grief – Page 246 – thelifeididntchoose

Ugly Crying

I haven’t had a good gut-wrenching, chest-thumping ugly cry in awhile.

I had one yesterday.

Taking clothes off the line to bring indoors before nightfall, I was suddenly overcome with emotion.

I remembered Dominic’s graduation presentation in our back yard. I thought about my daughter’s wedding and how he was missing another important event. Then I pictured my grandson who would never know Uncle Dominic in three dimensions-only by flat photos and through our renderings of him.

Five years!

How can it possibly be five years since I last saw that face, hugged that neck, heard that voice?

And what has become of us in the meantime?

We are more

and less.

More compassionate, more deliberate in maintaining connection with one another, more focused on what really matters, more likely to cry in movies, more willing to drive or fly or walk or swim to get to the people we love. Five minutes of face-to-face makes it worthwhile.

We are less tolerant of petty grievances, less sure that bad things don’t happen to “good” people, less likely to sweat the small stuff and less inclined to assume we know another heart’s story when we first meet her. We don’t take anything for granted.

Walking into wedding weekend is another giant challenge. Full of beautiful things and special moments and wonderful friends.

But we all carry Dominic-his life, light and death-with us everywhere we go.

So I’m sure there will be moments when my heart shows up on my face.

I’m bringing a hanky. ❤

Blessing For The Brokenhearted

Sometimes I run across a poem that is absolutely perfect.

This is one of those.

Blessing for the Brokenhearted by Jan Richardson

There is no remedy for love but to love more.
—Henry David Thoreau

Let us agree
for now
that we will not say
the breaking
makes us stronger
or that it is better
to have this pain
than to have done
without this love.

Let us promise
we will not
tell ourselves
time will heal
the wound,
when every day
our waking
opens it anew.

Perhaps for now
it can be enough
to simply marvel
at the mystery
of how a heart
so broken
can go on beating,
as if it were made
for precisely this—

as if it knows
the only cure for love
is more of it,

as if it sees
the heart’s sole remedy
for breaking
is to love still,

as if it trusts
that its own
persistent pulse
is the rhythm
of a blessing
we cannot
begin to fathom
but will save us
nonetheless.

—Jan Richardson

[Emphasis added]

Eight Grief Quotes That Help My Heart On Hard Days

I’m kind of selective in what memes I toss around.

I don’t usually share them unless I can agree wholeheartedly with them.

But sometimes a meme is the simplest and most effective way to communicate truth. And sometimes I just need a quick lift on a hard day.

So here are a few I like:

Grief is not a smooth path up and out of the pit of despair, it’s a tangled mess of thoughts, feelings and physical manifestations. Grief is WORK. So, so much work.

Grief is not abnormal. It is not weakness. It is the natural response to loving someone who is no longer within reach. There aren’t any shortcuts on this journey.

This is a hard one. People mean well but unless they have lost a child (or experienced other significant loss) they just don’t realize that grief lasts a lifetime. What is a date on the calendar for everyone else-a finite experience with an endpoint-is an ongoing reality for us.

Sympathy will not outlast grief. The friends who stick around are the ones who understand that. They choose compassion-which lasts forever.

Another way to say it is “Grief is love unfinished”. Grief isn’t something conjured up by a heart. It’s the natural expression of love when the object of that love is no longer available. Grief IS love. So it’s no wonder a parent will grieve the rest of his or her life.

You cannot do the work grief requires without setting aside time and space to do it. Running away, stuffing and distraction seem like real options but they aren’t.

Grief will not be denied.

It will not be ignored.

So face it.

Do the work it takes.

No matter how long it’s been, grief will still surprise you. Tears at the most inopportune moment, memories washing over you like waves, joy and sorrow meeting when the camera flashes. That’s OK. Let it roll. Feel it.

It’s not only OK to ask for help, it’s vitally important to ask for it. NO ONE can bear the burden of grief alone. People around you might not realize that or might not know how to help. ASK. Get counseling if you need to. Get practical household help if you need to. Take medication if you need to. There is nothing shameful in asking for and receiving help.

Finally, rest assured that there is really no way to face this life in the Valley except to simply take it one step-sometimes one breath-at a time. Looking too far down the road will only discourage you. Perseverance IS the victory, dear heart. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. It’s not a sickness that can be “cured”. It’s a heart condition that must be acknowledged and impacts life every single day.

Sometimes when I’m having an especially hard day, I have to remind myself of all these things.

It helps me.

I hope it helps you too. ❤

Why We Turn Away From Hurting Hearts

The news goes out over Facebook, over phone lines, over prayer chains and everyone shows up.

Crowds in the kitchen, in the living room, spilling onto the lawn.

It’s what you do.

And it’s actually the easiest part. Lots of people, lots of talking, lots of activity keep the atmosphere focused on the deceased and the family. The conversation rarely dips to deeper waters or digs into harder ground: “Where was God?”; “Why him?”; “Why do ‘bad’ things happen to ‘good’ people?”

But eventually the busyness and noise gives way to stillness and silence.

That’s when the harder part starts.

Read the rest here: Why Do We Turn Away?

Repost: From The Child Not Here on Mother’s Day

My daughter, Fiona, wrote this last year, in the voice of her brother who ran ahead to heaven.

I am so thankful for her and so sorry that she has gained this wisdom at great cost.

Some of the bravest, most loving women I know are those who have suffered one of life’s greatest losses. I hope you know how truly beautiful you are.

“Dear Mom,

Read the rest here: From The Child Not Here on Mother’s Day

My Sixth Mother’s Day as a Bereaved Mother

When it first happened all I could think about was getting through a minute, then a day and then all the decisions and days leading up to a funeral or memorial service.

There’s no road map.

Even when others come alongside (and many, many did!) there’s just no easy way to navigate that part of the journey.

And then I realized that in addition to all the “regular” days that absolutely, positively break your heart, I had to forge a path through “special” days.

It was overwhelming!

Mother’s Day was especially challenging that first year. Our loss was fresh and we’d had to acknowledge and celebrate two graduations and a wedding was about a month away. How in the world could I honor my living children and also safeguard my broken heart?

We muddled through by having Mother’s Day at my daughter’s apartment co-hosted by some of her sweetest and most compassionate friends. Not a lot of fanfare, but good food, good company and a quiet acknowledgment of Dom’s absence but also my living children’s presence.

It was a gift.

This is my sixth Mother’s Day. Every year is different. Every year presents new challenges and every year things change.

Since discovering there is an International Bereaved Mother’s Day my heart has taken advantage of having a day to think about and honor Dominic and then another day to think about and honor my living children.

That helps.

I wrote this post three years ago but can’t really improve on it so I’ll share it again. I pray that each heart who finds Mother’s Day hard will lean in and take hold of the hem of His garment.

It’s really the only way.

Read the rest here: Mother’s Day as a Bereaved Mother

When People Just Don’t Listen

I had a very uncomfortable exchange with someone at church Wednesday night.

We have a light potluck dinner each Wednesday before Bible Study and I’m on kitchen duty. So I was uncovering dishes, adding spoons and getting things ready when conversation erupted around me about a “horrible wreck just up the road.”

I kept silent and tried to focus on the plastic wrap and aluminum foil but couldn’t help hearing the animated relaying of detail after detail until it reached a crescendo ending in someone declaring that, “Well, those people just drive too fast. They don’t even care about themselves.”

You might guess where this is going.

Yep. Couldn’t take it anymore so I said, “Most young people feel invincible. They think it won’t happen to them. If they knew they might really die and all that meant, they wouldn’t do it.”

Which kind of slowed them down but didn’t stop them.

So I asked, “Is the guy OK?” Wanting a simple answer not an account of grisly details.

Instead, the main speaker turned to me and began to share all he could remember in the brief time he had to take notes as he was crawling slowly by the accident scene. (I won’t recount them here to spare hearts but let’s just say for those of us whose child left for Heaven by road accident, it was entirely. too. much.)

I looked at him and said, “That’s enough.” He kept talking.

I looked at him again and said, “That’s enough. My son was killed in an accident.” He kept talking.

I finally raised my voice, called his name and said, “That’s enough! Stop talking!” He turned away like I had lost my mind.

I followed him a couple steps and said, “My son died in an accident. I don’t want to hear those kinds of details. Didn’t you see that I was crying?”

His response: “Well you asked. No, I didn’t see you crying.”

Walked away.

Everyone heard it but no one was listening. Everyone saw it but no one was willing to come alongside and put an arm around me. Everyone knows about my son but knowing hasn’t sunk in deeply enough to grow seeds of compassion.

I was shaking and wanted to leave right then but didn’t.

I’m not so tender now at five years that simply hearing about an accident upsets me. My mind goes immediately to the family and I breathe prayers for abundant grace and mercy. I never want others to feel they can’t share genuine prayer requests or concerns.

But I do not want details. I do not want a blow-by-blow nor anyone’s haughty opinion that it won’t happen to them or theirs because they “take precautions”.

I am utterly undone that after years of gently trying to help the people I worship with understand the tender places in a bereaved parent’s heart, several of them stomped all over mine.

I know words slip out. I don’t want anyone to walk on eggshells around me.

But I do want to be heard.

When I tell you that I need you to stop sharing something with me, please just stop.

Are you going to burst if you don’t let the words out?

Probably not.

But you might well break a bit of my heart if you don’t.

Grief: Why Hiding Isn’t a Long Term Solution

We’ve all done it-chosen to swallow words instead of share them.

Or we’ve chosen to fake a smile instead of giving another person an honest peek into our hearts.

Or we’ve pretended, pretended, pretended in the hopes folks sniffing around will go away.

But it’s not a long term solution to the pain we carry, the scars we bear or the stories that need telling.

Hiding often seems a good idea at the time. Conflict avoided. Inconvenient conversations postponed. Hard issues ignored. Respite from harsh words, hard feelings and hopeless discussions obtained.

I’ve hidden for a fair share of my life.

As a child it seemed that the best way to hover just under the parental radar was to go along to get along. Don’t hold too many preferences too tightly. Say “yes” even when your heart says “no”. Let the loud ones prevail. Stay quiet, stay small and stay out of trouble.

As a young married to a significantly older husband, it served me well. Don’t rock the boat. Silent assent keeps things smoother. Say “yes” even when your heart says “no”. It’s really not worth the hassle to do otherwise. Stay quiet, stay small and stay out of trouble.

In a multitude of leadership positions within the church community, it served me well. Don’t overstep-remember you aren’t a salaried employee. Check your spirit and make sure your own heart is right. Let it go and get over it. Say “yes” even when your heart says “no”. Stay quiet, stay small and stay out of trouble.

The problem with hiding from feelings and hiding from hard things and hiding from messy relationships is that I can’t hide forever. Eventually someone or something will force those things to the top. And if I haven’t been dealing with them all along, they gain strength and intensity in the waiting.

I don’t hide anymore.

Dominic’s death unleashed a thousand unspoken words, a thousand unexpressed feelings.

Suddenly I had a lot to say.

And it didn’t all have a direct connection to Dominic’s leaving but it was his leaving that made them impossible to hide anymore. Once the dam broke in my heart it ALL flooded out.

Or trickled.

Or dripped.

Decades of uncomfortable conversations I had avoided became unavoidable. Years of relationship patterns that served no one were examined and remade. I’m still finding bits that need attention, things I really need to speak aloud. I will sometimes try to hide. It doesn’t last long though.

What I’m learning from refusing to hide is that it’s so much healthier! It’s so much better to speak my truth (always, hopefully!) in love.

When I silence my heart, I only postpone and prolong and pile up hurt.

It doesn’t go away.

It burrows in and makes a home, pushing out everything else.

It’s no solution.

Our hearts and minds are resistant to change and if you, like me, are one who hid to avoid conflict, who swallowed words and wounds and worry, it will be hard.

But try.

Try to find ways (even if it’s writing letters to some folks) to express your true feelings. Make sure you are speaking lovingly as well as truthfully. Get a friend to read your note or hear you out and give you feedback.

Then offer the important people in your life your heart-your true heart-instead of hiding.

❤

Grief Changes

This life is not all sadness and sorrow, death and darkness.

It was. For a very, very long time all I could see was distant flickers of light.

They were just enough to keep me going but not enough to lift the utter blackness that surrounded me.

Now I would characterize life as hazy gray-most things still filtered through a lens of grief but generally brighter.

I can see and feel the change. It’s not as hard to get up most mornings. Not as hard to put dates on a calendar. Not as hard to commit to social activities and to actually show up. Not as hard to talk about family life with strangers and acquaintances. Not as hard to do so many things that were practically impossible in the first weeks, months and years.

I am so, so grateful.

And there are good things-very good things-happening in my family.

I’m even more grateful for those.

A baby who could have had a sad story has a happy one! He is growing and grinning and getting ready (within the month, we think) to escape the hospital. His dad is home from deployment. His mom is healing like a champ from severe illness and from her surgery. They are forming a happy trio and full of love.

My niece is graduating high school. All the kids in that generation are grown ups just as we finally added one to begin the next.

My mother and father are still here to enjoy these things.

If you are afraid you will never, ever feel joy again, I understand. That was one of the most frightening aspects of early days and months and years. I could not imagine having that heavy, dark cloud envelope me for the rest of my life.

It seems impossible it could ever be otherwise.

But I’m here to tell you-it doesn’t have to be that way. If you reach for the tiny lights you can just barely see in the distance and make whatever feeble and faltering steps forward, your heart will learn to feel something besides sorrow again.

At first it may only be a split-second when a smile nearly, but not quite, crosses your lips.

Then it might be an hour when you realize you’ve actually been completely engaged and present with your family or good friend.

One day you will be slipping into bed and think, “Today was a pretty good day”. It will shock you, sadden you and encourage you all at the same time.

It’s not a smooth upward journey that lands you out of the pit of grief.

It’s a bumpy road that tosses you around. Highs and lows, ups and downs. And it lasts a lifetime.

But if you purpose to hold on with both hands, to stay the course, keep heading toward the bits of light, laughter, love and loveliness teasing you in the distance, you will make progress.

Bad things have happened-the worst, in fact.

Bad things still happen.

But good things happen too.

Very good things.

I want to be present for them, don’t you?

Man Proposes, God Disposes

I learned this lesson years ago.

As a matter of fact, I had a cute little picture on my fridge of a sinking ship that said. “Another day, another disaster”.

That was before I had actually lived through disaster.

Now it’s engraved on my heart as well as my mind.

I think I’m in control. I think my “to do” list determines a day. I think I can set the alarm and set my agenda.

But I’m not. It doesn’t and I can’t.

Last week I was rocking and rolling, moving and grooving. Making molehills out of mountains and working my list.

Today I’m sitting in my chair, heating pad on my back, barely able to move.

My body hates me.

This is the hardest part of chronic illness and lifelong grief-I want to be able to plan ahead, make progress, achieve momentum and finish tasks. But I just can’t. I can’t be sure when I go to bed that the next day is going to be anything like what I hope it will be.

If you think weather forecasts are unpredictable, they are solid compared to my life.

And while I absolutely, positively accede God is in control, is sovereign, does not answer to me or anyone else and can order my life and the world as He sees fit; I would love, love, love to have two days in a row that followed a pattern of positive progress.

So I’m just a *little* bit frustrated.

I know I need to adjust my expectations.

I’m trying.

Really.

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