You know, I don’t expect those outside the Body of Christ to have good theology-that’s like expecting me to be able to explain thermodynamics.
Ain’t gonna happen-it’s outside my scope of understanding and practice.
I do expect those who have spent a lifetime reading Scripture, studying Sunday School lessons and listening to sermons to know better.
But many don’t.
Read the rest here: Exploding the Myth: God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can Handle
I’ve lived with invisible chronic disease for a decade.
From the outside looking in, you’d hardly know that I am often in great pain. I make daily choices about what I will do and what I won’t do based on what I can do and what my body refuses to do.
I take medication. I do all the things I’m supposed to do to help my body heal.
But I cannot MAKE the healing happen.
No matter how hard I wish it were different, no matter how carefully I manage my treatment, healing comes (or doesn’t) in its own time.
I’m pretty sure that most people have experienced something similar if they’ve broken a bone or had a bad bout of bronchitis or pneumonia.
Other than following the advice of your doctor and taking your meds on time, resting and eating well, there’s not much you can do to force your body to get well.
A broken heart is just the same.
All I can do is place myself in the path of healing. I can feed my soul with truth and drink living water from God’s Word.
I can lean in and rest in the promise that Jesus will redeem and restore.
I can do the work that grief requires.
And working on healing takes energy, effort and time–lots and lots of TIME.
I cannot hurry the healing.
Please understand that as inconvenient, uncomfortable and disconcerting it may be for YOU, it is immeasureably more so for ME.
Please be patient with my heart.
I’m really trying.
I wake and you are still gone.
The cats tap-tap-tapping on my arms and face declare the day has begun despite the dark and I need to climb out of bed.
Why?
What difference does it make?
I trudge downstairs, put the coffee on, feed the cats and settle into my chair to read and write.
Habits.
Routine carries me through the day. There are things that need to be done.
The sun still rises-must be soon now because I hear the rooster’s escalating declaration that he, at least, can see the light.
One cat settles into my lap adding weight and warmth to the morning. I remember when I held you and your brothers and sister. I never tired of that sweet bundle bearing down on my heart.
I would do anything to feel it again.
But that can’t be. And I won’t hold your children either.
All of you was taken away.
Every last molecule, every last gene.
Nothing left but flat photos and memories that are increasingly difficult to piece together in rich detail.
The vital essence that sent shock waves through a room, the loud laugh, the snarky comments, the deep, deep voice that made you sound so serious-all gone.
Heaven is a real place and I know you are there.
But I want you here.
I can’t help it.
All the theological arguments don’t fill the hole in my heart where you are supposed to be.
Shake it off.
Here’s the sun.
Get to it.
Another day.
If you get up every morning and go to work-I applaud you!
Most of my days start with work, but I don’t have to go farther than my own property to discharge my duties.
But today I had to get going extra early for a doctor’s appointment with a specialist about 50 miles away. So I rushed through my morning chores, double-checked I had everything I needed and left home by 7:10.
I had to park in a parking garage-no easy feat when you drive a full-size pickup and the spaces are designed for mid-size cars. The low roof, confined space and limited light make me feel trapped and uncomfortable.
Every time I have to fill out health paperwork there is always a question or two that makes me think of Dominic. I shake off the beginnings of tears and wait to be called back.
My blood pressure is higher than it usually is and I’m a bit heavier than last time I was there-both things that make me feel like a failure and add to the voice in my head that says, “You aren’t good enough. You are doing something wrong or this wouldn’t have happened to you.”
My disease is progressing and although my doctor is kind, and patient, and fully aware of the fact that I’ve buried a child, she broaches once again a treatment option that has more risk but potentially greater efficacy.
I’m just not ready to take the leap.
So my anxiety mounts as I think of both alternatives: Submitting myself to a new treatment that may have grave consequences or giving in to the inevitable limitations that rheumatoid arthritis is imposing on my life.
She graciously puts off the decision for another three months but I know I won’t be in any better position to make it then either. I’m paralyzed now when I have to decide these kinds of things-torn between “doing what’s best” and “what difference will it make?”
Bloodwork means waiting in a area next to the infusion clinic and hematology departments and I am surrounded by people that are in dire straits. Once more, between the waiting and the thinking, I’m ready to be out of there.
When I get back to my truck, what had looked like a pretty good place to park has become a nightmare. Another truck beside me and two parked opposite have closed the space I should have had to get out to the bare minimum. And someone is waiting for my spot.
Oh, joy!
I try.
I really try to figure out how to get too much vehicle out of too little space.
Finally, in tears, I step out of my truck (now in what I think is an impossible position) and raise my hands in the air-I give up! You win!
The kind man that was waiting steps out of his car and guides me backward and forward (4 turns!) until I am free from the awful predicament. I thank him and keep going.
Before Dominic left us this day would have seemed like a tiny blip on the radar of life. It certainly wouldn’t have brought me to tears.
But the energy required to simply get up and get going in the wake of losing him means that I have so much less to spend on anything else.
I don’t suffer from anxiety.
I’m not depressed.
But there are many moments throughout the day when I am anxious or sorrowful.
One minute I’m fine. And then a series of events, phone calls or memories pile one atop the other until they become a load I can no longer bear.
It feels like I am always behind, always short on resources, always close to tears.
And no matter how hard I try, I am unable to simply “get better”. No matter how much I organize or plan or work at it, I always end up frazzled and frustrated and feeling like a failure.
I wish it wasn’t like this-this added burden in addition to the missing and the sorrow. Maybe it’s part of the missing and the sorrow. I don’t know.
But I’m ready for a day, a single day, when I feel just a little bit victorious..
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
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.
Day Eight of Kathleen Duncan’s June 1-30 challenge.
The prompt: Write a story with eight legs or turn the eight sideways and use “infinity” (eternity) as your prompt.
Eternity is a long time.
Just try and wrap your mind around it.
But when you bury a child, that’s what you think about-the forever that comes when he left his earthly body and entered the Presence of Jesus.
So many hard days followed, so many tears, so much pain. I wanted to escape to eternity with Dominic.
I would be there eventually anyway, why not now?
But it’s not up to me to determine when I go. So I remain, and try to find a way to make the days count, be useful and stay hope-filled.
And eight legs have helped me stay rooted in the “now” when my heart longs to be in “forever”.
That first Thanksgiving after losing Dominic in April, we visited our oldest son and his wife in West Virginia where she was a vet.
Touring Lillie’s office, we were introduced to two fluffy, orange kittens that had been abandoned by the road and brought there in hopes of finding a home.
One look and I was smitten.
It took less than five minutes to decide to take them back with us to Alabama.
Who could resist those faces?
At dinner that night, we brainstormed possible names. I still have the list in my notes on my phone: Kit Kat, Pumpkin, Scratch and Sniff, Cheetos, Doritos, Tostito.
We decided on names that reflected their roots- Moonshine and White Lightning.
After all, West Virginia is home to as many stills as hills.
Once we got back, their needs became part of my morning routine-a constant and undeniable reminder that I HAD to get out of bed. And they made me laugh!
Here is Lightning soaking up the sun in front of the picture window.
Moonshine’s personality is more relaxed-why sit when you can lay down?
I used to be able to pick up both of them with one hand, now it takes two hands to pick up one of them!
They have grown into good companions, great mousers, soft lap warmers and serious purr machines.
I’m very glad these eight legs live in my house.
They’ve been excellent therapy for my hurting heart.
Benefits of Pet Therapy:
- lowers blood pressure
- improves cardiovascular health
- releases endorphins (oxytocin) that have a calming effect
- diminishes overall physical pain
- the act of petting produces an automatic relaxation response, reducing the amount of medication some folks need
- lifts spirits and lessens depression
- decreases feelings of isolation and alienation
- encourages communcation
- provides comfort
- lowers anxiety
- creates motivation for the client to recover faster
- reduces loneliness
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.
thelifeididntchoose 