I miss a lot of things since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
I miss HIM-his deep voice, his perspective and his thump-thump-thumping down the stairs and the rhythm of who he is.
And I miss how his absence has reshaped the family I thought I’d have.
Read the rest here: Child Loss: Missing The Family I Thought I’d Have
God’s promises.
He said it, I believe it.
Simple, right?
Not so simple when a plain reading of plain words seems to guarantee one outcome and life delivers another.
Not so simple when pain obliterates hope and tears blind my eyes to a future that’s anything other than dark.
But is the problem with God and His promises or me and my expectations?
Before my lifestorm I could have worked up a lovely devotional on God’s promises and given good reasons why we should not doubt them. But God’s promises were no longer devotional material; they were real-life issues. I knew I could not go that class and tell those who gathered there how God keeps his promises, but I could assure them I was learning that he does. Even as I questioned his promises because of the pain that wouldn’t go away, I knew I was learning that the problem is not with God’s promises but with our bringing twentieth-century expectations and personal wish-fulfillment to those promises. The problem lies with our expectations of what God should do and how he should do it when life hurts. I was learning that I had to quit just looking at the promises of God and look to the God of the promises.
Verdell Davis, Riches Stored In Secret Places
I’ve written before about how easy it is to put God in a Box.
So often I interact with Scripture based on false assumptions, wishful thinking and my own idea of how God should work in the world. I want a God I can understand or (if I’m honest!) manipulate or cajole into doing what makes me most satisfied and most comfortable. I pick and choose among the promises and tend to focus on the ones that seem to guarantee health, wealth and happiness and I gloss over the ones that plainly describe the painful process of being conformed to the likeness of Christ.
I cannot answer all the questions my heart can conjure up and I don’t think God will answer them for me this side of Heaven.
But God doesn’t lie.
His promises stand.
How and when He chooses to fulfill them is not for me to say.
I am learning to lean into His faithful love, trust His heart and live in the mysterious space between what I understand and what I find incomprehensible.
We wall off our world with words.
The ones we speak and the ones we swallow down so they don’t escape our lips.
But, as Mr. Rogers says, “Anything human is mentionable.”
Even death.
We don’t like to talk about death. It’s unpleasant and frightening and often divisive. We all know it’s coming-no one (except Enoch and Elijah) have left this world any other way. Yet the polite thing to do is pretend it doesn’t exist or at the very least, isn’t likely to happen any time soon.
But that serves no good purpose.
It stops us from having meaningful conversations with those we love as they approach the end of their days. It keeps us from making amends while there is still time, saying the things that need to be said, wrapping up loose ends and frayed relationships.
It stops us from listening to the bereaved. If we get too close and pay too much attention to the aftermath of loss then we have to think about what it really means to live on without someone we love.
And it has shaped a society in which those who grieve too loudly or too long are shushed and shamed.
Refusing to talk about death doesn’t make it disappear.
It only makes it harder to deal with.
The rest of the Mr. Rogers quote is this:
…and anything mentionable is more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone.
Fred Rogers
Learning the language of loss and lament is part of the healing process in grief.
We’ve never been very good in Western society talking about or dealing with death. So many hearts are hurting and have nowhere to go, no one to talk to, no safe refuge for their pain.
If someone trusts you with his or her feelings, receive it as a gift.
Make space for them to be honest about what they are experiencing.
Remind them that “Anything human is mentionable”.
And listen. ❤
Sit. Soak. Sour.
It happens to milk left out of the fridge and it happens to people too.
If all I do is sit in a chair, soak up the news, social media rants and talk show ravings, I’ll end up sad and sour.
I don’t want to do that.
So I get outside and soak up the sunshine and fresh air instead.
I know everyone doesn’t have the option to walk for over a mile on their own property but even in the strictest of the locked down states, there are parks, sidewalks and other outdoor spaces you could visit.
Sit on your stoop if you have to.
But just get outside, for goodness sake!
Turn off the screens screaming fearful headlines, walk away from the four walls that feel like they are closing in on you, open a window at least and stick your head out.
If you really, truly can’t manage any outside time or fresh air, grow something.
Remember when you were a kid and mom or grandma cut the tops off carrots and put them in a shallow dish? They will grow fluffy greenery in a few days.
Watching the progress of any living thing is balm to a weary soul.
Even grocery stores sell potted plants or herbs in most places. Buy a few. They’ll improve indoor air quality as well as providing a diversion from worry.
When all a heart thinks about is death, destruction and dire news, it shrinks into a hardened ball.
It becomes increasingly difficult to feel anything but fear or anger or bitterness.
Sour. Dour. Persnickety. Cranky. Grumpy.
That’s not how I want to be and it’s probably not how you want to be either.
So get up. Break the habit of soaking in bad news.
Get some fresh air and sunshine if you can or at least create your own little corner of green.
Refresh your soul and feed it hope.
I first shared this post several years ago when I realized that the best thing anyone could say to me was: “I’m sorry for your pain. I’m listening. I’m not going anywhere.”
At the time it was mainly about my experience with child loss.
Now I know it’s really the best thing for any heart whenever its hurting or afraid or feeling alone.
❤
Watching someone you love in pain is very, very hard.
And it’s natural that people want to say something or do something to try to ease the burden.
They might offer a story illustrating that it “could be worse” or rush past an expression of sorrow by changing the subject or even compliment me on “how well I am doing”.
But none of those things makes me feel better.
Read the rest here: Sweet Words
It’s been years (decades?) since I watched much, if any, commercial television.
I do get those annoying pop-up ads from time to time when I visit websites and, of course, Facebook loves to “suggest” products I “need” in my timeline.
But I’m really not exposed to a lot of advertising or images that scream, “You are not enough!”.
Even so, that’s often the way I feel.
Somehow I’ve swallowed the lie that the only way I can be worthy of love and even breath is to be “all that I can be”-whatever THAT means. I need to have the right exercise regimen, the cleanest home, the healthiest food, a morning quiet time with my Bible and praise music, the perfect filing system for all the random papers I have stuffed in boxes, a tidy closet, and a day filled with meaningful activity that produces either income or social change.
All this time stuck at home has served to point out the many ways I fall short of those standards.
We’ve lived in this house for twenty-two years which is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. It’s filled to the brim with memories and stuff and dusty corners where the furniture hasn’t been moved since we got here.
The kids were six through twelve the day we bought the place.
There’s been a lot of activity and growing within these walls and frankly, you can tell.
I need to paint but the idea of wiping off the last little marks of Dominic and his siblings made when they were all here and happy is overwhelming. I need to rearrange the things in what was once his room and make it more useful for when the kids come home to visit but that means I have to go through some drawers and stuff that haven’t been touched since he touched them and I’m not ready.
That’s just two of probably one hundred (literally!) things I could or should do.
What I’ve been doing instead is living through what I call my Season of Sorrow which runs from March through the end of May every year-all the “lasts” (last time I saw him, last time I hugged him) and all the “firsts” (the day he left for Heaven, his funeral) and ends with his birthday on May twenty-eighth.
I’ve learned that I’m no good at starting projects this time of year.
I’m doomed to leave them unfinished which becomes its own kind of condemnation.
But I still feel like I SHOULD be doing them.
I need to be gentle on myself.
That list of things to do is always going to be long. If I worked every day, all day for the rest of my life there would be things left unfinished.
I need to remember that how I loved and who I loved is the measure that really counts.
❤
I originally shared this post a couple of years ago when I was delightfully surprised by a row of beautiful sunflowers one morning just when I needed them most.
It was the beginning of a long, hot and very stressful summer.
Many of us are feeling the same way about this one.
When I ran across this reflection, I decided to share it again. I hope it makes your heart smile.
❤ Melanie
I love, love, love sunflowers!
Always have.
I love their bright aspect that brings a smile to my face no matter what mood I’m in or what trial I’m facing. Their happy, heavy heads declare that today is a day to shine!
Read the rest here: Sunflowers Sing Praise
What’s changed and what is still the same six years down the road of child loss?
I’ve thought about this a lot in the past few months as I prepared for, greeted and marked another year of unwelcome milestones since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
Some things are exactly the same:
Some things are very different:
I’ve never hidden the struggle and pain of this journey.
But I don’t want those who are fresh in grief to think that how they are feeling TODAY is the way they will feel FOREVER.
By doing the work grief requires, making wise choices and holding onto hope a heart does begin to heal.
I am not as fragile today as I was on the first day.
And I am so, so thankful for that. ❤
I remember the early days after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven when people were still checking in often on our family.
Some days there were a dozen or more messages that really, really needed an answer.
But I just couldn’t.
“How are you?” is often a more difficult question than you might think when your world is falling apart.
I wanted to tell the truth about how hard the days were and harder still the long dark nights but it felt too personal, too frightening and too likely to be misunderstood by a heart with no frame of reference.
So most of my responses looked something like this:
Eventually I found out who the safe people were and began to share more openly.
The others-the ones who weren’t safe or who were only asking out of a sense of curiosity or obligation-simply stopped asking when they didn’t get the answers they were looking for.
I’ve learned to give hurting hearts space.
I give them permission NOT to answer.
I want them to know I care but I don’t ask penetrating questions that might require answers they aren’t prepared to give.
Because I remember how that felt. ❤
I remember struggling mightily to get four young children to church Sunday mornings.
At the time we attended a larger church that had a couple of parking lots-one near and one not-so-near the entrance.
Of course, I was never early enough to park very close to the doors so had to shepherd all four (while carrying the youngest in his car seat) across a small lane, up a hill and finally to the foyer.
What a blessed relief when some kind person opened that door for me as we approached!
It wasn’t much in the whole scheme of things.
It didn’t relieve my aching arms of the load I carried.
But it said, “I see you. I want to do the little bit I can to encourage you.”
I have never forgotten those days.
Opening the door taught me that sometimes the smallest act of kindness is the difference between a heart giving up or hanging on.
I’ve had a lot of people “hold the door” for me on this journey of child loss.
Most of them have not walked in my shoes but they could see my soul was worn and I needed encouragement.
For that I will be eternally grateful.
❤
thelifeididntchoose 