I never thought it possible to love you more than I already did.
But I do.
Your brother’s untimely departure has opened my heart in a whole new way to the glory that is your presence. It has made me drink you in like water in the desert.
No more do I take even a moment for granted. Never again will I be “too busy” to listen to you, to hug you, to greet you on the porch when you decide to make your way back home.
Read the rest here: A Letter To My Living Children*
It happens most often as I am drifting off to sleep.
There is this one spot on the bedroom bookshelf where my eyes landed that first night-one paperback spine that instantly transports me to the moment I had to close my eyes on the day I found out my son would never come home again.
And it is fresh.
Absolutely, positively fresh.
Like “just happened” fresh.
You’d think that nearly five years of intervening experience, nearly five years of grief work, nearly five years of trying so darn hard to learn to tuck that feeling away deep down so it can’t escape would have worked whatever magic time is supposed to work.
But it hasn’t.
Oh, most days I can lock that lid down tight. I can distract my mind, busy my hands and keep my heart from wandering too close to despair.
Darkness though.
Shadows and silence and stillness give room for the memory to rise to the surface.
And it does.
My son is never coming home again.
Fresh.
Absolutely, positively fresh.
“Just happened” fresh.
❤
This was not my experience-all my children were adults when Dominic ran ahead to Heaven-but so many grieving parents want to know: Should I let my younger children see me cry?
How much is too much for them to witness, process and hear?
Do I need to shield them from the awful truth of how much this hurts? CAN I shield them?
It depends.
May I first say that there is NO way to shield even an infant from the overflowing emotions, stress and strain of child loss in his or her family. If we stop and think about it, we know this. And older children may look like they aren’t paying attention, but they are.
So the question is not really, “Can I shield them” but is instead, “How do I help them understand what’s happening”?
Grief in this life is inevitable.
Allowing our children to watch us grieve helps them understand how it’s done. When we share openly, we give them tools and models for sharing too.
I think it’s important to be honest with even the youngest among us.
When a parent speaks of the deep pain of loss, expresses love for the missing ones and looks longingly at photos and mementos, he or she is saying to the watching child: “Love lives. Love is important. Love lasts even when our bodies don’t. I will always love you just like I love your brother (or sister).”
Young children will create their own script if adults don’t help them write one.
Because their minds are not fully developed, they will often connect odd bits into an unhealthy whole. Just as some children decide they are responsible for their parents’ divorce, some surviving siblings think that a random act of disobedience resulted in the death of a sister or brother.
And if a parent is modeling secrecy or a stiff upper lip, that child may never reveal her dark and weighty secret.
We can help our children by providing a safe space where they can express themselves freely without fear of correction or being silenced. It might get ugly. Our grief gets ugly. It’s part of the process.
But children should never become the burden bearers for adults.
Crying in front of your child is OK. Screaming, yelling, blaming and violence is not.
No child should feel threatened or unsafe in his own home. If you are out of control, THAT is the time to go to a room and close the door. Or call a friend to come get the kids so you have a few hours alone. Or send them outside to play. It is NOT the time to unload on your surviving child(ren).
I wish that grief was not part of life.
But it is.
How I deal with it, what I say about it, when and how I express it will impact my children for good or ill.
I want to offer them tools they can use and build resilience for what they may face in the future.
Letting them see me-especially the grieving me-is an important part of that process.
I write a lot about what bereaved parents (me!) wish others knew or understood about child loss and this Valley we are walking. And I am thankful for every person outside the child loss community who chooses to read and heed what I write.
But I want to take a minute to tell those of you who are not part of this awful “club” that I get it-I really do get it–when you need to put distance between yourself and me or other people walking a broken road.
We all love to think that life is a never-ending ascent toward bigger, better and more enjoyable moments.
Our children are born and we think only of their future, not their future deaths.
Read the rest here: I Get It-I Really DO Get It.
One of my children told me recently that every celebration and holiday over the past few years had a shadow over it.
I know.
But I can’t help it.
I wish I could find a light bright enough to drive out the shadows.
But there isn’t.
I’m trying. Really, truly trying. I want to be able to join in without reserve, without that still small voice whispering, “This won’t last”, in my head.
Because that’s really the shadow, isn’t it?
Not *just* the one who is missing, the incomplete family photo, the empty chair at the dinner table-but the fact that I know, know, know what I didn’t used to know.
I know life is fleeting and death can come for anyone at any time.
I wish I could forget that lesson.
Because that is what casts the longest shadow.
One of the things I absolutely LOVED about having four kids was the way they pinged off one another. There were evenings when the comments were flying so fast I could barely keep up. Sly looks, secret texts, funny faces and friendly punches made up most of our times together.
That’s how families are-each person is just a little “more” when surrounded by folks that love and understand him or her.
When Dominic left us, we didn’t only lose HIS companionship, we also lost the part of each of us that was reflected back from him.
Read the rest here: Grief and Family
It’s my habit to watch the sunrise and the sunset every day.
I usually greet the morning in my rocking chair, looking out my east-facing picture window. It never gets old to watch darkness chased away by relentless light rising over the tops of trees.
Beautiful.
Every. Time.
Sunset is a little trickier.
Read the rest here: Sunrise, Sunset
I confess that I have not had a wholehearted desire to study Scripture since Dominic ran ahead to Heaven.
Oh, I nibble on verses every day, but I’ve shied away from the feast that used to fill my heart and soul.
This year, though, I’m committing to a more diligent approach-choosing to focus on one word per month and writing out corresponding verses. I am studying them, looking up cross-references, considering context and making personal application in my journal.
So the first word I chose was “Hope” because I think of all the things I’ve struggled most to hold onto in this life I didn’t choose, hope is the hardest.
In my flesh, I want to give up and give in.
If Heaven is my ultimate destination and I can’t control the future, why not just coast until the Lord calls me home? Why work so hard to live up to a high standard when grace covers it all? Why lift my head when head down or head up, I’m assured of eternal joy?
I’m just being honest here.
But I know, deep in my spirit, that this is not the purpose for which I was created. I was not made by a loving Father to plod hopelessly through this world. He breathed life into my soul so that I could fulfill His kingdom purpose in this place, at this time.
So I get back on the proverbial horse every time I’m tossed off and try again.
Here are just a couple of the verses that are speaking courage to me, helping me hold onto hope with both hands.
I hope they whet your appetite (as they have mine) for finding more.
O my soul, why are you so overwrought?
Why are you so disturbed?
Why can’t I just hope in God? Despite all my emotions, I will hope in God again.
I will believe and praise the One
who saves me and is my life,
My Savior and my God.Psalm 43:5 VOICE
“Despite all my emotions” I will hope in God again. God created me with emotions. They are a gift (even though sometimes it doesn’t seem that way!). But I cannot be ruled by them.
Emotions are changeable.
Truth is not.
So I have to turn my heart by an act of will toward the truth that God is my Savior, He is my hope.
We live with hope in the Eternal. We wait for Him,
for He is our Divine Help and Impenetrable Shield.
Our hearts erupt with joy in Him
because we trust His holy name.
O Eternal, drench us with Your endless love,
even now as we wait for You.Psalm 33: 20-22 VOICE
I love the phrase from Psalm 33:20 “our hearts erupt with joy”! This life is hard and joy is often a distant memory or a fleeting moment, but there will be a Day when my heart will be so full of joy-when every hard and hurtful thing is redeemed-that the joy will overflow like lava from a volcano.
No stopping it!
Now that’s something to hope for!
If your heart needs help leaning in and holding on, here’s a link to a month’s worth of short verses focused on hope: Think on These Things: Hope
Print it out and tuck it in a journal or your Bible. You can even look up the verses online and check out different translations. (Something I love to do because it often reveals things I might overlook!) Copy them out. It only takes a few minutes. Then underline the phrase or phrases that stand out to you.
Make them your own.
Hide the words in your heart.
Let the Word of God speak life and love to your soul.
A few days ago I wrote about how panic is always just a breath away for those of us who have suffered loss.
Like a friend of mine recently said, “We are branded. GRIEF is burned into our hearts and we are never the same.”
So how to live this altered life?
How can I manage that emotional tension that saps energy and strength from my heart, mind and body?
Our family has adopted some practical protocols that help. Sometimes they fail (as they did that night) but for the most part, they give all of us a margin of assurance that keeps panic to a minimum.
We carry our phones, all the time. I was never THAT person before Dominic left us. I used my phone mainly when away from the house or traveling. Otherwise it might be left charging in the kitchen or tucked inside my purse from my last outing.
Not anymore. When I wake up in the morning I grab it and my glasses from the bedside table and my phone is in my hand, in plain view or in my pocket until it is put back there at night. I make sure it’s charged and if traveling or going somewhere a plug may not be available I carry a small power cell to charge on the go.
We tell one another of our plans and, if appropriate, of our route. My kids are grown. I’m not interested in supervising their lives. But they understand my mama heart and graciously give me at least a general idea of where they are and what they are doing. They text when they get back home no matter how late it is.
I don’t stay awake waiting for it, but when I wake in the wee hours or in the morning, I have the reassuring message to greet me.
We answer texts/calls ASAP. Obviously we don’t encourage texting and driving but each of us has learned to give a “thumbs up” icon quickly in response to a text message just so the person sending it can be reassured. Then, when it’s convenient and/or safe, we respond more fully.
We keep each other informed when traveling. We distribute itineraries and give periodic updates on flight status, traffic or other appropriate information so family members not only know where we are but also if our time of arrival has been altered due to flight or weather delays or traffic conditions.
We share phone numbers of friends and coworkers which gives us alternate forms of communication should there be an emergency. Family phone numbers are in “favorites” in our phones so if we are unable to call for ourselves, emergency personnel would know who to call.
Truth is, we can’t stop bad things from happening and we know that.
But there’s no reason to create fear and panic when a quick phone call or text can avert it.
Our hearts bear enough already. ❤
It was a long time before I wanted to believe that I received any gifts worth keeping from this life I didn’t choose.
I knew I had tears, pain, agonizing sorrow, loss, heartache, dashed hopes, empty arms.
If I could give those back and regain my son, I would do it in less than a heartbeat.
I can’t, so I’m left here to ponder what else I’ve received from burying a child.
Read the rest here: Grace Gifts of Grief
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