grief – Page 291 – thelifeididntchoose

Chronic: Continuing, Ceaseless, Unabating

Chronic: (of a problem) long-lasting and difficult to eradicate.

Synonyms: constant, continuing, ceaseless, unabating, unending, persistent, long-lasting, severe, serious, grave, dire

If you’ve followed the blog for long, you know I have Rheumatoid Arthritis. What you may not know is that it is not at all like the arthritis most people experience as they age. Instead of a gradual wearing out of joints due to use and, sometimes, injury, RA is the result of my body attacking itself.

I was 44 when diagnosed after both ankles suddenly swelled so that I could barely walk.

I’ve been living with it for over ten years.

It’s a chronic disease. It can be treated with greater or lesser success to modify and mediate symptoms, but it is always, always, always there. And it affects every aspect of my life-from getting dressed to driving a car.

I find that most folks just don’t understand that.

We are used to getting sick, going to the doctor and being prescribed a drug or treatment or even surgery and getting well (after some period of time).

But some things can’t be “fixed” and must simply be “managed” and endured.

Child loss is like that.

It cannot be fixed.

It cannot be healed.

It cannot be undone or ignored or sequestered so that it doesn’t impact daily life.

And that is hard for people to understand if they’ve never dealt with a chronic illness or other circumstance that defies remedy.

Every morning I walk down my stairs one step at a time like a toddler because my joints are too stiff to bend until I’ve been up for a few hours-that’s how I have to accommodate my arthritis.

Every morning I sit in my rocking chair and journal and talk to other bereaved parents before daybreak-that’s how I have to accommodate my grief.

Neither of these conditions is a choice.

Each of them happened TO me-not because of anything I did or did not do.

And they are life-long.

Continuing.

Ceaseless.

Unabating.

Exhausting.

Practice Makes Permanent

The first time I heard him say it I thought I had misunderstood.

“Practice makes permanent.”

Yep, that’s exactly what he said.

As I watched the Tae Kwon Do instructor work with the young boys striving to copy his perfect form I began to understand. Some students worked hard to make their movements precise and as close to perfect as possible. Some were just going through the motions.

Either way, they were creating muscle memory and training their bodies to recall the moves just as they practiced them.

Practice makes permanent.

Perfect practice makes perfect.

It’s much the same with our thoughts.

In Romans Paul says:

Don’t let the world around you squeeze you into its own mould, but let God re-mould your minds from within, so that you may prove in practice that the plan of God for you is good, meets all his demands and moves towards the goal of true maturity.

Romans 12:2 PHILLIPS

What I think about, dwell on and mull over becomes permanent.

I have to guard the gates of my mind so that I don’t fill it with untruth.

I have to practice recalling the goodness, faithfulness and lovingkindness of God so that I don’t feel abandoned.

I must saturate my thoughts with Scripture if I don’t want to drown in doubt.

I’m thankful for the years and years of Bible study I had under my belt when Dominic ran ahead to heaven. Otherwise, I’m not sure I would have been strong enough or willing to do the deep digging necessary to feed my soul if it was not already my practice to turn to Scripture in times of great trial.

Even when my heart was shattered and my faith strained, my mind fell readily into the ruts that practice had put there.

Practice makes permanent.

Yes, yes it does.

God’s comfort does not usually smooth the road we travel, nor does it make us jubilantly happy. But it does make us strong for our trials. God’s comfort is not good feelings but worthy deeds. The heart that exults in God’s comfort is like that of a champion who confidently runs his course, though with pain. It is not like the ease of one who indulges his appetite. ‘The joy of the Lord is your strength,’ not your ease (Nehemiah 8:10).

~James Means, A Tearful Celebration, p. 73

Repost: On The Edge

I wish that I could mark my heart’s healing like I can mark my body’s healing after surgery-wound closes, scar remains, function returns, and forget about it.

But I can’t.

This journey is like walking those narrow ledges on the side of a mountain-doable, but requiring careful attention lest I fall off.

So far, so good.

But I hate days when my attention is drawn back to the threat of falling instead of the journey itself.

Almost three years [now four] and here I am-

still on the edge.

On the edge of an anxiety attack.

On the edge of the cliff of deep sorrow and darkness that threatens to swallow every thing bright in my life.

Read the rest here: On The Edge

When It’s Been YEARS-How to Bless a Grieving Parent

Please hear me.

I do NOT blame you that my son and my sorrow have drifted down your list of “things that need attention”. Your life is as busy as mine once was and your calendar full of commitments and celebrations that require your attendance.

There is no way you would know it’s 69 days until the fourth anniversary of Dominic’s sudden absence.

There is no reason for you to be aware that as the southern landscape turns to spring, my heart and mind turn to death.

But it’s the truth.

As the rest of the world looks forward to Easter (and I do too-for the promise and hope it brings) I am dreading Holy Week. Dominic was killed the Saturday before Palm Sunday and laid to rest the Monday after Easter. So every year I relive it twice-once during Holy Week and once again (when the dates are different) according to the calendar.

And each year it feels lonelier and lonelier.

Because each year fewer and fewer people remember or if they do, they don’t know how to offer that up as a blessing because it feels awkward or stiff.

So may I suggest a few things that most bereaved parents would absolutely LOVE for friends and family to say or do-especially as the months roll into years or even decades?

Send a card, message or text indicating that you DO remember. And not just for the date of passing, but also for his or her birthday or other important milestone dates.
Send an electronic or physical copy of a photo. It feels so empty to peruse the same photos over and over. It is an invaluable gift to get one I haven’t ever seen before. Every time it feels like I get a tiny new piece of Dominic to hold close to my heart.
If you have saved voice mails or videos-send those. Not every parent can or wants to listen/watch these, but they are a gift nonetheless. Just having them brings some comfort.
Post a memory on Facebook. If the child’s timeline is still up, write something TO the child-did you share an experience, a class, a hobby-then speak to that. Tell me how Dominic is still part of your life. Because as long as his influence still lives, part of him lives also.
Speak his or her name in conversation. I know it can be awkward. But don’t shy away from mentioning my child in conversation just as you would if he were living. If you are talking about an event in which he took part, please, please, please do NOT talk around him. I remember. You aren’t shielding me. It is so good for my heart to share these memories with other people.
If I post a photo or memory on Facebook, please don’t scroll past with the attitude “there she goes again!”. I post because I will talk about Dominic just as I will talk about my living children as long as I live. Yes, it’s the same photo-but I don’t have new ones because I CAN’T TAKE THEM, not because I don’t want them. If you think it’s “too much” I challenge you to cut off all (I mean ALL) communication with one of your living children for a week. That’s just the tiniest taste of what it’s like.
If I plan some kind of memorial activity, participate if you can. Personally I haven’t done this but many parents plan balloon releases or ask people to do a Random Act of Kindness in the name of their child. If you are able, join in.

There is a common theme here: if you think about my child, let me know.

I will not forget Dominic.

I couldn’t.

But it is oh, so helpful to know that others aren’t forgetting either.

Mona Lisa Smile-Did She Share My Secret?

I’m no art historian. But I think I may have solved the mystery to Mona Lisa’s smile.

For hundreds of years people have wondered just what is behind that enigmatic expression-it’s a smile, but almost not a smile.

Her lips and eyes do not agree.

I know exactly how she feels.

Some folks think bereaved parents want to prolong the pain and sorrow they are feeling. Some figure that those Facebook posts and Instagram photos and Tweets are aimed at generating pity.

But you want to know the truth?

Most bereaved parents long to feel happy again. They want, more than anything, to have a few moments when the weight of grief is lifted and genuine joy bubbles up from down deep like it used to.

The first chance I got to ask a fellow bereaved mom, I did: “Will I ever feel happy again?”

She was honest and told me it would come, but that it would take longer than I hoped.

She was right.

Nearly four years into this journey and I can faithfully report that yes, I do feel happy. I can laugh, I smile, I rejoice with those who rejoice.

I even have whole days when I am barely aware of sorrow and longing.

But the me that was jubilant and radiantly glowing with happiness is gone.

Instead, most days I am just quietly not sad.

You can see it in my face.

Just like Mona Lisa.

Disappearing in the Distance

It’s absolutely normal that the space Dominic once occupied in the hearts and minds of his peers gets smaller over time.

He was only a part of their lives-lives blooming and bursting in the spring of their years.

They are moving and marrying and having children and building careers. If he were still living it may very well be they would have lost touch by now anyway.

I know all this and yet it still hurts.

Why do I find it unsettling that he is becoming just a distant memory?

With every passing month the bits of him scattered in the hearts and minds of friends and family fade just a little more.

The vibrant hue of who he was is fainter.

His light dims and is harder to see in the darkness.

I can’t possibly hope to hold all the memories myself.

I can’t preserve them forever by myself.

I depend on others who knew him to be memory boxes too.

How Can I Deal With Anxious Thoughts?

I no longer have to imagine the worst thing that could happen in the life of a mother-I know exactly how it feels.

And if I allow my heart to ponder that too often or too long, it consumes me.

So I am learning to take those anxious thoughts captive, learning to make them live in only a small corner of my mind instead of taking it over completely.

It takes effort and discipline, but it’s possible.

I don’t have to live the rest of my days a quivering mess…

Read the rest here: Dealing With Anxious Thoughts

Winter Sunrise

The sun rises behind bare branches and they look beautiful.

In just the right light and at the perfect angle, anything can be lovely.

It’s true that every living thing needs rest. Every working part must be oiled.

And while winter can be hard and heartless and cold and cruel, it is also space and time for re-creation.

If I only look harder I can already see tiny buds of springtime promise on the tips of branches overhead.

Death is winter.

Cold, hard, gray. Every lovely thing fallen and dry underfoot.

A season of rest-not chosen, unwelcome, resisted.

But rest just the same.

Yet the sun still shines and spreads warmth and light on even these bare branches.

After such a long time can the sap still rise?

Is there life left here?

Will spring come again and flowers bloom?

I’m counting on it.

It will all happen so fast, in a blink, a mere flutter of the eye. The last trumpet will call, and the dead will be raised from their graves with a body that does not, cannot decay. All of us will be changed! We’ll step out of our mortal clothes and slide into immortal bodies, replacing everything that is subject to death with eternal life. And, when we are all redressed with bodies that do not, cannot decay, when we put immortality over our mortal frames, then it will be as Scripture says:

Life everlasting has victoriously swallowed death.
Hey, Death! What happened to your big win?
Hey, Death! What happened to your sting?

Sin came into this world, and death’s sting followed. Then sin took aim at the law and gained power over those who follow the law. Thank God, then, for our Lord Jesus, the Anointed, the Liberating King, who brought us victory over the grave.

My dear brothers and sisters, stay firmly planted—be unshakable—do many good works in the name of God, and know that all your labor is not for nothing when it is for God.

I Corinthians 15:52-58 VOICE

Relentless

re·lent·less

adjective

opressively constant; incessant.

Synonyms: persistent, continuing, nonstop, never-ending, unabating, interminable, incessant, unceasing, endless, unremitting, unrelenting, unrelieved.

Repost: Grieving With Hope

The church at Thessalonica was confused about some fundamental doctrines of the Christian faith. They were frightened that they had missed Christ’s second coming and they were concerned about loved ones that had preceded them in death. So Paul wrote this letter to remind them of truth and offer comfort in their emotional distress:

And regarding the question, friends, that has come up about what happens to those already dead and buried, we don’t want you in the dark any longer. First off, you must not carry on over them like people who have nothing to look forward to, as if the grave were the last word. Since Jesus died and broke loose from the grave, God will most certainly bring back to life those who died in Jesus. I Thessalonians 4:13-14 MSG

This verse is quoted often to believers who have lost a loved one. At first, gently, sweetly–as an invitation to remember that God is in control, that He has a plan, that the grave is not victorious and that burying the body is not the end.

And, in the early days and weeks after the funeral, it IS comforting–I chanted it to myself like a mantra and it drew my heart from the brink of despair.

But at some point, this verse begins to feel like a rebuke–the well-meaning friend says, “Don’t you know, that Jesus followers don’t grieve like those who have no hope!”

And I turn, dumbfounded, to the person saying this, and wonder, “Have you buried a child?”

Read the rest here: Grieving With Hope

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