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"
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
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
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Grief is a Thief
Grief is a thief, stealing so much from the grieving and those close to them. The wake is messy with shrapnel flying and everyone in your life being hit by it to a degree. If you are close to the eye of the storm coming out unharmed is a miracle. Doing so probably means you either weren’t as close as you thought or you are one of the few that were able to swim through the mud being a fierce protector of the grieving Mom’s heart.
Grief, after your baby dies, isn’t only about grieving the baby you lost but also grieving the life you once lived. You grieve relationships you had with friends and family that once felt loving and easy and no longer are. You grieve all you had envisioned for your future that no longer can be. The ripple effect is so great that one day you wake up and reflect on the life you once lived and it feels like it belongs to someone else, with little resemblance to the life you now live.
People may give you grace and understand the profound sadness that comes when your baby dies. What is often misunderstood is the pain that is caused by the ripple effect of grief and all that was left in its wake. We feel the pain to our core when we see who ran and hid, who judged you, who justified their own behaviour, who talked to others about you and who was clearly lacking love.
Once the fog clears and you see the landscape you are now living in, it is impossible to un-see it. You see your heart was truly only safe with only a few people and feel intense pain from being abandoned or let down by those you thought were put in your world to support you and help protect your heart.
Relationships are easy when living is easy. The real litmus test of a relationship is when you have to ride the waves together. When the person you trust to have your back catches you without hesitation as you are falling, when your sadness isn’t frightening, or inconvenient, and they are more than willing to meet you just exactly where you are.
Relationships over time evolve, that is natural. When a life event like this happens you as a person is forever changed and with that, the relationship you once had is also forever changed. People either choose to love you through it and allow the quick evolution to flow and become more connected or choose you no longer fit into each other’s lives.
Grief is a thief. It steals so much from everyone involved. You are left with the gift of seeing who is still standing beside you and gently holding your heart. Grief steals so much but also gives the gift of deepened, stronger and more meaningful relationships once the aftermath is cleaned up. It is those relationships you know will last a lifetime because they stand on the foundation of unconditional love.
I am so sorry if you are a Mom who not only lost their baby but also had grief steal so much more from you. You didn’t deserve it.
Thank you to all who swim through the mud, those who stand in the fire, the ones who take the responsibility to safely hold the heart when it is broken, and those who can love stronger than the shrapnel of grief. You are the grieving Mom’s greatest gift.
Still Standing Magazine
Grief, after your baby dies, isn’t only about grieving the baby you lost but also grieving the life you once lived. You grieve relationships you had with friends and family that once felt loving and easy and no longer are. You grieve all you had envisioned for your future that no longer can be. The ripple effect is so great that one day you wake up and reflect on the life you once lived and it feels like it belongs to someone else, with little resemblance to the life you now live.
People may give you grace and understand the profound sadness that comes when your baby dies. What is often misunderstood is the pain that is caused by the ripple effect of grief and all that was left in its wake. We feel the pain to our core when we see who ran and hid, who judged you, who justified their own behaviour, who talked to others about you and who was clearly lacking love.
Once the fog clears and you see the landscape you are now living in, it is impossible to un-see it. You see your heart was truly only safe with only a few people and feel intense pain from being abandoned or let down by those you thought were put in your world to support you and help protect your heart.
Relationships are easy when living is easy. The real litmus test of a relationship is when you have to ride the waves together. When the person you trust to have your back catches you without hesitation as you are falling, when your sadness isn’t frightening, or inconvenient, and they are more than willing to meet you just exactly where you are.
Relationships over time evolve, that is natural. When a life event like this happens you as a person is forever changed and with that, the relationship you once had is also forever changed. People either choose to love you through it and allow the quick evolution to flow and become more connected or choose you no longer fit into each other’s lives.
Grief is a thief. It steals so much from everyone involved. You are left with the gift of seeing who is still standing beside you and gently holding your heart. Grief steals so much but also gives the gift of deepened, stronger and more meaningful relationships once the aftermath is cleaned up. It is those relationships you know will last a lifetime because they stand on the foundation of unconditional love.
I am so sorry if you are a Mom who not only lost their baby but also had grief steal so much more from you. You didn’t deserve it.
Thank you to all who swim through the mud, those who stand in the fire, the ones who take the responsibility to safely hold the heart when it is broken, and those who can love stronger than the shrapnel of grief. You are the grieving Mom’s greatest gift.
Still Standing Magazine
Monday, January 15, 2018
What Grieving People Wish You Knew
Grief is one of the most feared emotions along the spectrum of being human. It is often ostracized instead of welcomed as an inevitable, human experience.
One of the isolating and difficult things about grief can be feeling like other people don’t get us or our multilayered feelings around our loss, especially as time goes on.
I recently posed this question on social media:
What do you wish the world understood about your grief?
I received the following responses from humans who have lost young children, adult children, husbands, wives, mothers, or fathers to suicide, cancer, accidents and more.
That it’s always there, and pretty close to the surface. And it’s weird because sometimes I want to talk about it and sometimes I
don’t. I don’t expect anyone to know which way I’m feeling on any given day, but I want to be okay with the awkwardness and I want
others to be okay with it too.
That it’s harder and longer than I could have ever expected.
I wish that people, especially family members, knew that grief is not a switch that you can just turn off because it’s time to
move on. Yes, we try to move on because our loved one is resting in peace and we have the right to enjoy the rest of our life as
much as we can. But, something triggers a memory and the grief is back. So, we need to work through it again. It’s easier said than
done unfortunately.
You miss the love that filled up that space.
That it becomes your shadow. Forever present even when not visible to all eyes. Most of all to acknowledge that it’s okay to talk
about it. And, no, you won’t remind me of it if you bring it up. My grief is who I am now. The new me. I wish that everyone was
more comfortable with my grief. It reinforces the fact that I lost my beautiful daughter and that will never change.
It has changed the whole dynamics of our family and I am no longer the person I used to be. I’m not quite sure who I am any more.
That it feels like an amputation and that it has no timetable.
That there is no right or wrong way to grieve. That everyone’s timeline is different. That it will reopen many times throughout
your life and you have to work through it again when it is retriggered, but this does not mean you are stuck or not getting on with
your life.
How heavy empty is.
That it’s changed me in every way.
I wish the world knew that my grief has touched every emotion from sadness, anger, guilt and unbearable heartache. In the early
months I felt off balance, out of control and lost. With time I have forgiven myself and my father for his death by suicide. There
are still days it all feels like a nightmare that I just can’t wake up from. The sorrow comes in waves, then subsides into
acceptance. Sometimes worry and anxiety take over and I wonder how I can possibly survive the loss of another loved one.
How bad it hurts.
That it doesn’t go away. I always feel it. I am changed because of it. But I don’t think others feel comfortable knowing that I
still hurt and that I always will. That I want to talk about how much I miss my son, but I suck it up because I don’t think others
feel comfortable with my grief. That it doesn’t mean I’m crazy or need “help.”
That every new loss sets in motion a renewed loss of everyone else. Compounded with each loss.
That it hurts like no other pain you can possibly describe and yet no other person will experience this. Because even though they
will experience grief, their pain will be different. All grief is unique and individual like snowflakes. No two are the same. I
wish it was talked about more. I wish it to be acceptable, that’s it’s okay to not be okay. I wish for all grievers to be heard and
not tried to be fixed.
That we don’t choose grief. The mind cannot turn off and on what the heart and soul feel just because “they” want the old you
back.
That it softens but it’s something I will carry with me the rest of my life.
That they are the same as they always were and I am not. My life did not go on after my loss as theirs did. And my life will
stay in this realm unknown to them forever. I would like them to know that they will never truly feel profound loss like this until
it happens to them.
That I will never stop grieving my losses.
I wish people knew that the grief parents feel about their child with special needs is something they have to carry and honor and
process their whole lives.
That even a year or more later there are days where it hurts just as bad as it did the moment I found out; that even when the number of years reaches fifty, there will still be those crippling days.
When we humans trust our capacity to hold other humans, to let unfold and be told our deepest layers of humanity, rich with heartache and love, something powerful happens. In the pause before we reach for a way to fix someone, that moment where we choose to sit with what is uncomfortable and unfixable, we find a sweet spot of being human, where all that is required is showing up to listen, see, hold, and honor another person’s truth or pain.
Still Standing Magazine
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Holiday Survival for Grieving Hearts
So many are feeling the extra ache of missing as we walk through the holiday season. Thanksgiving, Christmas, another New Year. A year without those we love. Many are looking for a survival guide. How? How do we get through this Christmas without our baby/child…this first Christmas…or the twenty-first? Much gets easier with the passing of time and the healing of wounds. One thing doesn’t leave…it’s the missing. And, it washes over us anew with each season.
What does happen, is that the missing becomes familiar, like a part of your family, your memories, your celebrations, your heart. The missing is almost part of you in time, welcomed even, because it means someone was here…someone precious and valuable and worth the remembering.
So…here are some “tips” but by no means are they an answer. There are no quick fixes to ease the longing brought about by the holiday season. Nothing I can say to make all the wrongs right. This isn’t about trying. It’s simply about knowing that we aren’t walking alone. Knowing, there’s hope and grace for this journey along the way. And, beautiful gifts…even in the missing.
I miss my daughters, Faith and Grace and my son, Thomas. And, I miss my mother. Life and especially Christmas will never be the same without her…without them. But, I’m still grateful for the love in my heart, the dreams I still dream, the ornaments on my tree, and the memories I hold dear. Most of all the truth that because Jesus came, I will see them again.
1. Give yourself grace. Take care of you. If you can’t “do” Christmas like you’ve always done or do it at all, just do what you need to. Be you. Protect your fragile heart.
2. Do something…or many things to honor the memory of your baby/child…to include your child in the celebration. Ornaments on the tree, donating to a favorite charity, buying presents through Operation Christmas Child or Angel Tree, ask others to join you in doing random acts of kindness. Decorate the cemetery or a special place in your home…or don’t. And, don’t feel guilty if none of those suggestions happen or fit your plan for where your heart is.
3. Survival mode is ok.
4. Laughing and joy is ok, too. If you do want routine and tradition and find comfort in it, there is nothing wrong with still celebrating. Don’t allow guilt to steal joy. And, cry when you need to.
5. Take a hot bath, read a good book, go slowly. Don’t plan too much or put too much pressure on yourself. Make sure you have some quiet time to refuel. Grief is hard work, And, it’s happening even when we don’t realize it, taking much of your energy. Eat healthy, exercise, and rest…plenty. (Some good reading can be found in Isaiah 61…if in the hurt, you need to be re-introduced to the One who came to save you. This is the Jesus I know.)
6. Some people take a little trip, escape for a bit together, and change it up. That’s helpful for some.
7. If you do a tree or don’t, that’s ok. Whatever you need to do to survive is just fine. There are no rules and should be no judgments.
8. If you choose to celebrate with extended family and friends, they may follow your lead. If you are comfortable talking about your baby, they may feel at ease, too. Often they don’t mention your child or say the wrong thing, because they are uncomfortable or unsure. That isn’t always the case. Plenty of people said the “wrong” thing or nothing at all to me. For many years. Be prepared for that.
9. No one is or should be allowed to judge your “performance” in grief. Don’t allow that to rule your thinking. They aren’t walking this. You are.
10. Spend some time with your safe people…people you can talk about the missing, your baby, or nothing at all. Spend time with those you love the most…just being. Time with your husband/partner. Time with your other children, if you have other children. Time with anyone else close to you, and understanding of your grief.
One other thing…this isn’t a hard and fast rule. There are no rules in grief. No handbook. No answers that fit all situations or hurts. So. Much. Grace. Is. Needed. But, it is good to remember that often…the anticipation of a day is much worse than the actual day. Not always, but often.
What does happen, is that the missing becomes familiar, like a part of your family, your memories, your celebrations, your heart. The missing is almost part of you in time, welcomed even, because it means someone was here…someone precious and valuable and worth the remembering.
So…here are some “tips” but by no means are they an answer. There are no quick fixes to ease the longing brought about by the holiday season. Nothing I can say to make all the wrongs right. This isn’t about trying. It’s simply about knowing that we aren’t walking alone. Knowing, there’s hope and grace for this journey along the way. And, beautiful gifts…even in the missing.
I miss my daughters, Faith and Grace and my son, Thomas. And, I miss my mother. Life and especially Christmas will never be the same without her…without them. But, I’m still grateful for the love in my heart, the dreams I still dream, the ornaments on my tree, and the memories I hold dear. Most of all the truth that because Jesus came, I will see them again.
1. Give yourself grace. Take care of you. If you can’t “do” Christmas like you’ve always done or do it at all, just do what you need to. Be you. Protect your fragile heart.
2. Do something…or many things to honor the memory of your baby/child…to include your child in the celebration. Ornaments on the tree, donating to a favorite charity, buying presents through Operation Christmas Child or Angel Tree, ask others to join you in doing random acts of kindness. Decorate the cemetery or a special place in your home…or don’t. And, don’t feel guilty if none of those suggestions happen or fit your plan for where your heart is.
3. Survival mode is ok.
4. Laughing and joy is ok, too. If you do want routine and tradition and find comfort in it, there is nothing wrong with still celebrating. Don’t allow guilt to steal joy. And, cry when you need to.
5. Take a hot bath, read a good book, go slowly. Don’t plan too much or put too much pressure on yourself. Make sure you have some quiet time to refuel. Grief is hard work, And, it’s happening even when we don’t realize it, taking much of your energy. Eat healthy, exercise, and rest…plenty. (Some good reading can be found in Isaiah 61…if in the hurt, you need to be re-introduced to the One who came to save you. This is the Jesus I know.)
6. Some people take a little trip, escape for a bit together, and change it up. That’s helpful for some.
7. If you do a tree or don’t, that’s ok. Whatever you need to do to survive is just fine. There are no rules and should be no judgments.
8. If you choose to celebrate with extended family and friends, they may follow your lead. If you are comfortable talking about your baby, they may feel at ease, too. Often they don’t mention your child or say the wrong thing, because they are uncomfortable or unsure. That isn’t always the case. Plenty of people said the “wrong” thing or nothing at all to me. For many years. Be prepared for that.
9. No one is or should be allowed to judge your “performance” in grief. Don’t allow that to rule your thinking. They aren’t walking this. You are.
10. Spend some time with your safe people…people you can talk about the missing, your baby, or nothing at all. Spend time with those you love the most…just being. Time with your husband/partner. Time with your other children, if you have other children. Time with anyone else close to you, and understanding of your grief.
One other thing…this isn’t a hard and fast rule. There are no rules in grief. No handbook. No answers that fit all situations or hurts. So. Much. Grace. Is. Needed. But, it is good to remember that often…the anticipation of a day is much worse than the actual day. Not always, but often.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
A Letter to my Grieving Self
The following is a blog post from a fellow bereaved mom who we met at the Respite Retreat we went to on the 1 year anniversary of Austin's death. She and her husband are almost 2 years into their journey and they have had a loss through miscarriage as well. She speaks our hearts so beautifully. It's almost as if she tapped into our mins when she wrote this.
The past few months have brought with them reminders, heartache, news from many different friends on many different occasions and with several different circumstances, all dealing with children and heartbreak, that they or their friends are experiencing loss. Fresh loss for some, anticipated loss for others, longing for life for even more. Today, as my heart is broken anew for the aches of this world, I was reminded of the beauty of showing myself grace. And so here I am, writing a letter to the hurting mamas, the longing-to-be-mamas, and to myself, the mama whose grief is still so fresh and yet whose arms are about to be full.
A letter to the loss mama, the longing to be pregnant mama, to the pregnant after she’s lost mama, and all shades of the in-between… a letter to me:
I see you.
I see you back there, heart raw and vulnerable. Waking up in the morning and putting your feet over the side of the bed in hopes. Maybe one day.
Yet again, opening your eyes to your reality. Your reality that you wish was simply a dream. Your heart and arms longing for something – for someone – not there to fill them.
You get up and you remember that the rest of the world is continuing on. Just stop for once, you think, as you try to catch your breath, catch up to what all is happening, catch up to the place where you feel like you can continue on as you were.
Except – there isn’t an as you were.
There’s only now. This normal. This new normal.
And you almost hate it.
You almost hate it while you also learn to embrace it. Because that’s all you can do. Because there’s a part of you that just wants to move on and wants to be better and yet there’s the rest of you that is screaming inside that you just can’t. That you’d rather go back. That you want them here, alive, with you. Not missing. Not lost. Not just a memory.
I see you when you’re walking through the grocery store and you run into someone you haven’t seen in a long time. An innocent question. A comment. An assumption made and all you want to do is hide. Or cry. Or share a little too much. Because you just want them to see you for who you are – for all of you who are in that moment – and not to see through you. Because maybe then, you won’t feel alone.
Or it just won’t sting as much.
You shut your car door and the tears start to flow. You get home and you’re exhausted. But it was just a simple grocery store trip, you try to reason with yourself. Your body knows what your heart is trying to sort out. And your body is telling you – it’s exhausting to try to do all of this.
This grief is painful.
And even if no one else in this world sees you in it… it doesn’t take it away.
I see you when you are frustrated with your husband. Except you’re not really frustrated with him. He’s been there. He cares. He’s hurting too, and he’s entering in with you as he’s able, and he’s serving you in the best way possible. It’s just that you’re frustrated with the circumstance. You’re hurting for each other while you’re hurting yourselves and it’s so overwhelming.
It shouldn’t be this hard you think.
And you’re right – it shouldn’t. And you are right to be frustrated with the fact that this world is fallen and broken and that this part of the brokenness is also a part of your life.
You deserve it no more or no less than anyone else. And you know that. There’s no wishing it was them instead if you. There’s just that wishing that this wasn’t ever supposed to be like this in the first place. And it wasn’t.
But that’s the beautiful part, too.
And as hard as it is to swallow, there will be moments – glimpses – as time goes by where you will see this being used for your good. That’s not necessarily the reason any of this is happening, but it surely is a byproduct.
Because our God – He’s not a god of waste.
Our God is the God who deems it to be holy and true that he does work all things together for the good of those who walk uprightly.
Our God is the God who sees it fit to declare that one day there will be no more sorrow and no more tears and no more pain and death shall be no more.
Our God is the God who says that He is with us and we will be His people and He will be our God.
Our God is near.
He is kind.
He hears us.
He cares.
Our God is the God who is willing to weep with us while we weep all the while knowing that He is making all things new.
And so.
You lift up your face again to face another day. You do the next thing just to continue to press on. You put on a brave smile and you bravely let tears fall and you step out into the world and you hide back in your room and you remember.
You hold onto memories. You keep those dreams.
You share with those you trust and you speak without holding back. You cautiously let your heart whisper small prayers that really are big, because how can you continue to ask and trust and believe when you’re continually brought to heartache?
And you slowly begin to see hope rise again.
Your heart will swell again, and your heart will continue to love, and that one you are missing does still have a place.
Seen.
All of it and all of you.
Seen and loved.
In the darkness of what surrounds you, remember this: there is One who cares. Draws near. Faithfully doesn’t abandon. And you have the freedom to scream and cry and pound your fists at the injustices of the reality of this place. He takes it. And He weeps with you.
In this place, in this season of expected-to-be-always-joyful, I write this letter to you, to me. To let you know that yes, there is joy and hope to be found, but there’s also space to just be. He welcomes you here. And He loves you.
And one day. One day. That may simply be enough.
From a mama in the trenches of confusion and pain looking outward and upward and onward to that flickering light of hope – I’m with you. I am you. You are loved.
The past few months have brought with them reminders, heartache, news from many different friends on many different occasions and with several different circumstances, all dealing with children and heartbreak, that they or their friends are experiencing loss. Fresh loss for some, anticipated loss for others, longing for life for even more. Today, as my heart is broken anew for the aches of this world, I was reminded of the beauty of showing myself grace. And so here I am, writing a letter to the hurting mamas, the longing-to-be-mamas, and to myself, the mama whose grief is still so fresh and yet whose arms are about to be full.
A letter to the loss mama, the longing to be pregnant mama, to the pregnant after she’s lost mama, and all shades of the in-between… a letter to me:
I see you.
I see you back there, heart raw and vulnerable. Waking up in the morning and putting your feet over the side of the bed in hopes. Maybe one day.
Yet again, opening your eyes to your reality. Your reality that you wish was simply a dream. Your heart and arms longing for something – for someone – not there to fill them.
You get up and you remember that the rest of the world is continuing on. Just stop for once, you think, as you try to catch your breath, catch up to what all is happening, catch up to the place where you feel like you can continue on as you were.
Except – there isn’t an as you were.
There’s only now. This normal. This new normal.
And you almost hate it.
You almost hate it while you also learn to embrace it. Because that’s all you can do. Because there’s a part of you that just wants to move on and wants to be better and yet there’s the rest of you that is screaming inside that you just can’t. That you’d rather go back. That you want them here, alive, with you. Not missing. Not lost. Not just a memory.
I see you when you’re walking through the grocery store and you run into someone you haven’t seen in a long time. An innocent question. A comment. An assumption made and all you want to do is hide. Or cry. Or share a little too much. Because you just want them to see you for who you are – for all of you who are in that moment – and not to see through you. Because maybe then, you won’t feel alone.
Or it just won’t sting as much.
You shut your car door and the tears start to flow. You get home and you’re exhausted. But it was just a simple grocery store trip, you try to reason with yourself. Your body knows what your heart is trying to sort out. And your body is telling you – it’s exhausting to try to do all of this.
This grief is painful.
And even if no one else in this world sees you in it… it doesn’t take it away.
I see you when you are frustrated with your husband. Except you’re not really frustrated with him. He’s been there. He cares. He’s hurting too, and he’s entering in with you as he’s able, and he’s serving you in the best way possible. It’s just that you’re frustrated with the circumstance. You’re hurting for each other while you’re hurting yourselves and it’s so overwhelming.
It shouldn’t be this hard you think.
And you’re right – it shouldn’t. And you are right to be frustrated with the fact that this world is fallen and broken and that this part of the brokenness is also a part of your life.
You deserve it no more or no less than anyone else. And you know that. There’s no wishing it was them instead if you. There’s just that wishing that this wasn’t ever supposed to be like this in the first place. And it wasn’t.
But that’s the beautiful part, too.
And as hard as it is to swallow, there will be moments – glimpses – as time goes by where you will see this being used for your good. That’s not necessarily the reason any of this is happening, but it surely is a byproduct.
Because our God – He’s not a god of waste.
Our God is the God who deems it to be holy and true that he does work all things together for the good of those who walk uprightly.
Our God is the God who sees it fit to declare that one day there will be no more sorrow and no more tears and no more pain and death shall be no more.
Our God is the God who says that He is with us and we will be His people and He will be our God.
Our God is near.
He is kind.
He hears us.
He cares.
Our God is the God who is willing to weep with us while we weep all the while knowing that He is making all things new.
And so.
You lift up your face again to face another day. You do the next thing just to continue to press on. You put on a brave smile and you bravely let tears fall and you step out into the world and you hide back in your room and you remember.
You hold onto memories. You keep those dreams.
You share with those you trust and you speak without holding back. You cautiously let your heart whisper small prayers that really are big, because how can you continue to ask and trust and believe when you’re continually brought to heartache?
And you slowly begin to see hope rise again.
Your heart will swell again, and your heart will continue to love, and that one you are missing does still have a place.
Seen.
All of it and all of you.
Seen and loved.
In the darkness of what surrounds you, remember this: there is One who cares. Draws near. Faithfully doesn’t abandon. And you have the freedom to scream and cry and pound your fists at the injustices of the reality of this place. He takes it. And He weeps with you.
In this place, in this season of expected-to-be-always-joyful, I write this letter to you, to me. To let you know that yes, there is joy and hope to be found, but there’s also space to just be. He welcomes you here. And He loves you.
And one day. One day. That may simply be enough.
From a mama in the trenches of confusion and pain looking outward and upward and onward to that flickering light of hope – I’m with you. I am you. You are loved.
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