Every time I tell the story of Dominic, it helps to keep him real.
It reminds my heart that he lived, that he mattered, that he matters still.
And in the telling, I am giving away a little bit of him for another heart to carry.
His light is passed to another soul that can pass it to another and another.
Read the rest here: Why We Have to Tell Our Stories & Why We Need Someone to Listen
When your scale of awful is off the charts, there’s a tendency to dismiss anything less as merely inconvenient or inconsequential.
But that’s just not how our hearts work.
You can be shattered by child loss and still feel the slings and arrows of everyday losses, disappointments, discomfort and sadness.
It’s OK to mourn the things that don’t measure up to the pain and despair of burying a child.
It’s OK to admit that even ordinary things like an empty nest, changing circumstances, moving away from friends and family, ill health, family drama and dozens of other, smaller wounds prick your heart and make it bleed.
While child loss has helped me gain perspective on what’s truly important, irreplaceable and worth my time and energy, it has not created a protective and impenetrable barrier that guards my heart from further pain.
I am just as likely as anyone else to fall into a funk over a misunderstanding, a less-than-expected outcome, a disappointing phone call with a friend or some other everyday frustration. And, sometimes, there are truly hard and horrible things I’ve had to bear: my mother’s prolonged illness and death, my grandson’s premature birth, my son’s overseas deployment and other things I’m not at liberty to share because I’m not the main character in the story.
Child loss doesn’t mean there won’t be more pain in this life.
It doesn’t give me a pass on heartache.
And it is perfectly normal-actually perfectly and absolutely right-to be sad and mourn the smaller losses in life.
It means my heart’s still beating.
It means I’m still engaged with those around me.
It means I’m still present and invested in life.
And that’s a good thing. ❤
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 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.
Read the rest here: Shifting The Weight, Bearing the Burden
Last year during the month of August I joined with others and participated in a Scripture Writing Challenge.
We committed together to read and write out short passages on grief every day.
I wrote companion posts and shared them.
Circumstances have prevented me from doing another in-depth study again this year but I thought it would be nice to collect the entries from last August in a weekly bundle and put them out there for anyone who might want to revisit them or try it for the first time.
So here’s the first week’s links (including how to set up a journal):
Setting up your journal and link to verses: August Scripture Journal Challenge: Verses on Grief
Day 1: Scripture Journal Challenge: Life Everlasting
Day 2: Scripture Journal Challenge: Unshaken and Unshakeable
Day 3: Scripture Journal Challenge: Sufficient Grace
Day 4: Scripture Journal Challenge: When My Heart Needs a Reminder
Day 5: Scripture Journal Challenge: Safe In My Daddy’s Arms
Day 6: Scripture Journal Challenge: Between A Rock And A Hard Place
Day 7: Scripture Journal Challenge: My Groom Is Coming To Get Me!
It takes a bit of work and commitment to do this so I understand some hearts may not be in a place where that is possible.
But if you’ve missed feeding your soul with the Word of God this is an easy way to get back into the habit.
❤
I know I’m not the only one who carries a calendar in my head that threatens to explode like a ticking timebomb. Days that mean nothing to anyone else loom large as they approach.
The date of his death.
The date of his funeral.
His birthday.
My birthday.
The day he should have graduated from law school
On and on and on.
How can I survive these oppressive reminders of what I thought my life would look like? How can I grab hold of something, anything that will keep my heart and mind from falling down the rabbit hole of grief into a topsy-turvy land where nothing makes sense and it’s full of unfriendly creatures that threaten to gobble me whole?
Read the rest here: Surviving Grief Anniversaries
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 shared this last year but think it’s especially appropriate for the times we’re living in right now.
Every day is a gift. I’ll say it again: Every. Day. Is. A. Gift.
Don’t waste this season wishing or complaining it away. Don’t toss these moments on the trash heap as worthless. This is your life. This is your family’s life.
Time is the only thing you can never spend twice. Use it wisely.
❤
We say it often.
Usually after someone we know or someone we love or someone famous is suddenly and unexpectedly taken from this life to the next.
And for a few minutes or a few days or a few weeks we think more carefully about what we say, what we do and what we worry about.
Read the rest here: Tomorrow’s Not Guaranteed. Live Like It.
thelifeididntchoose 