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Category Archives: Grief

A Day in the Life . . .

23 Dec

It was a rough morning. I woke up and as has become my practice of late, rolled over hugging my pillow tight to my chest to offset the ache that is forever present in my heart. I lay there thinking, thinking, thinking. Torn between wanting to find a life for myself and simply wanting to melt into my mattress and quietly fade away.

A phone call from the speech therapist interrupted my musings. Therapy to learn how to control Gracen’s respiration is recommended. Apparently, speaking is far more complicated than the general public, myself included, realizes. As the therapist explained to me, we all control our respiration in order to make our speech smooth. When your breath is either limited or comes out in bursts, your speech is adversely affected. The inability to control respiration will likely result in incompressible speech necessitating the use of a communication device. We can start respiration therapy now or wait until the communication device arrives. I’d prefer to start now but it will depend on Gracen’s availability based upon next semester’s class schedule. Still, I ask probing, unanswerable questions about what we can expect vacillating back and forth in my mind between the bliss of ignorance and the power of knowledge. Can I afford not to know? I envy the days long past where that was not a question I need entertain because the future was simply unknowable – there was no prognosis – dread wasn’t my constant companion.

I drag myself from the comfort of my bed in order to get ready to have lunch with my best friend in Northwest Arkansas. I’m looking forward to seeing her, yet dragging at the same time. I’m constantly tired, morose and melancholy, even as I prepare for enjoyable activities.

I decide to call the funeral home to follow-up on the request to get my daughters’ fingerprints in order to have them made into a necklace for me and a keychain for David. I’d really like to have it for Christmas but decided to look into it far too late to have a reasonable expectation of seeing that happen. I called two weeks ago and never heard back. It’s hard to make calls like this and I’ve not been able to muster the motivation to call back before today.

So I place the call once again and am once again told that a Funeral Director will return my call. Today I get a quick call back informing me that they don’t take fingerprints unless the family requests them and of course, we had not requested them. Even if we had not been busy taking care of Gracen, I would never have thought to make such a request. And my heart is broken yet again. The tears flow freely as David tries to comfort me.

When will I learn not to hope? Everyone thinks hope is such a good thing, but it seems to be my nemesis – setting me up for repeated disappointment I can little afford to endure.

Why does God withhold such a small consolation from a grieving mother? What possible harm could come from being able to wrap my hands around the proof of my daughters existence and their importance in my life?

Do I dare call the funeral home the girls were initially transported to following the accident or am I simply setting myself up for yet another disappointment. I want to hope but am not sure I can endure hearing “No” once again. What to choose, ignorance or knowledge? Bliss or power? Hope or hope deferred?

Where there is hope, there is life, I’m told. Hope grows like a weed, in darkness and drought; tenaciously it grows. I know, I know if I call the funeral home in Anderson, Missouri, they will tell me that, no, they do not have the girls fingerprints and yet my broken heart wants so much for the miraculous to occur. Do I subject myself to more disappointment just to be absolutely sure that there is no hope for a positive response?

So following my lunch out, I send David and Gracen off to see the newest Hunger Games movie and crawl back in bed, pulling my pillow into my chest and curling into a self-protective fetal position instead of wrapping the Christmas gifts I need ready to transport come Wednesday. Not making a decision is in fact choosing to do nothing. By default, at least for now, a phone call won’t be made. And hours later I’m second guessing my decision to refrain from making a decision. At least if I’d called, all the disappointment would be confined to one days time. Well, that’s not strictly true as every day I face the disappointing loss of my daughters and the discouragement of progressive disease follows quickly on its heals.

I’ve learned to anticipate the next blow – it prepares my heart for the inevitable pain that follows much like a boxer who tightens his abs when he sees the next punch coming. It just hurts a little less when the blow lands. So I guess living in a state of hyper awareness is actually good for me. There’s the silver lining, the positive to negate the negative for the choose joy contingent. What’s one more hard day in a string of hard days? As it’s been said by some anonymous source, my track record for surviving bad days is 100% thus far, and that’s pretty good.

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Posted by on December 23, 2015 in Chronic Illness, Faith, Grief, Muscular Dystrophy

 

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Canine Nesting: The Circling Mind

14 Dec

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(Written mid-March 2015)

I awoke again to thoughts circling my mind as I feebly try to wrap my heart and mind around all that has happened in the last 14, almost 15 months.

Have you ever seen a dog settle down to take a nap?  The dog picks his spot them circles and circles and circles before settling into place.  At the first noise or distraction the dog pops up investigates and then picks a new spot repeating the process.  Circle, circle, circle, settle.  That’s pretty much how my brain works – restless fidgeting – circling around and around in an attempt to wrap my arms around all the facts so that I can process them and finally be done with them.

But there is no resolution – there will be no resolution – and maybe that’s the hardest thing of all to come to terms with.

Which leaves me with this truth . . .

My problem is with God.   Not the impotent prosecutor.  Not the foolish judge.  Not the ignorant man-child who placed me in this situation.  No, my problem goes straight to the top.  To the highest authority in all the world.  My problem is with God, Himself.  And how do I feel about that?  Well, this picture captures my current relationship with God quite well:

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My hand extended before my body in the classic signal for “Stop!  Don’t come any closer!”  I haven’t walked away from Him, I simply cannot beckon Him closer.

I know God loves me, know He wants to comfort me, and know that I want His comfort and yet, right now, right now, His love just hurts.  His plans hurt.  His ways hurt.  His love for the lost hurts because He has allowed my children to die, He has allowed this pain, and will allow me to suffer again in order that my faith is refined and revealed, so that the lost will be saved, and that He will be glorified, all at the expense of my fragile, already broken heart.

It’s easier to mentally attack the humans involved than go rounds with the Lord Almighty. After all, God is always right.  His plans are always for my good and even the bad things He allows work for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purposes. There is no arguing your case or winning an argument with the Lord God Almighty, as Job discovered.

And so I fruitlessly continue the canine nesting ritual in my mind.  I continue shuffling through the events of that tragic day.  I continue circling round and round the behavior of the prosecutor, the judge, the man-child who swaggered into court.  All before turning my attention to the Lord in a conversation that goes something like this:

Me:  I’m mad at you. You hurt me.

God:  I know you’re hurt.  I know you’re angry.  I want to help you.  I want to comfort you.

Me:  Stay back!  You will just comfort me and then allow me to be hurt again.

God:  The hurt I allow leads to your ultimate healing.

Me:  I don’t want healed.  I just want my life back!

God:  There’s no going back.

Me:  I know that.  I hate that!  I don’t want to be here anymore but I can’t leave Gracen. She’s burdened by that knowledge.  She wants me and doesn’t want me at the same time. She loves me and resents me.  Only time and maturity will change that, but it hurts me to experience it and I’m afraid she might never quit resenting me – that we will never have a good mother/daughter relationship.

God:  She feels about you the way you feel about me.  You want me and don’t want me. You love me and resent my authority in your life.  Time and the Holy Spirit can and will fix the brokenness within you, but your terror of the personal cost of discipleship and spiritual healing wars with your anger over the direction my sovereign authority has taken in your life.  You want to feel my love and presence but at the same time you are terrified of me.

Me:  I don’t know what to do to change that.

God:  First, you can’t do it by yourself. You were never intended to.  But you do know what to do. You do know what steps to take.

Me:  Study Your Word and pray.

God: Yes, but your anger and hurt leads you to resist and you also know those things are not enough.  You know you can’t fix your problems with a formula.  You know that you have to allow the Holy Spirit to do His work within you and you know that doesn’t happen overnight.

Me:  I don’t know how to release the anger and hurt, especially knowing I will be hurt again.  I feel as if I am standing in the middle of a fast moving stream and the current is forcing me in a direction I don’t want to go.  I’m resisting yet I keep getting pushed forward.

God:  That fast moving stream is my will and I’m fully aware you don’t want to go where I’m taking you.

Me:  I really, really don’t want to go there.

God:  I’ll be with you.

Me:  That doesn’t make it hurt less.

God:  It does, it’s just that you no longer know what desperately alone feels like because I’ve been with you for so long.  To truly be alone feels much worse – you’ll have to trust me on that.

Me:  I still don’t know how to surrender my will to yours.  I still don’t know how to let go of the hurt and the anger.

God:  I’ll help you with that.  I’m already helping you with that.  It’s a deep wound.  Deep wounds take a long time to heal.  You just now found words to express what you are feeling.  It’s a step in the process.

Me:  The process sucks!

God:  Yep, fortunately, I have perfect patience.  You on the other hand, not so much!

Me:  A sense of humor?  Now you show a sense of humor?

God:  Hey, laughter is a good medicine, I designed it that way, and my timing is perfect.  You would have resented it if I had displayed it earlier . . .

(Feel free to call it my imagination, or call it God speaking with me.  Draw your own conclusions, but, I will say that things were revealed in my thoughts above that I was not consciously aware of prior to this time.)

Flash forward to December of 2015 and you will find that my hand is no longer extended before the Lord demanding that He stay back and give me space.  I have resigned myself to what I knew all along; that God alone can help me through this living nightmare.   We never stopped speaking, but there were things I refused to bring before Him.  There are still things I hold back.  I’m far from healed, far from OK even.  Over the last two years I have repeatedly asked the Lord, “What do you want from me?”  And instead of silence I hear a quiet, one word response.  “Rest.”

He’s not once reminded me of His sovereignty, as He did Job.  He’s never scoffed and told me to quit throwing a pity party.  He’s not demanded that I stop grieving and count my blessings.  He’s never once told me not to be afraid.  He just quietly encourages me to rest which I’ve found much harder to do than one would expect.  Resting requires more than slowing down and sleeping in.  This rest seems to include finding a way to be completely still before the Lord.  So the canine nesting ritual continues and I try to learn to rest.  But, even now, there is no condemnation from my Savior, for which I’m profoundly thankful.

 
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Posted by on December 14, 2015 in Faith, Grief

 

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Graceful Gratitude

01 Dec

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Thanksgiving started early for me this year. 2:15 a.m. to be exact.  That’s the time my cell phone rang alerting me that Gracen was in need of some help.  Following her call, I hurried to the bedroom next door to find Gracen flat on her back, thirsty, hot and trapped under her covers with her knees bent and sore.

I peeled her covers back and removed the new knee-high AFOs (Ankle/Foot Orthotics) she now wears to bed nightly. Then I helped her to straighten her legs out by pulling her ankles toward the end of the bed and simultaneously pushing down on her knees one at a time before getting her some water.

Through all that, she accepted help without one complaint, in spite of the fact that I slept through two text messages before she called my cell.

Then I kissed her goodnight for the second time and crawled back in bed hugging my pillow to my chest; and I thanked God for Gracen’s attitude and for the grace she demonstrates in the face of debilitating disease.

As I lay still waiting for sleep to once again overtake me, I absorbed the most recent physical changes in Gracen’s body.  It hurts to watch her body continuously fail her.  And I thought about gratitude. One thing I’ve found in the face of the deaths of my oldest and youngest daughters, Gracen’s injuries and progressive disease is that others, in sincere compassion, try to make me feel better by reminding me of the many blessings in my life.  It’s almost as if people believe that counting your blessings negates your sorrows; which is categorically untrue.

Gracen’s diminishing physical abilities actually set the stage for thankfulness for it is in light her losses that I find myself grateful for much simpler things.  In the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning I found myself thankful for my graceful daughter precisely because she has every reason in the world to be angry and resentful.

The point I’m trying to make is that gratitude is experienced in contrast to those things for which we are not thankful.  Andrew Downs said it far better in his book  Alex Hollick:  Origins:

“To walk in the shadows is not a curse and to walk in the sun is not a blessing.  They are simply relative points of harmony, by which we can appreciate what we have, what we once had and what we hope to have.  The sun means nothing without the shadows, nor would shadows without the sun.”

So, by all means, count your blessings; but don’t beat yourself up for the normal emotions that arise from trials and loss.  God doesn’t tells us to suppress our emotions.  He tells us to bring our burdens to Him and when we do, gratitude will likely follow as we witness His care and provision.

 
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Posted by on December 1, 2015 in Chronic Illness, Faith, Grief

 

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What is the Value of a Child’s Life?

18 Nov
Silhouette, group of happy children playing on meadow, sunset, s

I recently recognized that a series of issues I’ve been struggling with all have one theme in common.   The thing that ties each of these issues together boils down to the worth of my children.

Death seems to strip an individual’s value from them in the eyes of the world.  Daily life moves forward and it’s not long before the phrase, “Out of sight, out of mind”, applies.

What is the value of one child’s life?  To their parents, their siblings, their extended family, their circle of friends and acquaintances, to the community they lived in and even to the world at large?  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that their value generally diminishes as you go through the list.

The grieving long to have their loved one’s worth acknowledged, appreciated and validated beyond the funeral and burial, beyond the first week they return to work, beyond the year of firsts, beyond . . .

This bereaved parent questions her own value as well – to God in particular.  I wrote this quite awhile back.  It’s a prayer of a sort, and deeply personal, but it clearly reflects how circumstances can cause a person to contemplate their significance.  Keep in mind that my first child was stillborn, then I lost two in a car accident, and my surviving child has a rare and progressive form of Muscular Dystrophy.  I’ve taken a series of hits.

“Am I so much more expendable than other Christians?  Do my hopes and dreams mean so much less to You?  From a logical perspective I know the answer to those questions is no, but from an emotional perspective I’m not so confident.”

“Why do You keep hurting me or allowing me to be hurt?  Do I just suffer well for the cause?  Am I too stubborn or rebellious to learn the lessons you want to teach me without suffering?”

Value and worth, it’s a struggle I see other parents who mourn wrestling with.  Support groups, blogs, and Facebook posts are filled with the underlying theme.

Some make a shrine of their child’s room.  And the outside world shakes their heads in pity – failing to understand why.  Honestly, the parent may not be able to put into words why they do it themselves.  But their child’s possessions are a visual, touchable testimony of both their existence and who they were below the surface.  That room and the pictures they treasure, are often all the parents have to hold onto.  They’ve lost their child and cling to the things they loved and touched in their absence.

And really, if you think about the alternative, can you blame them?  Does anyone really think about the emotional price a parent pays when they sort through the remnants of their child’s life?  Do they realize how it feels to decide what to give away – and who to give it to?  What to keep.  What things most effectively reflect the child they loved.  What to throw away; now that, well that’s the nauseating one.  Disease or accident, murder, suicide, or addiction,  military or public service, has snatched their child from their hands and now they feel as if they are choosing to throw away their child, bit by excruciating bit.  Maybe the shrine makes more sense now.  It’s not shameful, it’s nothing less than a grieving parent defiantly refusing to toss away the evidence of their child’s life.  It’s all about value and worth.

Almost two years after the collision that killed my daughters, I am still sorting, still deciding what to keep, what to give away – what to throw away.  Granted, I was caring for Gracen, but I’ve had time to complete the task.  Every once in awhile, I open the doors to the two rooms that hold the things my children once touched and I make value judgments until my heart can tolerate it no more.

Some parents set up foundations in their child’s name for a cause their child was passionate about or to raise funds or awareness for the disease or tragic circumstance that took their child from them.  Those foundations meet needs, keep their child’s memory alive, and validate their child’s worth.  And some parents stand jealousy on the sidelines because their child did not live long enough to discover their purpose and passions.  There will be no foundation and their child will all too quickly be forgotten, overlooked, or intentionally left out for fear of reminding the grieving parent of their death.  Personalized gifts will not include their name, you will be introduced as the parent of one less child – and the parent of a stillborn child will not be asked about their child’s birth weight and length; all in the name of compassion.  It’s not always true that actions speak louder than words.  It’s amazing how loudly silence speaks.

Polite society encourages the family to let go, move forward, have another baby, take in foster children, adopt, and of course, be thankful for the children you have left; unwittingly conveying the message that the child you lost no longer has significance and that continued grief equates to a lack of appreciation for those you still have.

And the grief-stricken parent fights the war within; attempting to reconcile the worth of their child between the messages they receive from society and the intellectual truth that their child’s worth never stemmed from their accomplishments but from the fact that they were theirs and created by God.

The grieving parent is begging – demanding really – that society validates the worth of their child; their contribution, their significance in this world; regardless of their length of life.

I’m not sure any parent passes through the grief process until they either “feel” the validation they crave (because a small group of people do just that) or until they resign themselves to the real truth – that it is enough if they alone recognize the worth of their child in this world.  The battle within has been won, the enemy defeated by love – the love of God and the love of the parent.  The only thing the parent needs to let go of is the desire to have their child’s worth validated by society.  However, that’s easier said than done.  Knowing what needs to be done does not make it easy to do.  The heart wants what the heart wants, and it’s a process that’s mastered one painful step at a time.

 
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Posted by on November 18, 2015 in Grief, Muscular Dystrophy

 

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Thanksgiving 2015

16 Nov

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This Thanksgiving we will return to Kansas City as we have for the last ten years. Every time we choose to go “home”, we pass the accident site twice. In fact, we rarely drive north unless we are heading back to see family and friends. The crosses usher in a heighten level of anxiety for the painful moments that are simply unavoidable. And the return trip heralds in memories of where it all went so wrong. To say I need to emotionally prepare myself for these trips is an understatement of gigantic proportions. But staying home – being alone in our unnaturally quiet house – is exponentially worse.

Gratitude and grief co-exist within my heart. Therefore, this year I plan to allow myself permission to do something I’ve never permitted myself to do in the past. If I feel overwhelmed, if the sight of healthy intact families, and bright futures pinch just a bit too much, I will slip off and ensconce myself in the room we make use of when we are in town.

I will not make myself be strong when I feel weak as I have done in seasons past. I will not force myself to wear a mask in order to make others comfortable in my presence. I’ve long been aware that I’m not responsible for how comfortable others feel with my grief, at the same time I’ve always assumed responsibility for shielding others from my emotions, for their sake and mine.  Frankly, an open display of my vulnerabilities is abhorrent to me. In the past I’ve felt as if leaving the room was just as bad as crying in public. Doing either draws attention and leads people to talk. Now, I’m just tired. I also realize that it’s not unreasonable or shameful to remove myself from a situation in which I’m uncomfortable. To remain, to pretend good cheer, that’s a burden too great for me to bear and this year – I just don’t have the energy.

Small talk is chief among my personal anxieties. I can talk about Gracen. I can talk about David; but I cannot talk about myself. I have absolutely nothing to share. So if conversation stalls, I will remind myself that I am not individually responsible for keeping the conversational ball in play. If asked questions that are awkward, I will, for the first time ever, say, “This is not a good time to discuss that.” or “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Deflection, a highly valuable social skill, is not one I’ve ever become adept at using. Over the years I’ve been put on the spot and found myself exposing vulnerabilities to family, friends or mere acquaintances to my personal detriment. In the coming weeks I will practice simply not answering a direct question by responding with a question of my own.

Grief is teaching me a world of useful and unexpected lessons and fiction has provided a multitude of examples from which I intend to draw. (I knew I’d eventually uncover a completely reasonable excuse to justify the inordinate amount of reading I indulge in.)

Most importantly, I will remind myself of this truth:  Honesty does not require transparency; nor does it require vulnerability. It is my right to choose both when and what I feel comfortable sharing and with whom I wish to be transparent and vulnerable.

I don’t want attention or pity: I want privacy and understanding. I don’t want others evaluating how I’m doing based upon their personal perceptions. If asked, I’ll share what I’m comfortable sharing and hope if others later inquire, that no more than what I’ve shared will be disseminated. Anything more is little more than fodder for gossip.

I will never forget how gutted I felt when I bumped into a friend following the death of my son and she said, ‘I heard you weren’t doing very well.’ What was worse was realizing that the person who reported on my well-being had never asked me how I was doing; they simply watched me and drew their own conclusions.  Gossip hurts.  While long forgiven, and completely beyond my control, I remain hypersensitive to how I am portrayed to others. It’s my reputation and it’s my heart that suffers for idle words spoken.

While the things above may seem simple to many, they are challenging for me. So this year, I will keep the commitments I’ve made to myself and will do my best to let go of the things I can’t control. There is grace and forgiveness for those things.

Of the many things for which I’m thankful – the blessings among the thorns, I’m most grateful that I still have David and Gracen. However, I dread that moment that often occurs at Thanksgiving gatherings when asked to share that for which we are thankful. To express my thanks for my husband and daughter draws attention to those who are missing. It’s awkward – for me and for everyone else. While grief may overshadow my gratitude, that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize and appreciate my blessings. So this year, I will give thanks, but I might not have a happy Thanksgiving. Contrary to what the Veggie Tales teach, a grateful heart is not always a happy heart; and that’s OK, gratitude is sufficient.

 
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Posted by on November 16, 2015 in Grief

 

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Nancy Guthrie, Hearing Jesus Speak Into Your Sorrow

22 Oct

From the While We’re Waiting Bereaved Parents Support Page on Facebook October 16, 2015:

“In times of sorrow and disappointment, everything we believe can be called into question, can’t it? Yet if we turn away from God, there really is no other place to go for meaning or peace. Anywhere away from him is hopelessly dark and empty.”

~Nancy Guthrie, Hearing Jesus Speak Into Your Sorrow

And ain’t that just the truth? There really is no where else to go for meaning and peace. Sometimes that’s a supreme comfort and others, well, when His plans just don’t align with mine, When His plans leave my heart flayed open and aching, sometimes I just want to hide from His presence – which, may be my inclination but certainly isn’t even a remote possibility!

Psalm 139:7-12

7 Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?

8 If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there, if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.

9 If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;

10 Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.

11 If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me.

12 Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.

 
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Posted by on October 22, 2015 in Faith, Grief, Links

 

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Why You Never Really Stop Grieving the Loss of a Child

22 Oct

For the rest of my life, I’ll be missing the should-haves. By Lexi Behrndt

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The day I realized Charlie would have turned 13 months hit me and hit me hard. Lincoln, my first started walking at 12.5 months. He should be walking right now. And for a moment, I imagined my life as if I were normal. I’d walk out of this room, and there he would be, toddling, getting into things he shouldn’t be, pulling every book off the shelf, just because he could. He’d leave a constant trail of clutter everywhere he went.

I’d walk out of the room, lay eyes on him, and when he saw me, he would smile, a big toothy grin. He’d have six teeth. Drool would be dripping down his chin, a pool around the collar of his shirt. His brother, Lincoln, would be nearby. Lincoln could never resist staying far from him. They would be sharing toys, and I know Lincoln would be getting frustrated and throwing a tantrum in there. I also know that Charlie always laughed the most when Lincoln would throw a fit.

Charlie would be in the perfect hand-me-downs, all the clothes I couldn’t resist buying on the Target clearance racks for Lincoln, Charlie would be wearing them in with the same chubby thighs, bulging belly, and perfect arm rolls.

He’d be saying momma right now. He’d cry my name out when he would get mad, and you know what? I wouldn’t even mind for one second. I’d do anything to hear “momma” just once from that sweet voice.

And when he cried, I’d scoop him into my arms, hold him like the baby he once was, and I’d kiss his perfect lips. I’d tell him that his mommy loves him, and that I’m right here as I rubbed his sandy blonde hair, and wiped the tears as they rolled down his cheeks.

It’s fun to play pretend. It gives my heart a moment of relief. That’s the way it should be — Charlie, healthy and whole and in my arms. Me, the mother of two boys who keep me running constantly with tired eyes, stained shirts, and an overflowing heart. This is the way it should be, except seven months ago, when his little lungs became too sick from congenital heart disease and pulmonary hypertension, I held him in my arms while he breathed his final breath, and I kissed him for the last time.

I didn’t just lose a baby. I lost a toddler.

I lost a goofy 3-year-old, making mischief, causing me stress, and making me giggle at his silly comments.

I lost a kindergartner, backpack on, running to kiss me with sweaty blonde hair and dirt under his fingernails at school pick-up.

I lost a third grader, helping him with math problems, and still tucking him in at night.

I lost a preteen. Reminding him to put his deodorant on everyday. Reminding him that no matter how insecure he might feel, his mom will always have his back.

I lost a high schooler. Cheering him on at a game, helping him prep for his first big date, watching as he grows into independence as a young man, one that I raised.

I lost an adult child. One who I would love forever, because no matter how old I will grow, he would always be my baby.

All the things Charlie could be. All the things he should be. I lost, and instead I hold a child-size walnut urn and cling to every memory I hold from six and a half months in my arms.

When we lose our children, we don’t just lose them at the stage they were when they passed. We lose them at every stage we missed, and our hearts will forever ache with that knowledge. There’s a whole crock of crap that says grief follows a method. It stays neatly in lines, clean, tame, strategic. When a child dies before a parent, there is nothing normal, neat clean, or tame about that.

For the rest of my life, I’ll be missing the should-haves. His little years. His growing years. The moments he should be making me rip my hair out, then the sweet ones, like the day I take him to get his license. Or the day he tells me he is going to propose. Or the day that he becomes a father. I’ll never get those days. Grief will never be methodical or neat.

And one thing I’ve learned from mothers much further along in this journey than me: grief doesn’t end. Out of a broken, beating heart comes endless love as it ebbs and flows through the constant cycles of grief. Sometimes gentle, sometimes heavy. The reminders are always there. The love is always there. After all, a mother never stops loving the child she carried.

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The author with her little boy, Charlie.

From: The Mix

 
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Posted by on October 22, 2015 in Grief, Links

 

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To Step Forward or to Forever Stand Still . . .

22 Oct

From the While We’re Waiting Bereaved Parents Support Page on Facebook September 15, 2015:

“Mystery, ambiguity, uncertainty. These are places where we reach an end of ourselves, places where we have to stop, stop and take off our shoes. If we don’t, the mystery, the ambiguity, the uncertainty will one day prove too much for us. If we must have all our questions answered before we can go forward in our relationship with God, there will come a day when we won’t go forward. It may come at Gethsemane. At Calvary. Or Auschwitz.

Or at the death of a son.

For now we see in a glass darkly, but then face to face, and now we know in part, but then we shall know fully just as we have been fully known (I Corinthians 13:12).

So until then, what?
We feel our way in the dark.
Until we find each other.
We huddle together in the storm.
Wet and shivering, but together.
And maybe in the end it will be our huddling in the storm that gives us more comfort than our understanding of the storm.”

~Ken Gire, The Weathering Grace of God

 
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Posted by on October 22, 2015 in Faith, Grief

 

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A Woman’s Strength

22 Oct

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Posted by on October 22, 2015 in Grief

 

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Suffering & Sanctification

22 Oct

(Facebook Post 9/8/15)

I recently read, FEARLESS, the story of Navy SEAL, Adam Brown, an Arkansas native. Adam wrote the following statement in his journal while deployed. In order to better understand the quote, you should know that Adam overcame an addiction to cocaine in order to become a SEAL.

“I’m not afraid of anything that might happen to me on this Earth because I know no matter what, nothing can take my spirit from me… How much it pains me…to think about not watching my boy excel in life, or giving my little baby girl away in marriage… Buddy, I’ll be there, you’ll feel me there when you steal your first base, smash someone on the football field, make all A’s. I’ll be there for all your achievements. But much more Buddy, I’ll be there for every failure. Remember, I know tears, I know pain and disappointment, and I will be there for you with every drop. You cannot disappoint me. I understand!”

What I like about this quote is not that he tells his son and daughter that he will be there for their big moments, but that he will be there for every failure. I think that’s what Jesus would tell us, “I’ll be there not just for the high points of your life but for every failure. (OK, I like to add in – “not to judge or criticize but to support and encourage”). I imagine Christ saying to us, just as Adam said to his children, “Remember, I know tears. I know pain and disappointment, and I will be there for you with every drop. YOU CANNOT DISAPPOINT ME. I UNDERSTAND!” (No shouting intended – just emphasizing the point).

I don’t know about the rest of you but I do a fair amount of self-criticizing for my failure to do this grieving thing, and every other misstep during life’s trials, well from a Christian perspective.

Today a good friend sent me the following excerpt from “Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No, to Take Control of Your Life” by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend:

“God is free from us. When he does something for us, he does it out of choice. He is not “under compulsion” or guilt or manipulation. He does things, like dying for us, because he wants to. We can rest in his pure love; he has no hidden resentment in what he does. His freedom allows him to love.

Many Bible characters ran into God’s freedom and learned to embrace it. Embracing his freedom and respecting his boundaries, they always deepened their relationship with God. Job had to come to accept the freedom of God to not rescue him when he wanted. Job expressed his anger and dissatisfaction with God, and God rewarded his honesty. But Job did not “make God bad,” in his own mind. In all of his complaining, he did not end his relationship with God. He didn’t understand God, but he allowed God to be himself and did not withdraw his love from him, even when he was very angry with him. This is a real relationship.

In the same way, Paul accepted the boundaries of God. When he planned trips that didn’t work out, Paul accepted the sovereignty of God. He asked God repeatedly for a certain kind of healing that God would not give him. God said, “No, I do not choose to love you in the way that you want right now. I choose to love you with my presence.” Paul did not reject God for setting that boundary.

Jesus was perfected through his suffering (Heb. 5:7-10). In the Garden of Gethsemane, he asked that his cup of suffering pass from him, but God said no. Jesus accepted God’s wishes, submitted to them, and through that “became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him” (Heb. 5:9). If Jesus had not respected God’s boundaries and God’s no. we would all be lost.”

I especially like the part where it describes Job’s response to God’s sovereign plan. It seems as if we equate the fact that Job did not sin or blame God in response to all his trials as saying that he did not struggle with his losses or with God’s sovereign plan – and I guess I expect myself to do the same. But it’s not true. Job did struggle and he desperately wanted an audience with God to plead his case.

And Paul obviously didn’t simply shrug off his request for healing either or he would not have continued to pray for it. He came to terms with God’s decision not to heal him over time. The Bible doesn’t tell us how much time that took but we might consider that Paul may have experienced three seasons of praying for the thorn in his flesh to be removed instead of three individual prayers expressing his request for healing.

We would also do well to bear in mind that Jesus was both fully God and fully human. Maybe his dual deity/humanity allowed him to pray, “Thy will not mine be done”, in one nights time, in spite of his obvious anguish, whereas, we are being made holy and need to allow ourselves more time to come to the same place instead of beating ourselves up for failing to be holy while we are still living out daily the process of sanctification.

“There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.” (Romans 8:1) Jesus is not looking down from above, shaking his head and uttering sounds of dismay as we struggle our way through our trials. He feels our pain, hurts with us in the struggle, but is not surprised by it, alarmed by it, or disgusted by it. He knew we would respond this way – knew it would take us time to come to terms with his sovereign plan and is far more likely to be heard muttering, “You hang in there, Janet. You hang in there __________, (insert your name here), because you will overcome this through my power in time as the Holy Spirit continues the work of sanctification within you. Keep your eyes on me, and quit worrying about what others think and quit beating yourself up. You are right on track and you bring glory to my name in the midst of your struggle, not just when you come out on the other side of it.” (At least that’s what I think and hope is happening amid the great cloud of witnesses in heaven who are encouraging us to keep fighting the good fight for our faith). That’s my story and I’m sticking with it – today anyway!

 
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Posted by on October 22, 2015 in Books, Faith, Grief

 

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