Tag: heart

Please-Just. Listen.

It’s hard-it’s hard to stay the words that come unbidden to mind and threaten to fly out of your mouth.

It takes restraint.  And patience.  And wisdom.

But when I finally open my locked box of hurt and pain and memories and heartache-please, please-just listen.

I know better than you that nothing anyone says, or does or hopes to do can change the facts.

Dominic’s not here-he’s there.

And I also know that makes you feel helpless.  I feel helpless too.

I’m not looking for pity.  I don’t want attention.  I have no desire to make you sad.

I have to let it out or I’ll burst.  If others saw the fullness of emotions brimming in my heart they would stand amazed that I could push them down and keep them inside so much of the time.

But speaking my sorrow is empowering.  

It provides a witness.  It means that he matters, that I matter and that this awful reality is recognized by someone other than just me.

When you shut me down or shut me out I. am. crushed.

Again.

In the end, you can walk away.  You have another life to go back to.  My pain is tangential to the reality of your every day.

It is central to mine.

So, please-encourage my heart with compassionate presence and just listen.

presence best gift

 

 

 

More Grieving Hearts-What Grieving Parents Want You to Know

Two weeks.

Two families added to the roll call of those who have lost a child-suddenly, without warning.  

Two more sets of parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins plunged beneath the sea of sorrow.

And those are only the ones I know about-the ones whose lives touch my own.

Every day we are shoulder-to-shoulder with people carrying a load that threatens to undo them.  If you haven’t experienced child loss you probably think you can imagine how it feels.

I know I did.

But I was wrong.

THIS is what it feels like:  What Grieving Parents Want Others to Know

hands and coffee

My Heart Hurts

Every time the headlines scream death and destruction, I feel like I’ve been punched.

My heart hurts.

It hurts for the community of people who feel targeted by police.

It hurts for police officers and their families who feel targeted for simply doing their jobs.

It hurts for the mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters and others who will bury someone this week.

It hurts because the possibility for constructive conversation around what has been done, what should be done and what might be done is drowned out by wailing and yelling and strident protests and incendiary social media posts that leave no room for real change.

We are all on one side or the other.

And that is beyond sad. It is diabolical.

Jesus said that the thief comes only to “steal, kill and destroy”.  (John 10:10)

I refuse to be part of the enemy’s plot to destroy us by dividing us into opposing camps.

No matter where I fall on the political spectrum, if I add my voice to the screaming and drown out reasonable and meaningful discussion, I join with those advocating anarchy instead of progress toward positive change.

We are making choices right now that will affect ourselves, our children and our grandchildren.

I choose to listen.

I choose to learn.

I choose to try to understand different perspectives and to work toward our common goal of protecting all lives.  

Everywhere.  

Every. time.

 

 

 

Loving the Wounded

God bless the inventor of Band Aids!

That little tacky plaster has soothed more fears and tears than almost any other invention in the world.

Skinned knee?  Put a BandAid on it.

Bee sting?  BandAid.

Tiny bump that no one can even see?  Oh, sweetie, let me give you a BandAid.

Simply acknowledging pain and woundedness is so often all that is needed to encourage a heart and point it toward healing.

It’s the same in the world of emotional, psychological and spiritual wounds.

But we have yet to invent the BandAid for those.

band aid and heart

Instead, frequently we ignore, refute, minimize and pass over the one in our midst who holds out a hand or a heart saying, “I have a boo boo.”

Believe me, I understand-so many of these wounds are incurable, they are uncomfortable to think about, hard to look at.compassion and stay with you

But often the only thing the hurting heart wants is acknowledgement, a moment of time, a face turned full into theirs, eye-to-eye and unafraid to remain alongside through the pain.

Just as a BandAid bears witness to the wound underneath, our compassionate presence can bear witness to the deeper wounds no one can see.

When we choose to lean in and love, to listen and learn, to walk with the wounded we give a great gift.

compassion is a choice

 

Words Matter

“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.” ~Jesus

Have you ever had a moment when words “slipped out” before you could stop them?  

I have.  

Standing amidst the wreckage of hasty speech I would do almost anything to stuff them back inside.

I like to pretend that I didn’t mean what I said.  I like to imagine that the words don’t reflect what I really feel.

And in the wake of burying a child, I find that I am ill-prepared to keep my mouth shut. Words tumble out because my emotions are almost always close to the surface.

The truth is, a glass only spills what’s already inside and my mouth only spews what’s hiding in my heart.

I am trying hard to fill my heart with grace, love and mercy so that what comes out heals rather than hurts.

I’m not always successful-the heart is deep and my wound is great.

But being wounded myself, I long to be an instrument of healing and peace in this broken world.  

st francis prayer

 

After

Last week’s headlines were full of heartache:  first the attack in Orlando and then the tragic tale of toddler and alligator.

So many parents and others bearing so much grief.

As is the way of things, this week the mentions will be fewer.  

And in a month or so, as the nation turns its collective attention to campaign coverage, these stories will move further and further to the background.

Most mentions will be in the context of larger “issues”-individuals largely forgotten.  .

But each person lost represents others who will mourn them for the rest of their lives.

Hearts of parents grieving their child will ALWAYS require special care:

Please, please, please don’t look for the moment or day or year when I will be “back to my old self”.  My old self was buried with my son.  I am still “me”–but a different me than I would have chosen.

Read the rest here:  Loving the Grieving Heart

Broken Hearts, Beating Still

The events of this past week have thrown my body into a tailspin-like muscle memory acquired through repetitive action-I feel the terror of parents hearing the awful news that their child is gone.

It’s as if I am the one hearing the knock on the door.

As if I am the one absorbing the terrible blow.  

And I know what they don’t yet understand-there is no wonder drug or magic pill that can erase the pain.

There is no miraculous cure for a broken heart.  

I wrote this months ago, but this week has made it fresh again: 

When Dominic was born by c-section, they placed the epidural too high and I was unable to feel my chest rise and fall even though I continued to breathe.

It was a frightening experience. I WANTED to keep breathing-because I wanted to touch this new life coming into the world and into our family.

But when the deputy brought the news that Dominic had been killed, it felt like I stopped breathing and my heart stopped beating-and I would have welcomed both.

I wanted to escape the pain that filled my heart, my soul, my bones.

I think most bereaved mothers will tell you they have absolutely NO IDEA how their bodies continue to live and carry this heavy burden.

I do it for those still here and, having felt the pain of being left behind, my mama heart wants to spare the ones I love as long as I can.

But rest assured, it is a daily struggle to decide to go on.

heart_640

“Broken Hearts Still Beat”

BIRTH

I’m not breathing.
They assure me that I am.
My heartbeat thumps the truth for all to hear.
A welcome wail ushers his life into the spotlight of this wide world.

DEATH
I’m not breathing.
They assure me that I am.
My lungs draw air against my will and my better judgment.
An anguished cry marks the end of his earthly life.
I am breathing.
My body refusing to keep pace with my broken heart.

melanie desimone, november 7, 2014

Heart Wide Open

Grief and loss broke my heart and life wide open-no more hidden corners, no more walled-off spaces.

And the vast expanse left by Dominic’s absence will be filled.

Nature hates a vacuum.

What I pour into my heart or allow God to pour into it determines whether I am changed in a way that blesses me and others or not.

I don’t have a choice in being broken.

But I have a choice in being filled.  I can position my heart to hear from God and to dwell on His promises and Person or invite bitterness to move in.

I pray that you will have greater understanding in your heart. Then you will know the hope that God has chosen to give us. I pray that you will know that the blessings God has promised his holy people are rich and glorious.

Ephesians 1:18 ICB

Make-Me-a-Blessing-1024x791.png

 

Then and Now: Open Hands, Open Heart

April 19, 2014

One week ago today my world was torn asunder, my eyes opened to the reality of what I said I believed-that any day, any moment, can be the last.  I was forced to face the test-second only to my own death should I have time to think before I die-of whether or not Scripture tells the truth or a tale:

Whether the loving God I claim to serve is for me or against me.

Whether this earthly existence is a path leading to the eternal life Christ promised or just a fleeting moment leading to eternal nothingness.

Will I define the rest of my days by what I have lost, always staring down the hole of emptiness left by Dominic’s breathing, vital absence or will I lift my eyes to the Eternal God and define my life by the very real connection I now have in Heaven?

Will I let grace, mercy and love fill me to overflowing and spill out into the lives of those around me or will I embrace bitterness and defeat and shrivel up so that my story dishonors the generous life Dominic lived?

By God’s grace, I choose love.

If my hands are open to the blessing, then they must be open to the pain.

If my heart is open to the memories and love, then it must be open to the grief and sorrow.

Oh LORD!  You have bruised me so that I will always be tender!

To walk with kindness and mercy and grace toward everyone-make that the legacy of my precious boy!

May 2, 2016

I continue to make the daily choice to hold out my empty hands to the God I serve.

Some days, it’s a greater challenge than others.

Sometimes I want to clinch my fists and cry, “No more!”

I would like to think that burying my son had filled up the quota of pain and hurt for a lifetime.  I want to believe that since I’ve been wounded so grievously, God would spare me further struggle.

But that’s not true.

Life goes on.  

I still face problems, I still face disappointment, I still face hardships and sorrow.

That is when I have to decide:  Will I close my heart and hands to the One Who can fill them with life and hope as well as grief and pain?

Where would I go?

I, like Peter, proclaim:

“Master, to whom would [I] go? You have the words of real life, eternal life. [I’ve] already committed [myself], confident that you are the Holy One of God.”

John 6:68 MSG

 

What I Want You to Know About My Grief

I am so very thankful I live in a country where the vast majority of parents do not know what it’s like to bury a child.

I am part of a relatively small group.  Bereaved parents make up a tiny segment of the population.

It’s possible that you may never be close friends with someone who has lost a child.

And because death and dying are unpopular subjects, and because grieving parents can become very good at hiding the pain, even if you DO meet someone whose child has died, they may never tell you about it.

So, so many of the friends I have made on this journey live each day bearing the weight of grief AND the heavy burden of being misunderstood-at work, in church, even in their own extended families.

One of the first posts I wrote was born out of this angst-birthed in pain as I realized that even well-meaning friends and family members who have not experienced child loss really don’t have any idea how it feels :

People say, “I can’t imagine.“

But then they do.

They think that missing a dead child is like missing your kid at college or on the mission field but harder and longer.

That’s not it at all.

Read the rest: What Grieving Parents Want Others to Know