The cartoon character Popeye responded to critics with “I am what I am”.
And while this phrase can be used to excuse all sorts of bad behavior, there is a ring of truth to it.
Every one of us is the sum of our experiences. Each of us is hemmed in by what we know and how we are made.
We are more than the things that happen to us.
But, in part, we are Defined by Moments.
Busy, busy, busy and noisy, noisy, noisy.
Every day is full of activity and every minute full of sounds-television, radio, Itunes or Pandora.
I am, at the same time, hyper-connected and dis-connected. My mind is often full but my heart can feel empty.
If I can move fast enough or create sufficient distraction, then maybe I can ignore the harder questions, the deeper thoughts, the uncomfortable feelings that I would rather not explore.
Being in one’s own company alone with God is challenging. Without the noise of outside distraction I am forced to face my fears and hidden darkness. And in the quiet I find that the easy answers leave me empty and unsatisfied. I must listen carefully for the still, small Voice that whispers comfort.
If I want to hear from God I need to embrace solitude and make space to hear.
I am so very thankful for the hope I have in Christ.
I am dependent every moment on the strength of Jesus and the Word of God to point my heart to the eternal truth that my son is safe in heaven and that I will be reunited with him one day.
I honestly don’t know how a person who does not share my hope in the finished work of Christ can bear the burden of child loss.
But hope, strong as it is, and effective as it is, does not erase the pain.
It gives me the endurance to bear the pain.
It allows me to see past the pain to something better.
But I still feel the pain.
Hope is not anesthesia.
Hope does not dull my senses nor does it render my heart hard to the longing and missing and hurting of life without the son I love.
I believe in Christ.
I believe that “God so loved the world He sent His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life”. (John 3:16)
And often, when inviting someone to believe in Jesus I will explain that God loves them SO much, He gave up His Son, just to save them.
Only the hardest heart would think such sacrifice was small or insignificant.
If it was painful for the Father to allow wicked men to kill His Son, then it is painful to me for death to take mine.
It is unhealthy to ignore pain.
But when it comes to emotional pain, we sometimes shut people out or shut them down.
I submit that we diminish the power of the cross when we deny or minimize the presence of pain.
Believing that God is in control and Jesus lives does not undo grief’s storm-it is a lifeline that keeps my desperate and hurting heart from sinking under the waves.
One day my hope will be made sight. One day the faith I hold onto will be realized in full.
Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even though He knew that death would not win and Lazarus would walk out of the grave.
For now, I place my broken heart in the hands of the One Who made it because I know He knows my pain.
And I know that He longs as much as I do for the day when all will be redeemed and restored.
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.
The most powerfully validating thing that anyone can say to me is, ” I’m here and I’m sorry”.
I’m sorry for your pain.
I’m sorry that life is not what you expected.
I’m sorry that there is no way to undo the things that have happened and no way to shorten the years you have to live with remembering them.
But I’m here with you and I won’t leave you alone, even when I feel helpless.
Acknowledgement without trying to reframe my experience into something you can understand or accept is the greatest gift you can give my hurting heart.
I bet most of you reading this have listened to more than one round of the kiddie tune, “There’s a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza”.
It is a funny song full of silly remedies for patching a bucket that won’t hold water even though it’s been dipped in the well and filled to the brim.
I was talking to my husband the other day about how hard it is to describe the ongoing difficulty of living with child loss.
And this song popped into my head.
Good things still happen in our lives (our bucket is being filled) but losing Dominic has put a hole in the bottom of it (the bucket never gets full anymore).
It’s not that we don’t appreciate and enjoy happy moments. We do.
We love seeing our children, we like to celebrate their accomplishments and sing, “Happy Birthday!”.
We are so very proud of who they are and what they have overcome.
We savor the time we get to spend together, we enjoy eating and laughing and sharing experiences.
But we can’t plug the leak of loss that saps our strength and reduces the fullness of our joy.
Hope postponed grieves the heart; but when a dream comes true, life is full and sweet.
Proverbs 13:12 VOICE
Lest anyone think I’ve forgotten that Jesus promises joy to those who follow Him, I haven’t.
But I also know many promises will not be completely realized until He returns as King on Earth.
The lion will lie down with the lamb, but not today.
Swords will be beaten into ploughshares, but not just yet.
There will be no more night, but the sun still sets once every 24 hours.
I am looking forward to the moment when every single thing I now believe in faith will be plain to every eye.
I can’t wait to see the redemption of not only my pain, but ALL pain.
I long for the morning when JOY is all I will know.
In that day the New Jerusalem shall descend and there will be no need for the sun or moon, because the LORD Himself will be the light.
All the way around shall be eighteen thousand cubits; and the name of the city from that day shall be: THE LORD IS THERE.
Ezekiel 48:35 NKJV
I usually refrain from commenting on current headlines.
I’m not a fan of inflammatory social network back-and-forth.
And I’m pretty sure that if this post is circulated outside my typical readership, someone will react badly to what I say.
But I believe I can offer some perspective that might be missing from the voices yelling at each other over the recent sad incident at the Cincinatti Zoo.
So here it is: I have buried a child.
I know exactly what that mother and father would have faced if their child had been the one taken out of the enclosure lifeless.
And while I am deeply saddened by the loss of a beautiful, majestic and endangered gorilla, my heart cannot make peace with the idea that there was any other option than to secure the safety of that child.
Before I go further let me say this: I am an animal lover. I have always been an animal lover.
I rescue spiders and moths and take them outside. I step over worms and beetles. I grow flowers for butterflies and feed the hummingbirds. I don’t use pesticides on my yard. I don’t kill snakes.
I respect life in all its forms.
But I think that we need to go beyond blaming/not blaming the parents and blaming/not blaming the zoo personnel to a root issue.
Sometimes we are left with hard choices that have to be made in a very short time.
Animals, especially endangered animals, get a lot of press these days.
Internet websites, videos on Youtube, traditional news outlets and glossy print magazines splash beautiful and moving pictures across our computers, phones and television screens. I’m thankful that the hearts of humans are turning from exploitation to conservation.
And I’m glad there are programs like the one at the Cincinnatti Zoo working to save species that are otherwise headed for extinction.
The death of a child rarely gets the same attention.
Unless the death is the result of a sensational act of violence or a media-worthy accident, children die every day with only an obituary mention in a local newspaper.
So I understand the outrage generated by Harambe’s death.
And I understand how even parents of young children who have never buried a child could entertain the notion there was “some other option”.
But if we covered the stories of families who have lost children with the same zeal and creative journalism as we do the lives and deaths of endangered animals, that would change.
If the despair, heartbreak, brokenness and utter horror of bereaved parents’ lives were on display like the sickening piles of poached elephants and rhinos then at least we could have a discussion that was more informed and even-tempered.
Because it doesn’t matter whether or not that child’s parents looked the other way or should have known-once the child was in the enclosure and at the mercy of a gorilla, a choice had to be made.
We can all second guess whether this or that could have been done.
But if it were your child, I don’t think you would be guessing.
And from the heart of a mother who can only visit her son at the cemetery, I’m not guessing either.
Something I’ve been learning in this grief journey is that loss is an ongoing event.
It’s not confined to the moment of death, the funeral, the burial or even the boxing up of belongings.
I suffer loss every time there is a moment when Dominic would have been present, should have been present and isn’t here.
It happens when I need to ask him a question, get his opinion, long for his help or just want to hear his voice.
It happens when I look at myself in the mirror and realize that the living mirror that was Dominic is gone.
There is so much more to his absence than just the hole in my heart.
I shared some of these feelings a few months ago:
A family isn’t just the sum of its parts. It isn’t a simple equation that can be worked out on a chalkboard or around a dinner table-this person plus that person equals two persons.
A family is an organic mixture of personalities, relationships, strengths and weaknesses that exponentially influence one another. I always joked that our family was a ready-made committee. Wherever we went we brought a fully staffed, action-ready army of six that spread out and triumphed over whatever challenge we faced.
You can read the rest here: Minus More Than One
My living room window is a huge, energy inefficient affair that lets in too much heat in the summer and too much cold in the winter.
But I will never replace it–because it also gives me a breathtaking view of the sunrise.
Every morning my body responds to an internal alarm set to the time I was startled out of bed by the deputy delivering the news of Dominic’s death.
I cannot sleep longer.
So I rise, make coffee and settle into my rocking chair with computer, Bible and journal close by.
I spend the dark hours writing, reading and sharing in community with other bereaved parents who wake to their own alarms, unable to fend off another day of living the reality of missing our children.
It is so quiet that the purring cat in my lap sounds loud in my ears.
Slowly other sounds join the chorus of daybreak–roosters challenging the sun to a duel, birds flitting from branch to branch, calling out the news that now is the time to get the worm.
I look up and the warm glow of sunrise silhouettes bare winter branches of giant oak trees and reminds me that the world still turns.
Seasons still change.
And I am still breathing.
Darkness hides things from us, it fosters fear and isolates. The black of night turns familiar territory into fearsome wilderness. The enemy thrives in the inky corners of unlit places.
But light disarms the darkness.
I venture forth boldly in the daylight where I would not set foot in the night.
So I treasure the daily reminder that darkness does not last forever, even the night has limits.
Open up before God, keep nothing back; he’ll do whatever needs to be done: He’ll validate your life in the clear light of day and stamp you with approval at high noon.
Psalm 37:6 MSG
I first learned my son had been killed in the dark hours of morning.
I made phone calls.
I had to be certain there was no mistake in identifying the accident victim. I assured the officer on the other end of the phone I was not in denial, I was just confirming what I knew was true.
That was a lie-my ears heard it as true.
Some part of my brain was acting as if it were true.
And I was passing the information along as true, but it was not until I saw his body that my heart embraced as absolutely undeniable what I had been told.
He was gone, gone, gone. No coming back.
That’s when I knew: Death is awful.
It is hard to have patience with people who say, ‘There is no death’ or ‘Death doesn’t matter.’ There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn’t matter. ~C.S.Lewis
Death was not part of God’s perfect plan for the people He made and the world He created.
But sin marred that perfection and we are left to walk this wounded world in bodies that, at best, wear out, and at worst, plunge headlong into darkness due to illness, accident or violence.
Where is the victory in this defeat?
Where is the happy ending to this sad chapter of life?
Victory is declared when I trust in Jehovah-Nissi-the LORD my Banner-to uproot the evil that the enemy seeks to sow into my life.
Victory is displayed in my surviving children who have chosen to lean in and labor on and love and laugh even while grieving the loss of their brother.
Victory is demonstrated when my marriage does not crumble under the heavy weight of sorrow, when my family is made stronger- not weaker-and when our story breathes courage into the hearts and lives of others facing devastating trials.
The ultimate and eternal victory lies in the finished work of Christ.
I need to emphasize, friends, that our natural, earthy lives don’t in themselves lead us by their very nature into the kingdom of God. Their very “nature” is to die, so how could they “naturally” end up in the Life kingdom?
But let me tell you something wonderful, a mystery I’ll probably never fully understand. We’re not all going to die—but we are all going to be changed. You hear a blast to end all blasts from a trumpet, and in the time that you look up and blink your eyes—it’s over. On signal from that trumpet from heaven, the dead will be up and out of their graves, beyond the reach of death, never to die again. At the same moment and in the same way, we’ll all be changed. In the resurrection scheme of things, this has to happen: everything perishable taken off the shelves and replaced by the imperishable, this mortal replaced by the immortal. Then the saying will come true:
Death swallowed by triumphant Life!
Who got the last word, oh, Death?
Oh, Death, who’s afraid of you now?It was sin that made death so frightening and law-code guilt that gave sin its leverage, its destructive power. But now in a single victorious stroke of Life, all three—sin, guilt, death—are gone, the gift of our Master, Jesus Christ. Thank God!
With all this going for us, my dear, dear friends, stand your ground. And don’t hold back. Throw yourselves into the work of the Master, confident that nothing you do for him is a waste of time or effort.
I Corinthians 15:50-58 MSG
Jesus has redeemed and restored what the enemy has stolen.
I will not enjoy the fullness of this victory until I embrace Dominic in heaven.
But I can live confidently in the promise that it has already been decided.
I can walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death without fear, because Jehovah-Nissi-the LORD my Banner (my Victory) is with me. (Psalm 23:4)
I am not alone.
thelifeididntchoose 