I have been guilty of this more times than I ‘d like to admit.
I assume someone else’s feelings mirror my own and act on that assumption by withdrawing or not showing up or “giving them space”.
But the problem is, most times, on reflection, I realize my action (or inaction) was really all about sparing my own feelings or staying within my own comfort zone.
The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?
While there are those who defend the sport as the ultimate test of one man’s strength, fortitude and endurance against another, all I see is a couple of guys beating each other to a pulp.
But I understand the heart of a fighter.
I know what it feels like to be down but refuse to stay down. I’ve lifted myself up and stumbled back into the center of the ring waiting for the next punch to land.
I’ve waved off the good advice of those in my own corner who say, “Take a breather. Rest a little. Sit awhile.”
But I’m throwing in the towel.
Not for good.
Just for today.
There’s been so much going on lately that I think I’m finally down for the count.
I don’t care that summer days mean sunshine until eight. I don’t care that I haven’t managed to complete half my list.
I’m going to bed, curling up with a good book and reading until I fall asleep.
Before Dominic ran ahead to Heaven I would not have described myself as “anxious”.
Of course I had my moments, but anxiety ,panic or worry was not really something I experienced on a regular basis.
That’s changed.
Now I sometimes have to close my eyes when a family member is driving in traffic. I clench my fists when in a crowd. I can’t concentrate if too many people are talking at once and I cannot navigate unfamiliar roads while the radio is blaring.
Dominic’s sudden death destroyed my sense of safety and control.
If my son could be healthy and alive one moment and dead the next, anything could happen.
It doesn’t matter if you agree with me or not, the anxiety I experience is very real and often debilitating.
What makes it worse is when friends and family minimize my feelings, mock my fear or dismiss it as foolish and stupid.
What helps is when friends and family choose to acknowledge my feelings and commit to compassionate companionship while I work through them.
I understand completely that some parents don’t want to use it to describe their child and I respect that.
I have chosen to use it often (not always-sometimes I say “left” or “ran ahead to heaven”) because what happened IS harsh. I don’t want to soften it because there was nothing soft about it for me or my family.
It is heartbreaking, lonely, heavy, hard and utterly devastating.
It happens most often when things are very quiet or I’m trying to drift off to sleep.
My mind will rehearse the moment the doorbell rang, or the phone calls I had to make, or-worse yet-imagining what, exactly, Dominic experienced when he left the road and plowed through bushes until he was thrown from his motorcycle and died.
Once my thoughts begin to follow that track, it’s so hard to derail them.
It used to be absolutely impossible.
But now (at five years into this journey) I have some default visualizations that help me break unfruitful mental cycles.
I might imagine details from my childhood-recreating a room or an experience-or recite Scripture, hymns or poems. Sometimes I force myself to delineate my next day’s tasks precisely and in order.
I am always very careful what I watch, read or meditate on before bedtime because if I plant a seed of fear or dystopia it flowers in my dreams.
And then there are the days when responsibilities lead me down memory lane-going through photos for my daughter’s wedding, consolidating boxes to make room for my husband’s retirement, hunting a particular item for the holidays or another family celebration-and I have a hard time not sinking into despair because Dom’s just not here.
But at five years those are no longer utterly uncontrollable feelings.
I’ve learned ways of diffusing, distracting and redirecting my thoughts to help me deal with them in the moment:
If possible, I stop the activity that triggered the feelings or thoughts and switch to something else. Sometimes just turning my back makes all the difference.
I focus on a non-triggering detail. Shifting my eyes often shifts my thoughts.
If in a group of people, I force myself to listen to the conversations around me and ignore my own thoughts.
If alone, I speak the feeling/thought aloud. Breaking the silence can break the cycle.
Then, (often) I’ll have a meltdown later, but at a time when I can afford it better.
I’ve said over and over that the absolute weight of this burden has not changed but my ability to carry it has grown through practice and doing the work grief requires.
Sorrow is no longer all I feel and my son’s absence is no longer all I see.
Every time I overcome my fear, I redirect my thoughts, I face my feelings and refuse to let them paralyze me, I’m stronger.
I think nearly every bereaved parent has a crisis of faith that takes one form or another.
When I read scripture I see that most of the “giants” of faith had moments of doubt as well.
I have certainly felt sometimes like God wasn’t listening or if He was listening, He didn’t care. He’s disappointed me because my prayers were not answered the way I expected them to be or they weren’t answered at all (from my perspective).
Those feelings are normal but feelings don’t always reflect truth.
If I’m to battle the lies my heart is tempted to believe, I must feed it truth until it’s able to take hold of it.
So I go to the Psalms of lament and follow the pattern laid out there:
Express my frustration, fear and disappointment (exhale my doubts);
bring my broken heart to God (position myself to receive);
and recite the truth that God does not lie and that every promise is “ yes” and “amen” in Christ ( inhale strength, faith, comfort and hope).
It’s not a once and done thing- sometimes I do this dozens of times a day. But I always come away stronger and better able to face my fears and doubts.
If you currently feel like God’s not listening I pray you will take that pain straight to the Throne of grace.
Awake, Lord! Why do you sleep? Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever. Why do you hide your face and forget our misery and oppression?
We are brought down to the dust; our bodies cling to the ground. Rise up and help us; rescue us because of your unfailing love.
Psalm 44: 23-26 NIV
May you choose to trust truth even when your heart doesn’t want to.
Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.
Habakkuk 3:17, 18 NIV
And may you hear the Lord sing grace and mercy over your soul.
The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.
Even if my lifeblood is to be poured out like wine as a sacrifice of your faith, I have great reason to celebrate with all of you.
~ Philippians 2:17 VOICE
In many ways I feel like this season of my life is a drink offering-poured out on the ground-unrecoverable except as a sacrifice lifted to the throne of grace.
But my story is not only loss and pain, it is also life and love.
I have to be careful to remember that.
… you may reformulate your story in terms of sadness and pain. Because you lost a child, or experienced a divorce, or killed someone in a car accident, you will never be happy again. Or even worse, you are never allowed to be happy again.
In all of these cases, we must remember that our stories fall under Christ’s story of redemption. Your life is but a chapter in God’s greater narrative of restoring the world. Your Worst is merely a chapter in your own story. If we allow God to write our stories and to carry us through the season of darkness and despair, he will ensure that redemption constitutes the central progression of our stories.
~Cameron Cole, Therefore I Have Hope
Redemption is the overarching theme of my story, of all history.
It doesn’t mean I have to deny the pain and darkness. In fact, if I try, I diminish His glory in redeeming what would otherwise be nothing but brokenness and loss.
I can lift those feelings to the throne of grace as a drink offering.
I can pour them out at Christ’s feet and trust that even though in the natural there is no way to recapture and restore what has been lost, in His power and love it is never, ever wasted.
And I heard a voice from the throne saying, “Now the dwelling of God is with men, and He will live with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
There’s a kind of relational magic that happens when people who have experienced the same or similar struggle get together.
In an instant, their hearts are bound in mutual understanding as they look one to another and say, “Me too. I thought I was the only one.”
It was well into the second year after Dominic ran ahead to heaven that I found an online bereaved parent support group. After bearing this burden alone for so many months, it took awhile before I could open my heart to strangers and share more than the outline of my story.
But, oh, when I did! What relief! What beautiful support and affirmation that every. single. thing. that was happening to me and that I was feeling was normal!
Because I have absolutelyNO IDEAif anyone is aware of the passage of time in Heaven or if birthdays are even a thing there.
So instead of celebrating another year with my third born, I’m celebrating the years I had with him-too few as far as my heart’s concerned.
I am oh, so thankful for the time I had.
But my heart cries, “More! More!”
I’m no good at this “birthday in absentia” thing. This is the sixth time May 28th has rolled around without Dominic here to eat cake, open presents or break his usually strict dieting rules and gobble down pasta.
A couple of years I’ve purchased a cake in secret at a local bakery for a child that shares Dom’s birthday.
Most years I’ve quietly remembered the events leading to his birth including what now feels like a prescient experience: my obstetrician’s nurse came into the room as I was waiting for a C-section delivery and whispered, “Dr. H is here, but his daughter completed suicide yesterday”. *
When they brought Dom close to my head so I could kiss him before they whisked him away and sewed me up, tears streamed down my face. I really had NO CLUE, but I realized (in a tiny way) that this man was here ushering life into the world as his own heart was breaking for a life that was no more.
All I could say was, “Thank you! I am so, so sorry.”
And I meant it.
Now I know what it cost him to be there. What it cost him to see a family made larger at the moment his (earthly) family had been made smaller.
This year we are at my oldest son’s home savoring the first precious moments holding our grandson. Born too early, his story could have ended badly.
It didn’t and for that I am thankful.
Ryker’s original due date was May 27th-one day before Dominic’s birthday.
It’s fitting that we have a new life to celebrate even as we celebrate missing Dom.
I’ll be honest, I don’t know how to merge these two lives, these opposite feelings, this joy and sorrow meeting in my heart.
I vacillate between overwhelming sadness and overwhelming gratitude that my grandson’s story is beautiful, remarkable, nearly miraculous.
So today I will try to honor Dominic-who he was, who he still is (even more so and perfectly in Heaven!) and the precious gift of another generation to love, nurture and cherish.
I’ll try to lay aside the awful knowledge I carry in my heart that any day things can change. What you never think can happen DOES happen.
I’ll celebrate love.
Because love lives forever.
Always.
*Dominic was killed instantly in a single vehicle motorcycle accident April 12, 2014.
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