There are lots of opportunities for offense surrounding the death of a child.
Once your heart is broken open wide with great sorrow, there’s no defense against the bumps and bruises that are a natural product of human relationship and interaction.
Friends and family that didn’t show up.
Friends and family that showed up but said or did the wrong thing.
Friends and family that abandoned me as soon as the casket closed.
People that make me feel guilty for grieving or question my sanity or my “progress”.
But I’m learning to let go of offense.
Not only because it is too heavy to carry in addition to my grief, but because the Lord has commanded it.
❤ Melanie
I grew up reciting what’s commonly called, “The Lord’s Prayer” without much thought to the individual phrases or their meaning. It wasn’t until adulthood that I read it in context and continued on to the rest of the chapter.
When I wrote this a few years ago I had fallen outside when feeding the animals.
But I was reminded of the post when I fell-hard!-on sharp rocks in our creek playing with my grandson. I was holding his hand and both of us went down when my foot slipped.
I hobbled up the bank with a giant bleeding gash on my knee and I’m still living with a permanent knot on my kneecap. Poor little guy was frightened but not hurt.
He has recited that incident over and over and always ends it with, “I’m okay. Mama D okay. We’re okay.”
He can’t wait to get in again when it’s warmer.
I absolutely love, love, love that my sweet little boy has already learned the lesson of getting back up, even when it hurts.
It’s something I need to remember every. single. day.
❤ Melanie
I hate that question that every doctor’s office asks now, “Have you had any falls in the past twelve months?”
I always say, “no” even though that’s rarely true.
Because I know what they are looking for is evidence of disease that might be impacting balance and I’m perfectly free of that so I don’t want to place a red flag in my medical chart.
Have you ever walked away from a conversation and thought, “My goodness! I talked WAY too much”?
I have.
I can become so wrapped up in sharing my own experience, spilling my own feelings, trying to communicate my own point of view that I don’t leave space for the other person to get a word in edgewise.
Sometimes I do the same thing when talking to God-I can’t stop chattering long enough to hear what He wants to speak into my pain.
When I choose to listen, He is faithful to remind me of truth. He is faithful to lead me to the green pastures of His word where I can feast on His promises and be filled with hope.
❤ Melanie
“I wake before the morning light. Every. single. morning.
I get my coffee, sit in my chair and wait for sunrise.
I never worry that today it might not happen.
I’m never concerned that after all these years of faithfulness, this day may be the one where daylight fails to make an appearance.
There is no fear in this darkness because I know it will not last forever.
Morning is coming.
Morning. Is. Coming.
And that’s the hope I cling to in this longer darkness of the Valley of the Shadow of Death-no matter how many years it may be, the Valley has an end.
Some of us have grown up in faith communities where doubt is treated as disbelief.
I’m so sorry.
Doubt is, in my opinion, a precursor to deeper faith, stronger commitment, informed and more solid trust in God and in His goodness and sovereignty.
If devastating loss has brought you to knees or face down on the floor begging God to make sense of it all, you are in good company. So many of His saints have cried out in despair.
If you are frightened you are losing faith, remember this: the simple fact you know where and to Whom to bring your pain means your heart is still turned toward your Savior.
I can’t stop the clock or the sun or the days rolling by.
Those of us who are more than a couple months along in this journey (or any journey that involves tragedy and loss) know that it is ABSOLUTELY POSSIBLEto feel worse than in the first few days.
Because as the edges of the fog lift and the reality of an entire lifetime looms before you the questions form and the doubt sinks in.
For those of us who follow Jesus, perhaps the most difficult and important grief work we must do is deciding how our faith fits into the new and awful reality of child loss.
I’ve encountered so many hurting hearts struggling to square their experience of devastating loss with their faith in a loving and all-powerful God.
I write about my own struggle over and over in this space but this series of posts is an orderly exploration of doubt, pain, faith and the hope I’ve found in Christ Jesus.
When my perfectly healthy, strong and gifted son was killed instantly in a motorcycle accident on April 12. 2014 my world fell apart. My heart shattered into a million pieces. And after almost eight years, I’ve yet to even FIND all of those pieces much less put them back together.
So what does a heart do when that happens?Because, try as I might, I cannot stop time.
Even THAT awful day only lasted 24 hours.
When the sun rose again, the pain was still there. And behind that pain and mixed with it was something else-disappointment, disaffection, distrust.
So many people think grief grows smaller over time.
But that’s not it at all.
Grief remains precisely the same size, occupies exactly the same space in my heart.
Instead, life grows around the grief so that the proportion of my attention and my emotions and my daily routine relative to grief changes.
I’m thankful for that!
I couldn’t have borne the initial heaviness for a decade. I couldn’t have (and didn’t want to!) feel that awful, piercing pain every minute of every day for ten years.
So how is Christmas differentNOWfromTHEN?
How do I celebrate, how do I mark Dominic’s absence, how do I carry the weight of missing along with the joy of living?
I have some small rituals that help my heart hold onto hope.
I light candles and I sit silent watching the flame. I build fires in my fireplace and allow darkness to fall while I celebrate the brightness that keeps it at bay. These remind me darkness cannot conquer the light.
I place ornaments on my tree that hold space for Dominic and for my missing of him. Little drums shimmer in the glow of Christmas bulbs. Even if no one else notices, I do and it makes me smile.
I decorate his resting place. I’ll be honest, I don’t feel close to him there. The grave isn’t where HE is. I actually feel closer to him in the home which was the hub of family activity for decades. BUT, my decoration reminds others who visit that here lies someone who is loved and missed.
I celebrate my living family. I want each of them to know that love lives forever. Yes, I miss Dominic, but I cherish each moment I have with them. Sometimes it costs me greatly to put on the smile and bake the cookies, but I’m still making memories and I want them to be sweet.
I set aside time each day (hopefully!) to give my heart a break. My habit is to wake before the sun so I have time to myself. In the silent darkness (candles or fire burning) I allow my heart to explore the edges I can’t afford to attend to in the busyness of daylight. I cry or journal or listen to music.
I have practical habits too.I write everything down. I don’t depend on my still deficient grief brain to remember details like what I’ve already wrapped. Calendars are my friend.
I try to remember that grace is boundless. I cannot exhaust the riches of the love and grace of Jesus. If I do less-than-my-best, grace abounds. If family or friends disappoint me, grace fills the gaps.
I have shared here since 2015-just eighteen months after Dom left us. My ongoing prayer is that sharing helps other hearts hold on to hope.
It’s a lifetime of missing, a lifetime of adjusting to the reality that one (or more) of the children we birthed is not here to share the present.
But that doesn’t mean life isn’t full and full of love, life and laughter.
My wish for you this season is not “Merry Christmas” but is, instead “Hopeful Christmas”.
May you see the love, light and life of Jesus in every sparkling bulb and flickering candle.
I don’t know about you but I’ve never thought of hopelessness as something I wanted on my resume.
Hopelessness is typically tossed into the pile of “negative” feelings we all acknowledge but don’t want to experience and if we do, we try to minimize, rationalize or disguise them.
If I admit to it at all, I tend to look downward, whisper quickly and pray that no one takes much notice because it feels shameful.
But maybe hopelessness is the first step to truly celebrating Christmas.
thelifeididntchoose 