Pain Needs Space

We have learned that for us, it is healthy to talk about our grief, to remember Austin in many different ways. . . and that always putting on a "brave face" isn't the best way to go. . . . That stifled grief eventually comes out in the most ugly ways.

We aren't called to constantly put on a mask so that others feel better, but to honor our God in whatever we do. May He grant us the grace to strive towards His glory every moment of every day!

Holding Space

When You Think You Can’t Hold On

So many ways to be reminded of how hard it is to hold on in these days and weeks around Christmas.

If your heart is barely able to beat, the pressure to be “hap-hap-happy” can send you over the edge.

If your home is empty of cheerful voices, the constant barrage of commercials touting family togetherness can leave you feeling oh, so lonely.

Early sunsets and darker nights send feel-good hormones flying and leave a body aching for just a little relief from anxious and depressing thoughts.

When you think you can’t hold on, let go.

Let go of expectations-yours and other people’s.

Let go of traditions that no longer serve your heart or draw you closer to the Babe in the manger.

Let go of tons of baking or cooking or entertaining with perfect centerpieces and fragile china.

Let go of blasting Christmas music through the house.

Let go of shopping for the perfect gift or mailing all those cards.

Be still.

Light a candle in the darkness.

Sit quietly and see how even the faintest light can chase away the black of night.

And then hold your empty hands out to the God Who made you, the God Who loves you, the God Who longs to draw you to His heart and let Him fill you with hope.

There IS hope.

He came in the form of a Baby-weak and vulnerable just like us.

He KNOWS our pain.

He is not impressed with our busyness or our decorations or our presents piled high beneath the tree.

He sees the heart. He looks with mercy on a broken heart. He is the Healer of hearts.

He longs to heal yours.

~thelifeididntchoose.com~

An Answer

A response to anyone who wonders why we STILL talk about Austin, and why the holidays are STILL hard even though it's been 3 1/2 years . . . .

Very few of you have walked in our shoes, and we are thankful that those of you who haven't, don't know such pain as this.

That being said, we would like to caution you against judging a situation you know very little about. You have no idea the magnitude of circumstances that we have experienced in the last three years as a result of Austin's death and the toll these have taken on our mental and physical health.

It is truly ONLY by God's grace that we are still standing today.

We DO find much comfort in knowing that Austin is perfect in glory, however that DOESN'T make the pain go away.

One thing (out of many) that we have learned throughout this journey is that this pain will NEVER go away. As long as we are breathing, we will continue to ache for our son. It is only when we are brought to glory ourselves that the pain will be alleviated.

We have also learned that grief is as unique to a person as their fingerprint. No two people grieve exactly the same way, or in exactly the same time frame.

In light of that, we would like to encourage you to really think before making a hasty conclusion about the way it looks to you, and to take a moment to pray for us. Pray for us and for all who are missing their precious children. . . . because there are still so many times where we struggle to find the words to pray because the pain we feel is so deep.

We know you can't fix it, and we DON'T expect you to. The ONLY thing you can do for us, is to bring our needs before our Father in heaven. He ALONE can bring comfort to His hurting people.

What the Bereaved Need From Friends and Family

I know it is hard. I know you don’t truly understand how I feel. You can’t. It wasn’t your child.

I know I may look and act like I’m “better”. I know that you would love for things to be like they were: BEFORE. But they aren’t.

I know my grief interferes with your plans. I know it is uncomfortable to make changes in traditions we have observed for years. But I can’t help it. I didn’t ask for this to be my life.

I know that every year I seem to need something different. I know that’s confusing and may be frustrating. But I’m working this out as I go. I didn’t get a “how to” manual when I buried my son. It’s new for me every year too.

So I’m trying to make it easier on all of us.

I’m trying to be brave and think ahead and offer up what I can to help you understand.

I’m not asking you to stuff your feelings. But I am asking you to weigh your disappointment in things being different against my unfathomable sorrow in burying my child.

And this is what I need from YOU:

Acknowledge my loss. It doesn’t matter if it has been a few months, a few years or even decades-every single time the whole family gets together, the hole where my child SHOULD be is highlighted. Other people may have moved on, and I am stronger now than I was, but the missing is as hard today as it was the day he left. I need you to acknowledge that even if you don’t understand it.

Be flexible. Every day is different for me. And even if we did a certain thing last year, it may not be something I want to repeat. Life circumstances continue to evolve-living children grow and marry, grandchildren make their appearance, health issues may emerge and change physical capabilities-life keeps on regardless of loss. So this year is DIFFERENT than last year. For everyone. If we all embrace flexibility, there’s less opportunity for breakage. Rubber bounces. Glass shatters. I don’t want my loss to be the central focus, but it’s a huge part of my experience and I can’t ignore it. Help me, please.

Give me space. Grant space in the larger picture-don’t make showing up to every family event a “mandatory option”. Understand that even with planning and the best intentions, I may wake up and realize that I. just. can’t. do. it. Or I may come, but leave early. And grant space in the details-if I walk out of a room, let me go. It may be helpful for one person to check on me after a few minutes but don’t send the calvary to drag me back. I don’t always want to detract from a gathering and I may need to cry, or gather myself, or just sit silently remembering my son.

Give me time. Time by itself does not heal anything. But time is a critical component of healing. If this is the first holiday season after loss, don’t pressure me with artificial deadlines about what I want to do or whether or not I’m going to participate in this or that. And even if it’s not the first season, I still need time. It will be the third set of holidays after my son’s departure and I’m still feeling my way in the dark. Don’t force me to decide if I can’t. Just go on with your plans. If I can join in, I will. If I can’t, then I won’t. That’s the best I can do. It’s how I have to live every single day right now.

Grant mercy. I will mess up. I will say things in the passion of loss that I regret. Overlook it. Don’t lash out or hit back. My emotional tank is so empty sometimes that it’s a wonder I can still feel anything. I am truly trying. Grant mercy.

Extend grace. Grace is lavishing love on the unlovely. Forgiving when someone doesn’t ask for it. Doing something for someone and not expecting anything in return. Step up and step out in faith that loving me will help me heal. Even when you can’t see that it makes a difference. Don’t stop. Don’t withdraw.

Know that this is not what I would have chosen.

Child loss happened TO me.

It is out of my control.

And the calendar pages keep turning. Every holiday season means another year gone without the companionship of the child I miss.

I want to continue to embrace life, to enjoy my loved ones, to make new memories. But I need your help to make it happen.

Don’t abandon me now.

Compassion is not a virtue.
It is a commitment.
It's not something we have or don't have.
It's something we choose to practice.


~The Life I Didn't Choose~

Let Your Words Be Few. . .

It goes against my nature - our nature - to grieve communally and publicly.

To mourn with those who mourn in the very moment they are mourning and to grieve with them as their grief stretches on.

We resist being present - as individuals and as the Church - when suffering, injustice, and death face us.

But what if we didn't jump ahead to better times and made the conscious effort to be with those who are in pain?

What if we let the tears flow and stopped putting a time limit on those who are grieving?

What if we, like Jesus, wept with our friends, entering into their loss because every death is still a death even when resurrection is around the corner?

It's not that we shouldn't plan and work towards hope and change.

We should.

But for now, look around you and listen to the weeping that is happening.

Listen to the stories of pain, the stories of anger, the stories of injustice and death.

Listen and bear it.

Hold it and make space for it.

Let your words be few and your presence be felt.

And mourn with those who mourn.

~Incourage~

Only God Can Heal

You’re my friend and you care about me, and that means that you want me to feel better.
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But please, after you give me a hug and before you sit down, take that pressure off yourself. When I lost someone who took up a lot of space in my heart, my heart felt like it was completely torn out of my chest and trampled on. And that’s not something that can be fixed with a few well-intended words. I know you want me to feel happy again, but right now I’m just not okay, and I probably won’t be for a really long time. And that’s okay.
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I don’t need you to fix it, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re supposed to try to.
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And so, just as I need your friendship to walk with me through this valley, I also need you to trust God to be the one to slowly mend this gaping wound in HIS timing.
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Please don’t tell me that this is all part of His good plans for my life, because right now my pain is too fresh to dwell on how this could be a good thing. Instead, I need you to let Him be the one to reveal how He will turn these ashes into more than what feels like pain and anger and doubt and fear - more than the desire to throw something glass against the wall just so I won’t be the only thing in this room that’s been shattered.