The following is taken from a blog post written by a fellow grieving daddy. It puts into words, so very well, what we have been trying to for over 3 years. Please take a moment and read it, taking special note of the bold sections, and take to heart what it says.
THE TRUTH ABOUT TRAUMA
When the funeral home employees rolled my son out our front door, I nearly collapsed with grief. This was the same door my son stood gleefully by on Halloween to hand candy to children. He was a giver of the sweetest sort – and he found more joy in giving candy to kids than getting candy for himself. This was the door Mitchell’s best friend would knock and ask to play. This was the door our hospice nurse told us Mitch was about to die … and in that same moment, heaven sent an angel to bear up our broken hearts.
When I first became a father, I wasn’t prepared to be a parent. Who is, really? I quickly discovered that when you have a child, your life changes. Forever. It doesn’t simply change because you’re responsible for the wellbeing of a baby, it changes because your soul multiplies. Once someone has a child, they stop belonging to themselves. It’s as if part of our soul is cloned and whatever happens to our child may as well happen to us. We’re pained when they hurt, overjoyed when they’re happy, and when they die … our very souls shatter. Though we may put our pieces back together, eventually, we’re never the same.
I was terrified of this moment. I knew this time was near, so I tried to put it out of my mind and live in fragile moments that remained. We didn’t know if we had 5 minutes, 5 hours, or 5 days with our son, we just knew that he was on the thinnest of ice and it was about to break.
Suddenly, in a blink, I found myself watching two strangers roll my sweet son into the bitter winter’s air. I was mortified. Incredulous. I was just talking to Mitch the day before, and he was very much alive … so sweet, tender, and innocent. As they loaded my boy into the back of the vehicle and drove away, panic shot through my body, tears rolled down my cheeks and began to freeze. I physically gasped for air as though I was watching my child in the act of being kidnapped.
As they drove away, every part of me wanted to run down the street and stop them. I wanted to say, “Please, let me get in the back with my boy. He must be so scared, cold, and lonely. I need to comfort him during this difficult time.”
I cannot conjure the words to describe the trauma I experienced at this moment – and the subsequent traumas of grief I felt, a million times thereafter. I wept so hard that morning I threw up. Then, I wept even harder, and I thought I broke a rib. Although the sun was rising, the long night of grief was only just beginning. Over the next few years, I began to learn some painful truths about grief. I learned some truths about trauma.
You learn to live with fear.
Grief and fear feel identical in many respects. C.S. Lewis said it best, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” Looking back on the early years of my grief journey, I was living in a deep, emotionally traumatic state that felt like fear. And when the night came, I felt feelings of terror. Every. Single. Day.
Deep grief is prolonged trauma.
If ever you get impatient, wondering when your friend or family member who grieves will get over their sorrow, if you’re ever tempted to think its time for them to move on, remember that grief is trauma in slow motion. Everyone on this planet would do well to remember Shakespeare’s observation, “Everyone can master a grief, but he that has it.”
Others will move on, but you will not
Another brutal truth about trauma is that for spectators of sorrow, empathy has a comparatively short shelf-life. Others will move on, as they should. But you will not. At least not for a very long time.
Perhaps the best counsel to those who suffer is this: don’t expect others to understand your sorrow or to linger as long as your sorrow will. They cannot – for after all is said and done, the journey of grief is traveled by one.
To the spectators of sorrow, don’t expect the one who suffers to move on at your leisure or burden-free pace. Remember that it is they who carry the weight of sorrow – a weight you cannot imagine, not even in your nightmares. If you’re to serve them, you can lift their weary hearts with words of compassion. I’ve found that saying, “I’m sorry that you hurt. I care” is enough, and more.
It Gets Worse, Sometimes Much Worse, Before It Gets Better
I’ve said this often: death is the easy part, it’s the aftermath that’s hardest. So, when you see someone who's lost someone – know that they’ll need your love, compassion, and empathy gently at the funeral and the months to come – but more profoundly in the lonely years that follow.
I’ll repeat the last part: they’ll need your love (without judgement) more profoundly in the lonely years that follow.
Time & Healing
When it comes to the trauma of grief, time doesn’t heal. Instead, time creates space for us to heal if we tend to our wounds with care. I think of trauma like the adrenaline one might feel just after a ride on a terrifying rollercoaster. It takes time for fear to leave your body. The first 15 minutes we feel the trauma course through our veins – but over time, we go back to our regular state of serenity. The mistake we sometimes make is thinking the death of a loved is the rollercoaster. It is not. It is only the beginning. The rollercoaster of trauma comes from feelings of self-doubt, regret, endless what-ifs, and longing to see our loved one again. That trauma is a ride that takes many, many years to fade away.
Trauma Shatters You
Trauma doesn’t just break a part of you; it shatters many parts of you. Sometimes all of you. Yet, somehow, some way, we gather our broken pieces and slowly reassemble ourselves. Depending on the nature of loss, it can take many, many years. We are never the same person on the other side of trauma – instead, we become a mosaic of our former self. Sometimes jagged and fragile as our pieces begin to set into their new arrangement. But always, we emerge a new kind of beautiful.
The truth about trauma is that until we experience it first-hand, it isn’t just harder than we imagine, it's harder than we are capable of imagining. Yet, another hopeful truth about trauma is that it lessens over time – how fast and how much is determined by a multitude of factors, most of which are under our control.
At first, I wondered if the sun would ever rise and that I might live out my days in the dark shadow of grief. There was a time I used to look at this photo and weep. Today, I look at this moment and say reverently, “I remember you, son. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to honor yours.”
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
Thursday, August 30, 2018
For Grieving Mothers
For Grieving Mothers
I am a mother. I am a bereaved mother. My child died, and this is my reluctant path. It is not a path of my choice, but it is a path I must walk mindfully and with intention. It is a journey through the darkest night of my soul and it will take time to wind through the places that scare me.
Every cell in my body aches and longs to be with my beloved child.
On days when grief is loud, I may be impatient, distracted, frustrated, and unfocused. I may get angry more easily, or I may seem hopeless. I will shed many, many, many tears. I won’t smile as often as my old self. Smiling hurts now. Most everything hurts some days, even breathing.
But please, just sit beside me.
Say nothing.
Do not offer a cure.
Or a pill, or a word, or a potion.
Witness my suffering and don't turn away from me.
Please be gentle with me.
And I will try to be gentle with me too.
I will not ever "get over" my child's death so please don’t urge me down that path.
Even on days when grief is quiescent, when it isn't standing loudly in the foreground, even on days when I am even able to smile again, the pain is just beneath the surface.
There are days when I still feel paralyzed. My chest feels the sinking weight of my child's absence and, sometimes, I feel as if I will explode from the grief.
Losing my child affects me in so many ways: as a woman, a mother, a human being. It affects every aspect of me: spiritually, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
There are days when I barely recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
Grief is as personal to me as my fingerprint. Don't tell me how I should or shouldn’t be grieving or that I should or shouldn’t “feel better by now.” Don't tell me what's right or wrong. I'm doing it my way, in my time. If I am to survive this, I must do what is best for me.
My understanding of life will change and a different meaning of life will slowly evolve. What I knew to be true or absolute or real or fair about the world has been challenged so I'm finding my way, moment-to-moment in this new place.
Things that once seemed important to me are barely thoughts any longer. I notice life's suffering more- hungry children, the homeless and the destitute, a mother’s harsh voice toward her young child- or an elderly person struggling with the door. There are so many things about the world which I now struggle to understand: Why do children die? There are some questions, I've learned, which are simply unanswerable.
So please don’t tell me that “ God has a plan ” for me. This, my friend, is between me and my God. Those platitudes slip far too easily from the mouths of those who tuck their own child into a safe, warm bed at night: Can you begin to imagine your own child, flesh of your flesh, lying lifeless in a casket, when “goodbye” means you’ll never see them on this Earth again? Grieving mothers- and fathers- and grandparents- and siblings won’t wake up one day with everything ’okay’ and life back to normal. I have a different normal now.
As time passes, I may gain gifts, and treasures, and insights but anything gained was too high a cost when compared to what was lost.
Perhaps, one day, when I am very, very old, I will say that time has truly helped to heal my broken heart.
But always remember that not a second of any minute of any hour of any day passes when I am not aware of the presence of my child's absence, no matter how many years lurk over my shoulder, don’t forget that I have another one, another child, whose absence, like the sky, is spread over everything.
As C.S. Lewis said.
My child may have died; but my love - and my motherhood - never will.
by Dr. Joanne Cacciatore
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Grieving the Loss
Dear Family,
We would like you to take a moment and listen to this interview from Family Life Today. The Deals lost their 12 year old son 9 years ago. We’d like you to listen closely to what they talk about. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING they say strikes a chord with us. Please listen and then apply it to everything you say to us concerning our grief for our precious Austin.
Please be patient and have much grace for us. This couple is 9 years out and they are still hurting badly. Consider that and then remember that WE are only 3 YEARS out. We know that you just want us to be “back to the way we were” before Austin died. We know you think you are “helping” when you tell us to move on and when you don’t say his name or specifically ask for the pictures without his framed picture in them. But please know you’re not helping. At.All.
Most of you were there when we found out that Austin was too injured to live on earth anymore, you heard our cries of anguish when we heard he was going to be with Jesus. We can’t understand why you think that telling us to move on is okay or in any way helpful. In fact it really just makes us angry that you think we need to leave our grief behind and just “be happy” and ”live life” because that’s what YOU need us to do.
That’s US taking care of YOU, and that’s not the way it’s supposed to go.
Listen closely, listen carefully, and please, I beg of you, be gracious.
https://www.facebook.com/100009356787578/posts/2102424186746120/
We would like you to take a moment and listen to this interview from Family Life Today. The Deals lost their 12 year old son 9 years ago. We’d like you to listen closely to what they talk about. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING they say strikes a chord with us. Please listen and then apply it to everything you say to us concerning our grief for our precious Austin.
Please be patient and have much grace for us. This couple is 9 years out and they are still hurting badly. Consider that and then remember that WE are only 3 YEARS out. We know that you just want us to be “back to the way we were” before Austin died. We know you think you are “helping” when you tell us to move on and when you don’t say his name or specifically ask for the pictures without his framed picture in them. But please know you’re not helping. At.All.
Most of you were there when we found out that Austin was too injured to live on earth anymore, you heard our cries of anguish when we heard he was going to be with Jesus. We can’t understand why you think that telling us to move on is okay or in any way helpful. In fact it really just makes us angry that you think we need to leave our grief behind and just “be happy” and ”live life” because that’s what YOU need us to do.
That’s US taking care of YOU, and that’s not the way it’s supposed to go.
Listen closely, listen carefully, and please, I beg of you, be gracious.
https://www.facebook.com/100009356787578/posts/2102424186746120/
Tuesday, July 3, 2018
How to Discourage a Grieving Friend
What’s the best way to discourage a grieving friend? I can tell you what I’ve done.
I’ve asked numerous questions, trying to fully assess the situation. I’ve mentioned others who are going through similar trials, extolling their bravery and faithfulness. I’ve freely doled out advice, even mini-sermons, to my friends about how their painful situations will turn out for the best.
I wasn’t trying to be discouraging. I was trying to help. Surprisingly, my advice didn’t help at all. My words just added to their pain.
I know, because I’ve been on the receiving end of that kind of “help” as well.
Let Them Process Differently
That “help” has cut deeply. It has left me feeling judged and misunderstood in the midst of my struggle. It has made my burden heavier. It has made me feel lonely and isolated, wondering who was safe to talk to.
A friend once confided that she admired how I grieved. Apparently, my grief was more God-honoring than the sorrow of those who seemed defined by their pain. At first, I was flattered by the favorable comparison, but later her words troubled me. I didn’t want to be compared to others in my grief. There isn’t one “right” way to grieve. I wanted the freedom to be honest about future pain without feeling judged.
When we analyze grieving people, we add to their burden. Everyone processes loss differently, whether they are grieving the loss of a loved one, loss of health, lost relationships, or even lost dreams. Offering suggestions can feel like judgment, and careless words can cut deeply. We can become like Job’s comforters, who went on and on, speaking about things they neither knew nor understood.
Pat Answers for Deep Pain
Job said, as expanded in the New Living Translation, “I have heard all this before. What miserable comforters you are! Won’t you ever stop blowing hot air? What makes you keep on talking? I could say the same things if you were in my place. I could spout off criticism and shake my head at you. But if it were me, I would encourage you. I would try to take away your grief” (Job 16:2–5 NLT).
Job wanted his comforters to stop talking. Stop blowing hot air. Stop criticizing and judging. He longed for them to listen. To encourage him. To think about what he needed in his grief.
I’ve been like Job’s friends more often than I care to remember. And I’ve been in Job’s place too. I’ve been a miserable comforter, and I’ve received miserable comfort. Here is what I’ve learned from both sides of the fence: When I’m in agony, I don’t want trite comments. When someone tells me to count my blessings, that my plight could be worse, that there are starving orphans in Africa who have a much harder situation, I want to scream. Of course, these things are all true. But at that moment, they feel irrelevant.
Pat answers sound sermonizing. Saying that all things work together for good is absolutely true — and unspeakably precious — but it can feel hollow at a funeral.
How to Magnify Pain
Those of us who have faced our own losses can be the worst offenders. It’s easy to forget the intensity and all-encompassing nature of grief after the years have passed. Grief can be like a steamroller, flattening everything in its wake. We are often at its mercy.
Some people feel the sharp edge of grief for years, while others bounce back quickly without much struggle. In many people’s eyes, those with the fewest tears are the ones with the strongest faith. Cheerful Christians who face trials with smiles on their faces, who never seem discouraged, are held up as the models for others.
True, I may not be healing as fast as they are. Perhaps they are trusting God more than I am. Maybe their situations are harder than mine. Perhaps I am living in the past. But when friends minimize my struggle, it magnifies my pain. I feel judged. Misunderstood. Their dismissal makes me want to explain my miseries in excruciating detail, so others can validate my hardship.
Works in Progress
The fact is that I don’t always handle my trials well. I’m broken. A work in progress. I don’t like having things unravel. I can take some suggestions, but I’m fragile. I need encouragement to balance out any advice. And mostly I need grace. It’s hard to present a perfect, put-together self when life is crushing me.
Yet I know that my friends with advice have good intentions. They don’t want me to be overwhelmed, held captive to my struggles. They don’t want me to be defined by my trials. They want me to find joy in the present.
Those are worthy goals, but no one should presume that our input will lessen people’s pain. Transforming our suffering is ultimately the work of the Holy Spirit and not the product of good advice. Our main work is to pray.
What’s Most Comforting
So how should we treat our grieving friends? What does being a friend to someone in need even look like? What should we say to our neighbors who are struggling?
From my experience, the most comforting thing we can do in the moment is to sit with them and mainly listen. Job’s friends said a lot of damaging things, but when they first saw him, “they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great” (Job 2:13).
Having someone listen as I pour out my heart has helped me more than any words ever have. I just want someone to be there. To weep with me. To pray for me. To not expect me to have perfect theology. To let me rant. What an amazing gift it is not to feel judged by every desperate word I utter. We need to remember there is mystery in suffering. We don’t understand the ways of God. Job’s friends thought they understood, so they wrongly blamed Job for his pain. There are no easy answers in grief.
Lay Down Your Expectations
It’s easy to discourage a struggling friend. Trust me, I know. But I’m challenging you, me, all of us, to put down our expectations of our suffering friends. Let’s stop trying to “fix” them. Don’t bludgeon them with theology. Trust that God is working in them, and be patient while they process.
Instead, let’s sit with our friends. Cry with them. Support them as they grieve. They need grace to heal. Remember, we don’t need to be a savior for our grieving friends. They already have One — and so do we.
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
When Your Grief is Attacked
We have hope, we do. We have hope because God sent His only begotten son to die for our sins and the sins of all His people. Therefore we have hope that we will see our son again, you know the one who tragically died 3 years ago? The one who's death has left a gaping hole in our lives? It has come to our attention that some people in our lives believe that we are stuck, that we aren't focusing enough on the living children we have and the life we have to live. I found this article that lays out so well our response to this kind of thinking.
I've adapted it as follows:
When Your Grief is Attacked
Grief bullies are all around us. I wish it weren't true, but it is; the desperately brokenhearted are ambushed and attacked for their normal response to grief.
It's happened to us. It's happened to our loss friends, and sadly, it will happen to the next parent whose precious child dies. Even people who seem to have amazing support will eventually experience and inexpiable shift, where suddenly people have "had enough". And every time I hear of this, my heart grieves deeper, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and shake the insensitive offender.
What's so appalling is that these unfounded attacks are often made by family and friends, the very people who should be supporting us the most. They claim to be "well meaning" and to have our best interest at heart. But it's the selfishly motivated desire to be rid of our grief that brings about this turn from support to attack.
Grief makes others uncomfortable, so they lash out. It's the ultimate version of kicking someone while they're down. It hurts my heart because the LAST thing in the world a grieving parent needs is to be "corrected" by a person who has no clue what they are talking about. And believe me when I say, if you've never experienced the death of your own child, you do NOT understand, and your opinion of child-loss grief is irrelevant.
It's sad that we live in a society that thinks you can "get over" the death of your child. How broken to believe a few months or years will be all it takes to heal such a massive, gaping wound. Is it that people don't really understand the bond between a parent and a child? I hardly think so.
What they don't see is that this "correction" actually sets healing back. How it makes it even harder to move forward. Otherwise they would know that it never ends; that love doesn't end with death. The grief of living without your child is new every day. Yes, it changes, but there is no such thing as the day you wake up and are "done" with your grief.
If people would just put more of their energy into supporting, nurturing and encouraging the bereaved instead of focusing on their own needs and opinions, it would be so much easier for grieving parents to heal in a healthy way.
IT'S TIME FOR GRIEF BULLYING TO END.
Here are some things that those of you who think you know how we should grieve, should think about:
Unless your own child has died, you do not understand the grief of child-loss. Period. So stop thinking you know how it should be done.
YOU DON'T.
We DID NOT choose this. We don't want to feel this way. If we are the ones who have to live this out, the VERY LEAST you can do is TRY to be understanding and compassionate. If we tell you how we feel, it doesn't matter one bit if you don't like it, or if you disagree with it.
It's not about you.
At all.
Your only job is to lovingly support us, right where we are at. If you can't do that, then you just need to keep quiet.
When it's decided that "someone needs to say something" or when you get the urge to "set us straight". . . .
STOP
Our child died.
Our hearts, our comfort, our joy, our safety, our future, our dreams and so much more have been shattered and we're just expected to keep on living.
WE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.
Suggesting that we "get help" or "move on" or anything similar to those statements do the opposite of helping us, they make our life harder when it's already about as hard as it can be. "Tough love" has NO place in grief support.
Helping us involves climbing down into the ugly pit of grief in which we now unwillingly reside, and sorting through the sorrow, anguish, rage and trauma with us. Your QUIET support is all that's required.
If our choice is grieving our beloved child's death in the way that works best for us, (mind you we are not doing anything illegal, unethical or immoral) or being your friend, you are going to lose. We will NOT pretend to be OK for the sake of people who don't understand. Our love and our loss are too big to hide, and it's not our job to make you feel better.
You have NO idea what it's like to live without your child, and your inability to understand doesn't mean we're doing it wrong. It means you have to put THAT MUCH MORE EFFORT into supporting us.
Our hearts are too full of love for our child and our energy is too tied up in supporting ourselves as we do the work we need to do to recover from this trauma.
Adapted from "Still Standing Magazine"
I've adapted it as follows:
When Your Grief is Attacked
Grief bullies are all around us. I wish it weren't true, but it is; the desperately brokenhearted are ambushed and attacked for their normal response to grief.
It's happened to us. It's happened to our loss friends, and sadly, it will happen to the next parent whose precious child dies. Even people who seem to have amazing support will eventually experience and inexpiable shift, where suddenly people have "had enough". And every time I hear of this, my heart grieves deeper, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and shake the insensitive offender.
What's so appalling is that these unfounded attacks are often made by family and friends, the very people who should be supporting us the most. They claim to be "well meaning" and to have our best interest at heart. But it's the selfishly motivated desire to be rid of our grief that brings about this turn from support to attack.
Grief makes others uncomfortable, so they lash out. It's the ultimate version of kicking someone while they're down. It hurts my heart because the LAST thing in the world a grieving parent needs is to be "corrected" by a person who has no clue what they are talking about. And believe me when I say, if you've never experienced the death of your own child, you do NOT understand, and your opinion of child-loss grief is irrelevant.
It's sad that we live in a society that thinks you can "get over" the death of your child. How broken to believe a few months or years will be all it takes to heal such a massive, gaping wound. Is it that people don't really understand the bond between a parent and a child? I hardly think so.
What they don't see is that this "correction" actually sets healing back. How it makes it even harder to move forward. Otherwise they would know that it never ends; that love doesn't end with death. The grief of living without your child is new every day. Yes, it changes, but there is no such thing as the day you wake up and are "done" with your grief.
If people would just put more of their energy into supporting, nurturing and encouraging the bereaved instead of focusing on their own needs and opinions, it would be so much easier for grieving parents to heal in a healthy way.
IT'S TIME FOR GRIEF BULLYING TO END.
Here are some things that those of you who think you know how we should grieve, should think about:
Unless your own child has died, you do not understand the grief of child-loss. Period. So stop thinking you know how it should be done.
YOU DON'T.
We DID NOT choose this. We don't want to feel this way. If we are the ones who have to live this out, the VERY LEAST you can do is TRY to be understanding and compassionate. If we tell you how we feel, it doesn't matter one bit if you don't like it, or if you disagree with it.
It's not about you.
At all.
Your only job is to lovingly support us, right where we are at. If you can't do that, then you just need to keep quiet.
When it's decided that "someone needs to say something" or when you get the urge to "set us straight". . . .
STOP
Our child died.
Our hearts, our comfort, our joy, our safety, our future, our dreams and so much more have been shattered and we're just expected to keep on living.
WE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.
Suggesting that we "get help" or "move on" or anything similar to those statements do the opposite of helping us, they make our life harder when it's already about as hard as it can be. "Tough love" has NO place in grief support.
Helping us involves climbing down into the ugly pit of grief in which we now unwillingly reside, and sorting through the sorrow, anguish, rage and trauma with us. Your QUIET support is all that's required.
If our choice is grieving our beloved child's death in the way that works best for us, (mind you we are not doing anything illegal, unethical or immoral) or being your friend, you are going to lose. We will NOT pretend to be OK for the sake of people who don't understand. Our love and our loss are too big to hide, and it's not our job to make you feel better.
You have NO idea what it's like to live without your child, and your inability to understand doesn't mean we're doing it wrong. It means you have to put THAT MUCH MORE EFFORT into supporting us.
Our hearts are too full of love for our child and our energy is too tied up in supporting ourselves as we do the work we need to do to recover from this trauma.
Adapted from "Still Standing Magazine"
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Life
Things have been hard around here lately. I can't really put my finger on one particular thing, maybe it's the weather, the time of year, or the fact that it's almost "that time" of year again. I've come to realize in this journey of grief, that there really are no "easy" times of year anymore. Austin was a part of every "time of year" so we see his absence, profoundly, all the time.
A fellow grieving parent (who is much farther along in the journey) once asked me how we were doing, my immediate response was "we are doing good". He looked at me and said, "I know you're not, and nothing in this life will ever be wonderful again." He's right, life has lost much of it's color, I see things in muted color or black and white. I look forward to warm weather, yet at the same time the sounds and smells throw me back to that horrible evening all over again. I wake up most mornings counting down the hours until I can lay back down again. Sleep is a respite where my thoughts don't assault me.
I KNOW. . . . it's been almost three years. . .
Three years since I felt his heart beat in his chest, heard him breathe, touched his fingers, and put my arms around him. As the days have stretched into years, it's getting harder, not easier like I thought it would. I'm beginning to forget what it was like to have Austin. The part he played in our lives is beginning to fade, and that scares me to the core. I don't want to forget.
I struggle with being gracious to family and friends who just want us to be back to the way we were almost 3 years ago. I know they don't know what it's like, and I wouldn't want them to know. At the same time, I wonder why they think they know how our journey should go when they haven't lost a child. We HAVE lost a child and we still don't know how our journey should go. How do I get them to understand that everything is different, that normal is no longer, and the "way we were" before. . . is gone?
Then the questions come ~ Should we still be feeling like this? Are we "stuck" in our grief? I believe God put's people in our lives for a purpose ~ is this His way of telling us we are doing things wrong?
I struggle with trusting. . . . especially trusting God.
I know, it's horrible!
He's the one I should trust the most, believe me I know. . . . but putting into practice and actually trusting is HARD. I often wonder how our perfect God, who sees the whole story and knows how it's going to end can expect me, a completely imperfect person, with a completely fallen nature, to simply trust. He knew the end of the story when he sent His son to die for the sins of His people, He knew that Jesus would rise from the dead in just 3 days.
I don't know when I'm going to see my son again, and the ripple effects of his death, everything that has happened in the three years since he died, have been enough to almost tear me and my family apart. I think the results of Austin's death and all the changes we've had to go through, the effects of his death on our family are far harder to deal with than the fact that Austin died. I know he's OK now, that he's perfect and free from sin. But I also feel like every time I turn around, there is something else we need to "deal with" or have taken care of. . . and I'm just expected to be joyful and paste a smile on my face and go about my day. There are some days where the weight of life knocks me flat on my back and sits on me like a ton of bricks.
I've been told on more than a few occasions that I may not ask why. No matter what, I may not question why God took my son. But, didn't Jesus even ask why? On the cross, He asked His Father, "why have you forsaken me?". He was perfect and He asked why! Is it really wrong for me to cry in frustration to Him and ask why he took my son?
I often think back to the time before Austin died. We were content. Russ and I had just sat down together (a couple of weeks before) and discussed our hopes and dreams for the future. He was optimistic for the future and the job he had just taken with a lighting company. The future looked bright. Then June 1, 2015 came along and those dreams shattered, life as we knew it came to a screeching halt and we were left to pick up the pieces. Some of the pieces are so widely scattered that they will never be found.
We are told in God’s word that we are to “be content in whatsoever state we are”. I’m frustrated because I WAS content. I’ll be the first to admit that now I’m NOT content. So naturally I wonder ~ “God wants us to be content and even joyful in all circumstances. He took me from being content in my circumstances to being so discontent in every way.” Here is the “why” question again. Why would He do that? He wants me to be content, yet He’s given me circumstances in this life that make it EXTREMELY difficult to be content. Now I’m constantly longing for heaven, this world holds nothing for me, so what is the purpose of me being here, of any of us being here? Why can’t he just end the world now and take us all to heaven where we belong, and where we are told He wants us?
These are the questions I battle with daily.
Our pastor said something in his prayer a few weeks ago that really caught my attention. He prayed for those who know they need to trust God, but struggle to trust Him in all things. He used the word “wrestle”. This is exactly what I do every day. I wrestle with my thoughts all day long. It’s quite simply exhausting.
I’m not asking for answers, no one can heal us except God alone. I’m asking for understanding and grace. Here is a snippet of what daily life is like. This is SO.MUCH.HARDER than we could have ever imagined. Please be gracious. And even if you don’t understand, please. . . .
Just. Be. Gracious.
And pray.
You can’t fix it. We don’t expect you to fix it or to fix us. There are times when we can’t pray. We can’t even form the words on our tongues. Pray for us, to the only One who can fix us. Pray for His mercy and grace to carry us, because so often we can’t walk on our own.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
Why We Will Never Get Over It
The following is an article from a page I follow on Facebook. I could have written it myself if I had had the energy.
I am SO tired of being judged on the way we are grieving our son. You don't live our life, you haven't experienced all we have as a result of his death. So DON'T you DARE judge the way we are grieving. Normal ceased to exist the moment Austin breathed his last breath, so don't push us to "find our new normal" and the "groove" we had, ceased to exist almost 3 years ago, and there's no going back. The LAST thing we are worried about is making YOU comfortable. When you've lived our life, witnessed firsthand the battles that plague our minds EVERY second of EVERY day, then you can talk to us about the way we're grieving. Until then - BACK OFF!!
Why We Will Never Get Over It
Unfortunately bereaved parents get judged often. By those who know us and by those who don’t.
We are often criticized and pathologized for grieving (for remembering our child.) People erroneously think we are stuck, depressed, and/or clinically-something, if we still cry, ache, and miss our child; if we still remember them; if we continue speaking their name and grieving for them– especially if the grieving has been going on “too long.” Too long could mean 3 months, 6 months, a year– a decade, or longer. It couldn’t possibly be healthy to grieve THAT long, right?
Wrong. We will grieve forever because we love forever. There is no end to our love for our child, therefore there is no end to our grief– not in our lifetime, anyway. We will grieve forever. We will never get over it.
The presumption is that since our child’s death happened years ago– a presumably finite event– how are we not over it by now? As if child loss is something you can get over– likening it to something far less horrific that can be conquered if you only try hard enough, think positively, or pull yourself up by the bootstraps. As if it’s a hurdle you can easily jump over, or a roadblock you can simply go around and then move on. As if sunshine, rainbows and unicorns will magically greet you once enough time has passed and you cross into “I’m-over-it” land. This may work for other things, but not child loss.
It’s time to bust a long-standing myth about child loss and grief. There is no getting over it. Child loss is not something you get over. Ever. You don’t get over watching the living, breathing piece of your heart and soul, your flesh and blood, your child– die. It’s simply not. possible. to get over the death of your child. You will grieve the death of your child until your last breath.
It is said that the decision to have a child is “to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” When your child dies your heart is obliterated, broken beyond repair. When your child dies, a huge part of you dies, too. And there is no getting that part back again. Over time you can try to put the pieces of yourself back together again, but they don’t fit the same. There are huge pieces missing, no matter what you do. No matter how long it’s been.
The pain– visible or not– is with us every breath and every step we take, every second of every day. The scars never heal. We are not defined by child loss, but we are certainly marked by it. Forever.
Normal died the day our child did. There is no guidebook for how to survive, or how to grieve. No formula. No roadmap. No start here, end there. The truth is bereaved parents will grieve the loss of their child until their last breath. It may seem confusing why bereaved parents do the things we do; how we’ve chosen to survive and navigate life post-tragedy. From outside of grief, it likely won’t make sense to an onlooker. The good news is, if you don’t understand, breathe a deep sigh of relief and remember one thing: you’re so fortunate (#blessed/lucky/_______) you don’t.
Ultimately to understand means to be bereaved. Which we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemy. We hope no one else truly understands. Ever.
We would have given our life one million times over + infinity to save our child– but, unfortunately we weren’t given that choice. And so, for the rest of our lives, we have to learn how to live with the pain. A pain that is so excruciating, so much like torture, so unimaginable, there’s not even an apt word for it in the English language.
We trip over grief just when we thought we had it contained, figured out, put away, managed. We fall into grief potholes when we least expect it.
We become adept at carrying it, stuffing it, hiding it places. It leaks from our eyes when we least expect it. We sob in the shower, the car, on the bathroom floor. We dry our tears, put our masks back on, so we can move and be and live in the world, to the best of our ability.
Grief steals the person we used to be, and we grieve that, too. The person staring back at us in the mirror becomes almost unrecognizable. We wish we could be who we used to be, too.
We are broken, but there is no fix for our heartache.
We carry it with us, always. Grief exhausts us to the bone. There is no reprieve. No minute, hour, or day off from being a bereaved parent. Once a bereaved parent, always a bereaved parent. There is no going back.
Even during happy or joyful moments, the pain and sadness is always there. A permanent undercurrent, a pulse of pain.
We learn how to carry it all: the joy, the pain, the love, the sadness. Eventually we become an expert at carrying it all.
The moment our child died is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It is the past, the present, and the future. It was not just one finite horrific moment in time that happened last whenever. It is not just the moment, the hour, the second, the millisecond our life became permanently divided into before and after.
You might say, “But she died last year!” Or 10 years ago, or five. No. No, she didn’t.
Our child dies all over again every morning we wake up.
And again every moment they are (yet again) missing.
And again every moment in between.
And again every breath we take.
Our child dies again every moment they are not here with us– for the rest of our lives.
The truth of this fact is almost impossible to express. How many deaths can one parent endure?
For the rest of our lives we will struggle to accept and understand this very fact: our child is dead. And in the incessant replay of our minds our child will keep dying all over again for the rest of our lives.
This is child loss. It is never over. It is always happening. Again and again and again.
We live and relive it. It is now, yesterday, tomorrow– forever.
Just like our love for our child is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It spans both directions. There is no end.
Please remember this next time you hear someone tell a bereaved parent they are dwelling, stuck, depressed, not moving on; that they should just hurry up and get over it– or any other common judgment or misconception. Our pain, our love, and our child cannot be watered down to such phrases, such shallow summations. It does not even begin to capture or express the reality of our day-to-day lives, nor the eternal ache and love in our hearts.
To understand child loss, you have to think about every second, minute, hour, day, month and year a bereaved parent has to live without their precious child– a lifetime— not just the finite moment in time their child died. Every missed milestone, every heart beat, every breath without them, hurts. It hurts now, now and now. It will still be painful 10 and 20 years from now. It will remain an ever-present ache in our heart, soul, mind and body always– until our very last breath.
Child loss is never over. It is a loss that spans a bereaved parent’s entire life.
This is why we will never, ever, get over it. Because “it” is our precious, irreplaceable child. There is no getting over it. There is only love (and pain) to be bravely and courageously carried– for a lifetime.
--Becky
I am SO tired of being judged on the way we are grieving our son. You don't live our life, you haven't experienced all we have as a result of his death. So DON'T you DARE judge the way we are grieving. Normal ceased to exist the moment Austin breathed his last breath, so don't push us to "find our new normal" and the "groove" we had, ceased to exist almost 3 years ago, and there's no going back. The LAST thing we are worried about is making YOU comfortable. When you've lived our life, witnessed firsthand the battles that plague our minds EVERY second of EVERY day, then you can talk to us about the way we're grieving. Until then - BACK OFF!!
Why We Will Never Get Over It
Unfortunately bereaved parents get judged often. By those who know us and by those who don’t.
We are often criticized and pathologized for grieving (for remembering our child.) People erroneously think we are stuck, depressed, and/or clinically-something, if we still cry, ache, and miss our child; if we still remember them; if we continue speaking their name and grieving for them– especially if the grieving has been going on “too long.” Too long could mean 3 months, 6 months, a year– a decade, or longer. It couldn’t possibly be healthy to grieve THAT long, right?
Wrong. We will grieve forever because we love forever. There is no end to our love for our child, therefore there is no end to our grief– not in our lifetime, anyway. We will grieve forever. We will never get over it.
The presumption is that since our child’s death happened years ago– a presumably finite event– how are we not over it by now? As if child loss is something you can get over– likening it to something far less horrific that can be conquered if you only try hard enough, think positively, or pull yourself up by the bootstraps. As if it’s a hurdle you can easily jump over, or a roadblock you can simply go around and then move on. As if sunshine, rainbows and unicorns will magically greet you once enough time has passed and you cross into “I’m-over-it” land. This may work for other things, but not child loss.
It’s time to bust a long-standing myth about child loss and grief. There is no getting over it. Child loss is not something you get over. Ever. You don’t get over watching the living, breathing piece of your heart and soul, your flesh and blood, your child– die. It’s simply not. possible. to get over the death of your child. You will grieve the death of your child until your last breath.
It is said that the decision to have a child is “to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” When your child dies your heart is obliterated, broken beyond repair. When your child dies, a huge part of you dies, too. And there is no getting that part back again. Over time you can try to put the pieces of yourself back together again, but they don’t fit the same. There are huge pieces missing, no matter what you do. No matter how long it’s been.
The pain– visible or not– is with us every breath and every step we take, every second of every day. The scars never heal. We are not defined by child loss, but we are certainly marked by it. Forever.
Normal died the day our child did. There is no guidebook for how to survive, or how to grieve. No formula. No roadmap. No start here, end there. The truth is bereaved parents will grieve the loss of their child until their last breath. It may seem confusing why bereaved parents do the things we do; how we’ve chosen to survive and navigate life post-tragedy. From outside of grief, it likely won’t make sense to an onlooker. The good news is, if you don’t understand, breathe a deep sigh of relief and remember one thing: you’re so fortunate (#blessed/lucky/_______) you don’t.
Ultimately to understand means to be bereaved. Which we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemy. We hope no one else truly understands. Ever.
We would have given our life one million times over + infinity to save our child– but, unfortunately we weren’t given that choice. And so, for the rest of our lives, we have to learn how to live with the pain. A pain that is so excruciating, so much like torture, so unimaginable, there’s not even an apt word for it in the English language.
We trip over grief just when we thought we had it contained, figured out, put away, managed. We fall into grief potholes when we least expect it.
We become adept at carrying it, stuffing it, hiding it places. It leaks from our eyes when we least expect it. We sob in the shower, the car, on the bathroom floor. We dry our tears, put our masks back on, so we can move and be and live in the world, to the best of our ability.
Grief steals the person we used to be, and we grieve that, too. The person staring back at us in the mirror becomes almost unrecognizable. We wish we could be who we used to be, too.
We are broken, but there is no fix for our heartache.
We carry it with us, always. Grief exhausts us to the bone. There is no reprieve. No minute, hour, or day off from being a bereaved parent. Once a bereaved parent, always a bereaved parent. There is no going back.
Even during happy or joyful moments, the pain and sadness is always there. A permanent undercurrent, a pulse of pain.
We learn how to carry it all: the joy, the pain, the love, the sadness. Eventually we become an expert at carrying it all.
The moment our child died is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It is the past, the present, and the future. It was not just one finite horrific moment in time that happened last whenever. It is not just the moment, the hour, the second, the millisecond our life became permanently divided into before and after.
You might say, “But she died last year!” Or 10 years ago, or five. No. No, she didn’t.
Our child dies all over again every morning we wake up.
And again every moment they are (yet again) missing.
And again every moment in between.
And again every breath we take.
Our child dies again every moment they are not here with us– for the rest of our lives.
The truth of this fact is almost impossible to express. How many deaths can one parent endure?
For the rest of our lives we will struggle to accept and understand this very fact: our child is dead. And in the incessant replay of our minds our child will keep dying all over again for the rest of our lives.
This is child loss. It is never over. It is always happening. Again and again and again.
We live and relive it. It is now, yesterday, tomorrow– forever.
Just like our love for our child is now, yesterday, tomorrow, forever. It spans both directions. There is no end.
Please remember this next time you hear someone tell a bereaved parent they are dwelling, stuck, depressed, not moving on; that they should just hurry up and get over it– or any other common judgment or misconception. Our pain, our love, and our child cannot be watered down to such phrases, such shallow summations. It does not even begin to capture or express the reality of our day-to-day lives, nor the eternal ache and love in our hearts.
To understand child loss, you have to think about every second, minute, hour, day, month and year a bereaved parent has to live without their precious child– a lifetime— not just the finite moment in time their child died. Every missed milestone, every heart beat, every breath without them, hurts. It hurts now, now and now. It will still be painful 10 and 20 years from now. It will remain an ever-present ache in our heart, soul, mind and body always– until our very last breath.
Child loss is never over. It is a loss that spans a bereaved parent’s entire life.
This is why we will never, ever, get over it. Because “it” is our precious, irreplaceable child. There is no getting over it. There is only love (and pain) to be bravely and courageously carried– for a lifetime.
--Becky
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