorrow I have a little less to give.

But I am committed to helping other broken hearts limp along toward healing for as long as I am able.

So many have helped me.

I want to share the gift. ❤

Ten Years: The Gift of Friendship

I hurt for hearts who enter the long road of child loss without the support of really, truly friends.

I have been blessed for nearly ten years with two precious hearts who- even though they have been spared the pain of child loss- chose to walk alongside me.

These women right here.

They came alongside and helped me remember that light still existed when darkness was all I could feel and all I could see.

They brought lunch to my home- over an hour away- and loved me, listened to me, didn’t toss Bible verses or correct me. They were much better friends than the ones who joined Job on the ash heap.

I can never repay the debt I owe them.

I’m so thankful that we are aging together and will spend eternity proving that grace, love and the Gospel transform hearts and lives.

I love y’all. ❤️❤️

Ten Years. A Decade. Wow.

Truth is, I’m stronger and better able to carry this burden of loss and missing than I was even two or three years ago.

But considering the dates, considering that it’s been TEN YEARS since I last hugged and spoke to Dominic, this “anniversary” is different.

I think about what happened in the space of a decade in my own life and it overwhelms my heart to realize that the Dominic I remember would most likely be a completely different person NOW than THEN.

In ten years I went from a college freshman to a mother of four.

In ten years I went from a mother of four to a mother of a high school senior.

In ten years I went from a mother with four children in college to a grandmother.

Who Dominic might be now is something I long to know but dread to consider.

It highlights all the life he would have lived between his death and today and I feel like a bit of an intruder to try to figure out what those years might have looked like. Each of my children have taken paths I could not have anticipated because they are their own persons.

I know many bereaved parents who have a vivid conception of who their child might be today. I’m just not one of them.

In light of eternity, ten years is less than a speck of dust.

But in light of a life lived, it’s greater than ten percent (for most of us).

For this mama’s heart, it’s more than I could imagine having survived on that dark morning.



Ten Years: Reflections, Regrets and Reality

I’m writing this today as springtime sunlight floods my window and the scent of grass and growing things wafts in the breeze.

I still feel the stir of life when the days grow longer and the laying hens gift us with eggs every twenty-four hours.

But for ten years now my heart drags itself into the light bearing a burden of darkness.

In memory of Dominic from an anonymous friend.

In the early years it totally eclipsed any promise spring might portend. Birdsong only reminded me of my son’s silent voice. Flowers smelled like death. The appearance of fresh growth highlighted the passage of time and the timelessness of missing Dominic.

It took a long while to learn how to be alive and also acknowledge the awful reality and sadness of death.



Now I can watch the faithful chickadee family (generations of them) who perch on a garden torch singing praise to the rising sun. I marvel when a daring chipmunk races to retrieve some tasty tidbit while keeping a watchful eye for my outdoor cats. I count the hours as the sun makes its path outside my kitchen window from darkest dawn to midday and beyond.

I put on and take off the garment of grief many times each day.

I regret springs spent doing anything other than reveling in the beautiful life of my beautiful children. I wish I had understood then what I understand now: Life is short, no matter how long it lasts.

Then a lovely memory pops into my mind and I know I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. We DID spend days playing and laughing and learning together.



It’s a battle, this remembering.

I don’t always have time to indulge my heart.

But for this season, this day, I’m giving myself permission.

Ambushed by Grief

So today I kissed a piece of paper Dominic wrote around 2003 or 2004. It was sacred to touch what he once touched.

I kept repeating, “I love you. I love you.”

It isn’t much but it’s all I have left.



I was tidying up some things I’ve been lazy about in anticipation of my dad’s second knee replacement surgery next week. There was a pile of cards and miscellaneous papers that my cats had knocked down from what I thought was a safe perch.

I gathered them up, looking, as always, for any hint of Dominic’s distinctive handwriting.

And there it was. His goals for some forgotten year when I had made the children write them down.

It was SO him. They were complete with illustrations.



I know folks want to hear the triumphant victory of faith over grief. And some days that is my testimony.

Some days I am able to lean in, take hold of hope and declare the goodness of God.

But some days-or some moments– my mama heart cries out for the physical presence of the child I carried, the child I fed at my breast and the child I nurtured until he grew into a man.

There’s no cure for that.

You just have to let the sadness and longing wash over you. The tears must fall.

I’m sure tomorrow will be a better day.

Today I’m just waiting for night to fall and sleep to come. ❤

Lenten Reflections 2024: Learning Obedience

Thanks to the Holy Spirit’s inspiration and John’s pen, what we witness in John 12 is a deeply significant (but not stand alone) moment in Jesus’ journey of becoming ‘obedient to death-even death on a cross’ (Philippians 2:8).

Alicia Britt Chole

One of the things I regret most in life is when I’ve had the opportunity to be honest about my own struggles but refused to share because I thought it was “holier” to act like I never had a hard time taking hold of God’s promises or living out my faith.

Holy is hard.

Being set apart for the purposes and glory of God is going to involve some real wrestling.

Read the rest here: Lenten Reflections: Letting Go of Premature Resolution and Learning Obedience

Share this:

Grief Work 2024: 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

opressively constant; incessant.

Read the rest here: Relentless

Grief Work 2024: How Stress Impacts Grief

It would be so helpful if there was an app to track stress like there is to track spending.

Wouldn’t it be marvelous to get an alert that said, “Low Balance”, for mental, physical and psychological reserves like the one you can get for your bank account right before you are heading to overdraft territory?

But there isn’t.

And few of us are very good at gauging just how much is left in our mental wellness accounts which means we often keep giving when the well is more than dry.

Read the rest here: How Stress Impacts Grief

Griefwork 2024: Setting Aside Time to Grieve

One of the trickiest parts of life as a bereaved parent is navigating the space between our surviving children and the giant hole left by the one (or more) who have run ahead to Heaven.

There are so many ways I might cling too hard to what’s lost and not lean hard enough into what continues to bring blessing and beauty to everyday life.

I’ve learned it’s best to find quiet moments in which I can journal the feelings that might be unhelpful or downright hurtful to express to others.

❤ Melanie

One of the commitments I made out loud and in my heart the day Dominic left us was this:  I was not going to let his death tear my family apart.  

I was not going to let him become the sainted brother that stood apart and above his siblings.  

I was going to continue to give as much of my time, effort, love and presence to each of the three I had left as I had done when there were four on earth beside me.

I’ve been more or less successful in keeping this promise.

Read the rest here: Child Loss: Setting Aside Time To Grieve Helps My Heart Hold On