One of the ongoing challenges in my grief journey is fighting back fear.
Fear of what COULD happen, now that I know by experience what it feels like when it does.
So I try to remind myself on a regular basis that my life and the lives of those I love have never been in my own hands:
Dear friends, do you think you’ll get anywhere in this if you learn all the right words but never do anything? Does merely talking about faith indicate that a person really has it? For instance, you come upon an old friend dressed in rags and half-starved and say, “Good morning, friend! Be clothed in Christ! Be filled with the Holy Spirit!” and walk off without providing so much as a coat or a cup of soup—where does that get you? Isn’t it obvious that God-talk without God-acts is outrageous nonsense?
James 2:14-17 MSG
James doesn’t mess around.
He says what a lot of people are thinking but are too timid to speak aloud.
I like that.
We could use a good dose of his brand of preaching in the church today. Let’s stop pretending that following Jesus is just about getting our theology right. Let’s stop acting like going to church, serving on committees or teaching Sunday School is the best indicator of where my heart is relative to my Savior.
Let’s face facts: if my life does not look different than the lives of those who do not know Jesus, then either I don’t know Him or I’m not paying attention to what He’s telling me to do.
I have been blessed on this grief journey by a few dedicated friends who go out of their way to do good, be light and extend hope to my heart when I’m barely holding on. They have chosen, often sacrificially, to be the hands and feet of Jesus in my life.
And they make a difference!
Sometimes it’s a card in the mail, sometimes a text or message and sometimes a visit-but they DO something. They might not understand why God is putting me on their heart, but they obey the prompting.
So if the Spirit is nudging you to reach out to someone, don’t ignore Him or put it off. Sure, praying is important. We are commanded to do that.
But we are also commanded to be physically present and to extend practical help to hurting hearts. We are supposed to BE the hands and feet of Jesus.
Who knows, I might be the answer to my own prayer that God send encouragement to someone else.
I can choose to do good.
I can choose to shine light.
I can choose to share hope.
And my small gesture be the very thread that holds a broken heart together.
If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.
James 4:17 NIV
I used to position myself at the end of the pew, just in case someone I’m not too comfortable with might come along and try to sit down.
It saved us both that awkward conversation where they ask if they can join me and I say “yes” with my mouth but “no” with my body language.
Frankly, I was at church to be lifted up so I could face the coming week with power and strength. I didn’t want to be dragged down by their reality of brokenness and sometimes bitter tears.
I don’t do that anymore.
I realize that most of what made me uncomfortable was other people’s pain.
Now I’m the one who’s broken. I’m the one who can’t get through “Amazing Grace” without blubbering.
And I’m the one that others hope won’t ask to join THEM.
But here’s the deal: God loves the broken. Christ came for the broken. It’s the broken and breathless who long for the Spirit to blow life across their wounded hearts.
It’s the hopeless and fearful that run faster to the safety of their Shepherd.
It’s the worried and weary who are thankful for a Burden-bearer.
When I refuse to move over and make room for the broken, I’m barring the way for the very ones who most desperately need the blessing. When I want my worship experience to exclude those who haven’t the strength to bring their own hearts before the throne of grace, I’m being selfish.
And that is sin.
Jesus went out of His way to heal the hurting,
to bless the broken and
to speak strength to the weary.
So now I sit in the middle of the pew and leave room for whoever God brings my way.
I want to be an open door, not a gatekeeper.
“Come to me, all of you who are weary and over-burdened, and I will give you rest! Put on my yoke and learn from me. For I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” ~Jesus
(Matthew 11:28-30 PHILLIPS)
One year ago today I began sharing my grief journey publicly on this blog.
You can read that first post here.
It was (and still is) scary to expose my thoughts and feelings to a wider audience than just the pages of my personal journal.
I’m never certain that what is helpful for me is necessarily helpful for anyone else. But in writing it down I find that I am able to sort through things better than when I leave it bouncing around in my own head space.
I decided upfront that I would be as honest as possible about what I felt and how I was coping. I wasn’t sure if I would post only a few times or a lot, if it would turn into a day-by-day diary or a more sweeping revelation of deeper things.
I think it’s kind of been both at times.
And here we are, 366 days (it was a leap year) and 355 posts later and I’m still here and you’re still listening.
I don’t claim to have any special gifting or knowledge or ability. I am simply one mama whose love for both her child in heaven and her children still here demands that I speak out.
My heart is full of love and pain.
And my heart has been blessed beyond measure by those who read and share what I have written. I’ve met-in person and virtually-many bereaved parents who are helping me as I continue down this road.
I am so very thankful for each one.
I pray that for those who read these words and know the pain of burying a child, I am speaking things you may think or feel but are not willing or able to express.
And I pray that in hearing them spoken aloud, you are affirmed and encouraged that you. are. not. alone.
Dominic matters.
Your child matters.
It’s not only OK but absolutely necessary to admit that life after child loss is a struggle. It is also just fine to take your time working through the pain and sorrow and overwhelming changes child loss brings.
For those who read my posts and do not share this pain, I pray you gain insight into what bereaved parents feel and how burying a child changes EVERYTHING.
I hope you are better equipped to offer the ongoing support we need and crave. I hope you learn that this is not something we have chosen, it is something that happened to us.
And I pray that all of us will be more willing to extend grace, mercy and love to one another.
Words are not neutral.
They bring life or death.
They wound or heal.
May each of us be an instrument of healing for someone’s hurting heart.
The Vietnam Memorial is a beautiful and meaningful reminder of those who gave their lives in that war. The stark black stone highlights the 58,307 names engraved in its surface.
I shared this a few months back as part of a “Loving Well” series of posts about what grieving parents feel and what ministers to their broken hearts.
I long to know my son is remembered and still matters.
Please, Just Say His Name.
Last February I ran a series of posts about “loving well” during loss.
Other bereaved parents graciously shared both what helped and what hurt in the first few days, weeks and months after losing a child.
I wanted to share this one again because I’ve been reminded recently that it’s hard to know what to do and what to say when a friend or family member is facing the devastating pain of child loss.
If you long to help someone in meaningful ways when they are struggling in a storm of grief, read this: Loving Well: Some Things Hurt
A fellow “waiting” mom wrote this and gave me permission to share:
“I coached my oldest daughter through natural labor and childbirth on Wednesday night. She stayed at 9cm for 3.5 hours.
Towards the end she looked at me and said ‘I can’t do this, I’m not strong enough!’
I looked at her and said, ‘You can because you have your husband and me right here with you to give you our strength.’
We held her up while she rocked back and forth moving her little guy down into position.
While I was holding my daughter through such physical trauma I thought about how God held me up after the loss of her sister.
I didn’t have the strength to stand. I felt like I couldn’t do it.
But He held me.
He didn’t take the pain away but He held me up when my strength failed me.”
Her words brought light to my heart.
Here was a mama who has faced life and death and learned something she was willing to share.
Her experience reminded me of this Brene Brown quote I had read months ago:
Faith isn’t an epidural. It’s a midwife who stands next to me saying, “Push, It’s supposed to hurt.” ~Brene Brown
As I reflected on my friend’s words and this quote, I realized there were some lessons here-for birth, for death and for grief.
A midwife does not deny the pain.
It hurts!
It hurts to give birth. It hurts to say good-bye. It hurts to carry grief everywhere I go.
When someone comes alongside and denies the truth of my pain, I shut down and stop listening.
But when they enter in and acknowledge my pain, I receive courage to continue pushing.
A midwife does not offer false hope.
She knows that there is no way through but through. A midwife bears witness and lends strength but she doesn’t pretend it will be easy.
There are no shortcuts to birth and no detours for grief. I can only face the sorrow, missing and hurt and keep going.
But the journey is easier when someone is willing to travel with me, to listen and to help bear the burden.
A midwife understands that though the pain is great and the process long, it will end.
It hurts. But it won’t hurt forever.
She doesn’t throw that truth in the hurting mama’s face. She whispers prayers for mercy.
For the profound wounds of life, there are no quick fixes. There is no easy healing.
We endure because God through His Spirit lends us strength.
We make it through because Jesus promises to redeem and restore.
And because friends remind us with their presence that God is near.
What a gift are those friends who stay near when life is hard,
who choose to stick it out when pain makes us both uncomfortable
and continue to love and lend their strength when mine is gone!
At this stage in my grief journey I have learned to exercise the “just ignore it” muscle that allows me to scroll through Facebook without taking comments personally.
Most of the time.
But yesterday a grieving mama posted a tribute to her missing daughter complete with a beautiful photo collage and a sweet message that included sharing her feelings.
This mama revealed that her heart was broken, that she missed her daughter and that she was oh, so proud of her and thankful for the years they had together.
Many comments were simply, “Praying for you” or “Love you”.
But one comment stuck out. This person said, “She wouldn’t want you to be sad. She’s at peace in heaven with Jesus.”
Really??!!
How is that helpful?
In a single line you have dismissed this mama’s honest and appropriate feelings and implied you know her daughter better than she does.
Of course she’s in heaven with Jesus. As believers in Christ we know that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.
But knowing that, trusting that truth makes grief easier to bear, it does not erase it.
Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, “We do not grieve as those without hope.” (I Thess. 4:13)
NOT “We do not grieve.”
Here’s something you need to know: hurting with hope still hurts. The sting of death might have been removed, but it still stings. No, we might not sorrow as those who have no hope, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be sad.
Levi Lusko, Through the Eyes of a Lion
Grief is the price we pay for love.
Grief is an appropriate and proportionate response to the death (the end of earthly companionship) of someone we love.
If grief is small, what does that say about love?
It can’t be both ways.
We cannot celebrate a mother’s love and then dismiss her grief.
So my answer to that comment was this:
It’s perfectly OK to be sad. Death is awful. And missing is hard. Praying that the Lord will bring a special memory-one that has been tucked away in your hearts but mostly forgotten-to mind today and that it will bring a smile to your lips. May you feel the Lord’s Presence today and may He sing a song of love, grace and mercy over your shattered heart
God’s grief over a world of people doomed to eternal separation from Himself was to send His only Son as a sacrifice.
Why was the grief so great? Why was He willing to pay that price?
Because His love is infinitely greater.
See, here’s the thing: to the outside world, my son’s death happened at a single point in time.
But to me, his death is a continuous event.
I must lift the cup of sorrow every day to parched lips. I must choose to take it to the One Who can help me lift it.
Jesus knows this cup.
He knows my pain: My Cup Overflows
I know it is hard. I know you don’t truly understand how I feel. You can’t. It wasn’t your child.
I know I may look and act like I’m “better”. I know that you would love for things to be like they were: BEFORE. But they aren’t.
I know my grief interferes with your plans. I know it is uncomfortable to make changes in traditions we have observed for years. But I can’t help it. I didn’t ask for this to be my life.
I know that every year I seem to need something different. I know that’s confusing and may be frustrating. But I’m working this out as I go. I didn’t get a “how to” manual when I buried my son. It’s new for me every year too.
So I’m trying to make it easier on all of us.
I’m trying to be brave and think ahead and offer up what I can to help you understand.
I’m not asking you to stuff your feelings. But I am asking you to weigh your disappointment in things being different against my unfathomable sorrow in burying my child.
And this is what I need from YOU:
Acknowledge my loss. It doesn’t matter if it has been a few months, a few years or even decades-every single time the whole family gets together, the hole where my child SHOULD be is highlighted. Other people may have moved on, and I am stronger now than I was, but the missing is as hard today as it was the day he left. I need you to acknowledge that even if you don’t understand it.
Be flexible. Every day is different for me. And even if we did a certain thing last year, it may not be something I want to repeat. Life circumstances continue to evolve-living children grow and marry, grandchildren make their appearance, health issues may emerge and change physical capabilities-life keeps on regardless of loss. So this year is DIFFERENT than last year. For everyone. If we all embrace flexibility, there’s less opportunity for breakage. Rubber bounces. Glass shatters. I don’t want my loss to be the central focus, but it’s a huge part of my experience and I can’t ignore it. Help me, please.
Give me space. Grant space in the larger picture-don’t make showing up to every family event a “mandatory option”. Understand that even with planning and the best intentions, I may wake up and realize that I. just. can’t. do. it. Or I may come, but leave early. And grant space in the details-if I walk out of a room, let me go. It may be helpful for one person to check on me after a few minutes but don’t send the calvary to drag me back. I don’t always want to detract from a gathering and I may need to cry, or gather myself, or just sit silently remembering my son.
Give me time. Time by itself does not heal anything. But time is a critical component of healing. If this is the first holiday season after loss, don’t pressure me with artificial deadlines about what I want to do or whether or not I’m going to participate in this or that. And even if it’s not the first season, I still need time. It will be the third set of holidays after my son’s departure and I’m still feeling my way in the dark. Don’t force me to decide if I can’t. Just go on with your plans. If I can join in, I will. If I can’t, then I won’t. That’s the best I can do. It’s how I have to live every single day right now.
Grant mercy. I will mess up. I will say things in the passion of loss that I regret. Overlook it. Don’t lash out or hit back. My emotional tank is so empty sometimes that it’s a wonder I can still feel anything. I am truly trying. Grant mercy.
Extend grace. Grace is lavishing love on the unlovely. Forgiving when someone doesn’t ask for it. Doing something for someone and not expecting anything in return. Step up and step out in faith that loving me will help me heal. Even when you can’t see that it makes a difference. Don’t stop. Don’t withdraw.
Know that this is not what I would have chosen.
Child loss happened TO me.
It is out of my control.
And the calendar pages keep turning. Every holiday season means another year gone without the companionship of the child I miss.
I want to continue to embrace life, to enjoy my loved ones, to make new memories. But I need your help to make it happen.
Don’t abandon me now.
thelifeididntchoose 