What if, instead of hiding my pain, I allowed others to see it and offer it as a testimony of the power and grace of God in my life?
What if, instead of pretending that “everything is alright”, I admit that it’s not, but that God is still on the throne?
What if, instead of creating a gulf between myself and others by walling off parts of my life that I deem too messy, I throw open the door and invite folks inside-mess and all?
Read the rest here: Displaying Our Scars
It’s tempting to hide.
All I have to do is stay home or plaster on the “I’m fine” mask before I leave my driveway and venture out into the world.
Because, frankly, sometimes I just don’t want to explain why I’m crying again, struggling still, walking wounded and not “healed”.
But it’s not healthy.
I cannot selectively numb my emotions. When I push down the painful, I slam the lid on all of it-joy and love included.
It takes courage to choose to be seen.
It’s hard to choose to walk honestly and openly in the world.
It’s risky to offer my authentic self up to an often inattentive, insensitive and critical audience.
But if I am to be truly known then I must choose to let others see my struggle and allow them to witness my failures and heartache.
Truth is, when I hide I forfeit real connection.
There’s no authentic relationship without vulnerability.
I want deep and authentic bonds with family and friends.
I don’t want to hide.
I want to be seen.
What, exactly, is the value of believers in Jesus plastering an “Everything is fine” mask across our faces?
Are we afraid that if we allow someone to see our pain we are letting God down?
And how could that be?
Did not Christ Himself beg the Father in the Garden to take the cup from Him?
Yet we smile and wave and chat our way through encounters with people around us, pretending, pretending, pretending that life is easy when it most certainly is not.
Denying the dark and refusing to acknowledge the depth of our pain diminishes the value of the comfort of Christ.
When David wrote that, “yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Thou art with me” he understood both the desperate need for and the great assurance of Christ’s Presence.
When we allow others to see our broken hearts, we also bear testimony to the sustaining grace of Jesus.
And we extend an invitation for them to meet this Savior that gives strength and comfort even in the darkest hours and hardest journeys.
Even in the very first hours after the news, my brain began instructing my heart, “Now, try to be brave. Try not to disappoint people. Try to say the right thing, do the right thing and be the example you should be.”
Whatever that meant.
As I made phone calls and received concerned friends and family members I was so aware that they would take a cue from me-how much can I say, how hard can I cry, should I hug or stand back, should I talk about him or be silent lest it make the tears fall harder?
And here-almost nine years later-I still feel like I need to lead the way in conversations and social encounters.
If I don’t mention Dominic, no one else does and that disappoints me.
If I do mention Dominic, the response is often sympathy or rushing to another topic.
Which is also disappointing.
If I smile, then I’m “so much better’.
If I tear up, then I’m “not over it yet”.
The entire time I’m in the company of others (besides my family and a couple close friends) I am editing myself. Everything I say or don’t say is filtered through a grid based on how others may receive it.
No off the cuff responses here.
Past experience has taught me that what most folks want from the bereaved (after the first few months or maybe a year) is evidence that they are “moving on”, “healing”, “trusting Jesus”, “getting better” or “finding the silver lining”.
Part of me would like to participate in this ruse because it’s so much easier than trying to push, pull or drag them into the reality that bereaved parents face.
But another part of me wants to rip the blinders off and let them see that this is a lifelong journey that is bumpy, hard and doesn’t look like victory.
It looks like perseverance.
Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cry. Some days are good. Some days are awful.
I’m stronger than I was but I’m not “better”.
I’m able to greet most days but I still struggle some mornings to get out of bed.
I enjoy my family and friends but I miss my son.
And sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could be only me.
Not a “me” curated for public consumption.
But just me.
I went to see The Greatest Showman the other day with my daughter. It was an amazing film-I was drawn into the story and my heart longed to see where it was going and how it would end.
I highly recommend it for two hours of uplifting entertainment.
But I’ve been thinking about it since.
So I did a little digging into P.T. Barnum’s REAL life story.
As you might imagine, several liberties were taken with actual history in order to create what I saw on the screen. That’s really just fine. I knew what I was getting into when I plunked my money down for the ticket. I had no illusion that I was walking into a history lecture- I understood I was there to be entertained.
When I compared the actual Barnum life story to the tidy, beautiful, uplifting and wonderfully scored musical I had seen in the theater, I found gaping holes.
And most of the holes involved the hard and ugly parts of his story-the parts people don’t like to talk about, much less live through.
While leaving them out or glossing them over with a moment or two of wistful glances for the movie is exactly what I expect from Hollywood, it can condition hearts to expect the same kind of thing in real life.
But real life stories don’t skip over the hard parts.
Real people have to live through the ugly and the painful and the devastating and the doubt and the sorrow. We don’t get to hop right to the happy ending (if there even IS a happy ending) nor do we get to whitewash the dark truths that inform our experience.
And because we prefer tidy (and happy) endings, bright and sunny days, encouraging and uplifting stories, when we are face to face with a challenging and difficult reality, we often turn away.
If we don’t hear it, it doesn’t matter.
If we don’t look, it didn’t happen.
If we wait long enough in our safe cocoon, someone else will deal with it.
Sometimes those of us in the middle of hard stories try to ignore it. But busyness and distraction do not make bad times better. Maybe for a moment, but not in the long run.
We’ve got to learn to experience it all, tell it all, be honest about how dark the path, how difficult the journey.
And those who are on the sunny side of the street need to learn to lean into friendship, cross over and offer compassionate companionship to those who are struggling.
Because sooner or later, it will be all of us.
How much energy do we spend dancing around the truth? How many times do we gather with family or friends and cast our eyes downward so we can ignore the elephant in the room? How many shackles would fall away if just one person stood up and said what everyone else was thinking but was afraid to whisper aloud?
As family gathers around the table for Thanksgiving, we all have those subjects no one will touch. And often they are the very ones that need to be laid bare, talked about and shared. They are what keep hearts apart even while bodies sit closer than any other time of year.
Now I’m no advocate of random outbursts intended to shock and raise a ruckus but I am a firm believer in speaking truth in love.
It’s hard.
In fact, next to carrying this burden of missing, it is the hardest thing I do.
And I am often unsuccessful.
I screw up my courage, practice my speech, lay out the strategy and then crumble, last minute, under dozens of potentially awful outcomes.
What if they get mad? What if they think I’m crazy, or selfish, or wrong?
Or I DO share and it falls flat because the words I thought would communicate love are misunderstood or misdirected or misapplied.
So instead of helping, I hurt.
But the alternative is this: we all remain imprisoned behind a wall where freedom is clearly visible on the other side. We can smell it, almost taste it but not quite touch it.
And that is not how I want to live.
I want to claim the freedom that truth offers.
So this Thanksgiving I will try again: truth in love.
Lots and lots of love with truth sprinkled in. Maybe the sugar in the pie will help.
I’ll never know if I don’t give it a shot.
Gratitude does not undo grief.
There, I said it.
Gratitude is important. It is (in my opinion) a necessary ingredient for a healthy and hope-filled and useful life. It is the key to any real happiness a heart might find on this broken road.
But it cannot fill up the empty place where Dominic used to be.
Grief does not preclude gratitude.
Although some broken hearts swear it does. They have convinced themselves that if they cannot have the one thing they really want, then nothing else matters.
That’s a lie as well.
Grief is hard. I am grieved because I no longer have the earthly companionship of one of my children. But I refuse to dishonor Dominic’s memory and the life he lived by holding onto grief so hard that I squeeze out the love and life that is still available.
I am grateful AND grief-filled.
I appreciate what I have:
I acknowledge what I have lost:
These things are not mutually exclusive.
Dark and light add contrast. You need both to see the whole picture.
If you are struggling and believing either of the lies-that gratitude undoes grief OR that grief precludes gratitude-may I ask you to try something?
Make a list of BOTH.
Give your heart permission to appreciate what you have AND acknowledge what you’ve lost.
I truly believe that is the healing path.
❤
Thanksgiving is hard on my heart.
My birthday is usually close to, and sometimes on, Thanksgiving. So we often celebrate them together. What makes that especially painful for me since Dominic ran ahead to heaven is that the last birthday before he left was a surprise party at his apartment.
It was wonderful and loud and fun and filled with laughter and love.
So all those good but achingly hard memories are wrapped up with the turkey and dressing.
Thanksgiving has also been our family’s favorite holiday for opening our home to people. No gift-giving expectations and abundant food made adding another chair to the table easy and fun. Internationals, singles, widowers, and other families often joined us cramming the house as full as our stomachs.
So now when the gathering is intimate and one chair left unfilled, it echoes loudly to my heart that things are oh, so different!
The first year after Dominic ran ahead, we went out of town. Our eldest son had married that summer and we visited him and his wife in West Virginia. A power outage that lasted through Thanksgiving Day evening was a welcome, if slightly annoying, diversion from the heaviness of the first real holiday without Dominic. Traveling used up some of what would have been long, empty days. So, for us, it was the best thing to do that year.
The second year we kind of muddled through with a facsimile of years past. it was a struggle and not at all comfortable for my heart. I don’t really know what I was thinking or not thinking that year-the second year found me more anxious, less able to deal with my sadness and overwhelmed by unexpected grief waves that swept me under before I knew it.
The third year some very special friends invited us to join them for Thanksgiving. They fixed all the food and we crowded together in their daughter’s apartment, packed in but jolly and very well loved. Getting there involved an unpleasant and emotional discussion with extended family. But the day was redeemed and it was exactly what I needed last year.
This year-well-I’m not entirely sure just yet.
There are a number of factors keeping us from making definitive plans. My mother is still unwell and not able to travel. One son will most likely be absent. Some friends may need a place to land and a table around which to gather.
So my plan is to have a plan by early next week.
I’ve done a few things so far: purchased pretty paper plates, baked some goodies and put them in the freezer, got my Thanksgiving cards out (remember-I’m sending them instead of Christmas cards this year!), washed the big windows in the kitchen and living room, and begun putting out feelers to the lonely and abandoned in our circle to see if they are interested in coming for a meal.
The meal is the easy part. Because in the end, as long as it ends with pie and chocolate, who really cares what you eat beforehand? 🙂
The hard part is the conversations.
The way I have to remind even those closest to me that this year will be just. as. hard. as every other year since Dominic left us. The way I have to breathe deep and swallow words so I don’t burst out crying at the mention of who’s coming and who’s not-because Dominic will never come again. The way I have to be very, very careful to balance all the emotional needs of family members and try to respect various requests for what’s important to their hearts.
I remind myself that I am not the focus of every event or holiday. I am not the only one carrying emotional or physical burdens that require accommodation. I am not given a pass to act ugly or pitch a fit or crawl in a hole and hide just because I buried a child.
So I try to think ahead, ask ahead, make my needs known ahead and then I participate as fully as I can-with a smile and an open heart to the ones that still gather.
I refuse to turn every holiday into a battle and every meal into uncomfortable silence where people are afraid to say anything for fear of hurting my feelings.
I honor Dominic by honoring those I have left.
My heart may be broken, but it is also blessed.
I won’t let one overshadow the other.
I hesitated to post this but plunged ahead for two reasons:
- I want my friends to know that I welcome the opportunity to pray for them and their children-my heart longs to join in petition for the life of another mother’s child.
- But it still hurts to hear too much detail about some things-you have no idea how well my imagination can fill in the gaps in stories of twisted metal and almost death.
So here it is. I hope you receive it as it’s intended. ❤
Dear Mom Whose Son Survived the Accident,
I want you to know that I am beyond thankful that you will be spared my pain. I prayed for your son as you requested-begged God to spare him.
They say misery love company but I say misery loves comfort.
I do not want one more parent to know the heartache of child loss.
Given the chance, I would not hesitate a moment to answer the Miss America question: “If you could do one thing in the world to make it a better place, what would it be?”
“I would make sure no parent ever had to bury a child.”
Not from disease.
Not from starvation.
Not from war or natural disaster or accidents.
No more out of order deaths!
Every parent would go to his grave assured his son or daughter would continue to carry the family legacy.
But that’s not possible. So I rejoiced extra hard when YOUR son had that awful accident, yet lived.
You get to visit him in the hospital, take him home with medicine and physical therapy. I met my son in the funeral home and could only choose a casket for his final resting place.
You will have this holiday season tempered by the shadow of what might have happened, but rejoicing in a second chance to make new memories.
This will be my fourth set of holidays without my son-without his presence at the table, his face around the Christmas tree, his stocking limp and empty because there’s nothing left for me to give him.
You were impatient when I asked you to respect how difficult it is for me to hear the details of your son’s accident. Even in my joy that you will be spared my fate, it hurts to hear how close you came. You were offended and that really hurt my heart.
I didn’t contact you; you contacted me.
I didn’t ask you to pray for me, you asked me to pray for you.
And I did.
And I will.
Because even if you are insensitive, ungrateful and inconsiderate, I will ask God to continue to protect your son-that’s what a broken heart does.
It begs for mercy.
Love,
A Broken Hearted Mama ❤
Oh, sometimes I think I’m clever enough to do it.
I edit my words, costume my body and fix my face so I can act the part. But truth is, I never manage to fool anyone who looks closer than my plastic smile.
I can’t hide my heart.
And I don’t know why I try-I don’t get points for pretending.
There’s no prize at the end of this long road for the one who makes it with fewest tears.
No one offers me any token for the months or years or decades I make it without breaking down or cracking up.
But I damage my own soul by shoving the feelings deep. I clog my arteries by swallowing every angry word. Sorrow turns to despair which turns to hopelessness if I never let it out.
And like it or not, it leaks out somewhere.
So I’m learning to speak my truth, to name my feelings and express them in healthy ways:
All of this takes energy and effort when I have the least of either to spare. But the alternative is too grim to consider.
I don’t want to walk the rest of my years carrying more heartache than that of child loss-which is heavier than I could ever have imagined.
I choose to shed the extra pounds of emotional baggage I can leave by the roadside.
I won’t hide my heart.
thelifeididntchoose 