The death of any loved one opens a door and forces you to pass through.
You cannot procrastinate, cannot refuse, cannot ignore or pretend it away.
Suddenly, you find yourself where you absolutely do not want to be.
And there is no going back.
Read the rest here: Loving Well in the First Days After Loss
This series was originally published two years ago.
I’m running it again to give me a short break from daily writing as I work on material for a bereaved moms’ retreat coming up this weekend.
I have tweaked and edited the original posts a bit to update some of the information and clarify muddy language.
I continue to be indebted to the parents who graciously shared their own experiences.
My prayer is that these next posts are helpful both to those who grieve and those who love them. ❤
Our journeys begin in different ways.
Just as every birth story is unique, so, too, is every parent’s story of loss. It may be a phone call or an officer at the front door. It may be a lingering illness or a sudden one. Our children may have lived days or decades.
Their death may be anticipated, but it is never expected.
And it is always devastating.
No one is prepared to bury their child.
Read the rest here: Loving Well: Meaningful Ministry to Grieving Parents
I wrote this last year when meditating on what love really is. It’s an action word.
We can’t just do our thing and leave. Our hearts and resources are going to get tangled up with theirs.
It might get uncomfortable.
It might get expensive.
But there is no greater kindness than coming alongside someone at just the moment they feel their strength is gone.
I love the idea of Random Acts of Kindness-it’s a beautiful way to spread love and joy in our broken world.
With a few dollars or a few minutes, I have the opportunity to make someone’s day brighter, their burden lighter and remind them that not everyone is “out to get them”.
BUT-as I’ve written before here: Relational Acts of Kindness, it’s relatively easy to do my good deed and walk away.
Read the rest here: Not-So-Random Acts of Kindness
Believe me, I’ve imposed my share of“Quiet Mouse” on my own kids through the years.
Raising four close-in-age siblings, sometimes that was the only way to make the last five miles home without losing my mind.
But the premise of the game is really this: I’m bigger, I’m stronger, I’m in control and you are not-so shut up.
Even if you have something important to say.
Even if you feel like you will burst wide open if you have to hold it in.
No excuses allowed. Just. Be. Quiet.
I’ve been a quiet mouse for most of my life when it comes to standing up for myself.
Now, advocating for my children or for someone unable to fend for themselves-that’s another story. But somewhere in my formative years I embraced the message that the most important thing in the world was to keep the peace.
Even if you have something important to say.
Even if you feel like you will burst wide open if you have to hold it in.
No excuses allowed. Just. Be. Quiet.
But all this emotional turmoil I’ve been feeling since Dominic left us has uncovered layer after layer of brokenness, pain and untold stories. His death lifted the lid on the vault that had been sealed for decades.
Emotions are flying out like genies.
And I’ve come to understand that peace at all costs-when the costs are borne by a single individual in a relationship-is not peace.
It’s slavery.
I also realize that not every friendship and family tie is a mission field on which I must spill my life’s blood to prove my love for Jesus.
Sometimes laying down simply enables bad behavior and encourages bullying and disrespect.
I want to walk in love. Always.
But love does not mean I must allow other people to walk all over me.
I don’t plan to.
No more “Quiet Mouse” for me.
I wrote this on June 13, 2016 about the Orlando shooting but I could have written it this afternoon.
I had no idea that anything had happened until I got a message from a fellow bereaved mom that sent me scurrying for the facts.
So here we are again-more families have joined the ranks of those who mourn the too-soon death of children and loved ones.
There are not enough tears for this.
Let me begin by saying I purposely remove myself from the 24/7 news cycle that beats our ears and tries hard to hammer hearts into whatever shape a particular organization deems most meritorious.
So it is no surprise that I was unaware of the [Parkland, Florida] tragedy until well into the day on Wednesday.
And I don’t know what the pundits and politicians or social media gurus are saying.
I only know how it feels.
I know how it feels to have an officer come to your door and tell you that your child is never coming home.
I know how it feels to receive the devastating news that whatever you said the last time you saw or spoke to your child is the LAST thing you will ever have the opportunity to say to them.
I know how it feels to stand, dumbstruck and reeling, with the instant realization that your world has been wrecked beyond repair-To have to whisper to your heart, “you’ve got to make calls, make connections, make arrangements”.
Oh! My!
Why, why, why can we not as a nation simply step back and embrace those who have lost so much instead of standing on the ruins of their lives and posturing for ratings, rankings and political, social or moral agendas????
I wrote before, when commenting here on the incident at the Cincinatti zoo:
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.
We are a death avoidant culture-we splatter gore across the screen in video games and movies-but we DO NOT discuss the ongoing impact loss has on the ones left behind.
These lives are not numbers, they are not just names or a sweet little synoptic bio plastered on Twitter, Facebook or an AP newswire.
They are people-with families, friends and loved ones.
There is a single, appropriate response to this tragedy–deep mourning for the lives lost to hatred and violent action and prayer for the ones left behind.
I refuse to entertain the musings and posturing of ANYONE who does not first-and for an appropriate length of time-acknowledge the loss of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers-each a unique creation with an eternal soul.
Tears.
TEARS are what should be filling the airwaves, the streets, our altars.
There are more than you might think.
Most folks would count the date of death and maybe the date of burial or memorial service.
But a mama’s heart counts it ALL.
I count the day he left, the day I was first able to view his body, the days of visitation, the day of the funeral and burial.
And every year these dates roll around again to remind my heart of the pain I felt then and to pierce it afresh.
So how does a heart survive all these grief anniversaries? How can I navigate the minefield of emotions and triggers that only I can see?
I believe the first step is to embrace them and not try to deny them.
I remember the horror I felt when I realized I had survived 365 days since the deputy came to my door when I was certain I wouldn’t make it through the first 24 hours. It did not feel like victory, it felt like betrayal.
How in the world could my broken heart keep beating if I truly loved my son?
I cannot, by force of will, fend off the feelings that are sure to invade my heart when it recognizes that another year has passed.
The most important thing is to have a plan, I think. That way it doesn’t slam you against the wall unawares. The feelings are impossible to outrun, but having a plan means you are anticipating them and in a kind of “fighting stance”.
The plan might be to go away or to go to the cemetery or other spot that evokes strong connection to your child. It might be an elaborate gathering that includes friends or family or just lighting a candle next to a photograph. Your heart may insist you stay in bed all day, covers over your head and wait out the ticking moments.
I think each family has to approach the day however makes sense to them. There is certainly no “right” way or “easy” way to do it.
I am sorry you have to do it at all.
Here’s the truth: even THAT day will only last 24 hours. Just like the awful day when your child left you.
However you manage to survive is fine.
You are not abandoning your missing child if you don’t make a big public display. You are not forgetting him or her if you let go of some of these grief anniversaries over time-you are learning to carry the load. You are not a bad parent if you choose a getaway to distract your heart from the pain.
You are coping the best you can-choosing to carry on.
And that makes you awesome and brave.
❤
I woke up this morning to a downpour.
That’s not unusual for this time of year where I live. I had even anticipated it by (unusual for me!) checking weather last night and securing all needful items under cover.
But as I was sitting in the dark, working on blog posts, I heard my beagles begin barking.
Again, not unusual-sometimes they smell or see something hidden from my senses in the dark cloak of early morning.
But then I began to hear random clinking and bumping and finally, scratching on the front door.
So I got up to investigate.
Two of the beagles had escaped their pen and were having a blast in the rain and mud. They ran to greet me, making sure their wet, nasty tails and bodies hit every part of my lower leg so I could carry the aroma of wet dog back inside with me.
Years ago I would have fussed and fumed, gotten dressed and waded through the wet to put them back in their pen-staying outside (even with thunder and lightning!) until I had patched whatever breach they had managed to create in order to escape.
But this morning I just turned on the porch light (to let them know I was here and aware) and went back inside to my coffee and computer. * I’ll venture out when the sun’s up and I can see what I’m doing. It’s just not worth getting worked up over.
I have changed since sending a child ahead to heaven.
Things that used to make me apoplectic don’t even raise my eyebrows anymore.
I’ve developed a whole new set of priorities. They serve as filters and make it easy to decide in an instant if something’s worth my emotional, physical or mental energy.
It’s actually a really short list.
People.
Do I love and care for my many critters? Absolutely!
I am a shepherd by heart and by trade.
But things? Nope.
They are meant to be used-meant to be an aid to living not a master of my life.
I made a lovely (insert sarcastic tone here) “pinstripe” down my nearly new truck last September while at my parents’ home. After a brief moment of disbelief and a few expletives, I moved on. It absolutely does not bother me.
Panties in a wad over inconvenient circumstances? Not so much.
Maybe I have to rearrange my plans but that’s so much easier than never being able to make plans with that person again.
I’m finding this new way liberating.
Simple.
Free.
* Full disclosure: After I wrote this, just as the sun was rising I HAD to go out and get those mischievous little buggers. Tail-wagging but carnivorous, they were chasing my poor rooster. So I spent almost an hour trying to wrangle their wet, muddy, stinky fannies back into their pen, block the escape route and pray that they didn’t repeat the maneuver.
BUT I was still smiling.
Laughing, actually.
On a scale of 1-10 it didn’t even register. 🙂
And a fellow farmer friend sent me THIS, which made it even funnier:
Love out loud. Pass it on.
Grief has worn away some of the sharp edges of my personality.
I’m still prone to impatience-especially when faced with incompetence or hateful behavior in others.
But I’m learning that walking gently through life is not only good for others, it’s good for ME.
Life IS short. ‘
Not just the life of a child or teen or young adult cut down by accident or disease.
But even if I live my “threescore and ten” the Bible talks about, it will STILL be short. Seventy, eighty, one hundred years set on the timeline of history or eternity is less than a pinpoint.
What do I want my legacy to be? What do I want to leave behind for others to remember, to ponder, to carry in their hearts attached to my memory?
That’s easy. I want my legacy to be love.
I want people to remember that I treated them with kindness, that I respected them as persons, that I reached out, reached down and never separated myself from them by false barriers, foolish divisions or fake measures of who is “better” and who is “worse”.
More than anything I want people to feel that I made their burden lighter, not heavier.
So much of life is hard.
So many things happen for which there is no remedy.
I can’t choose everything, but I can choose love.
Life is short and we have not much time for gladdening the hearts of those who are traveling the dark way with us. Oh, be swift to love! Make haste to be kind.
– Henri Fredric Amiel
There is something about winter mornings that invite me to linger long in my rocking chair with my cup of coffee. It’s cold and outside chores can wait a bit.
When I sit here, my mind wanders to many things-mostly days gone by when my busy household would have made these long, slow mornings impossible.
And I miss it. All of it.
Especially the beauty of an unbroken family circle.
I try to hold onto the precious moments as long as I can.
We live in a noisy world.
Music, television, voices and the hum of electricity tunnel into our brains and distract us from hard questions and painful circumstances.
We live in a busy world.
If I’m not in motion, I am getting ready to be.
It is tempting in my grief to try to stuff life full of noise and busyness so I can ignore the pain and emptiness of missing my son.
Read the rest here: The Silent Joy of Memory
thelifeididntchoose 