Every little thing

There are things along the grief journey of child loss that may seem completely irrational and insignificant to those who haven't experienced the loss of a child. But to bereaved parents, we nod our heads in unison when we hear of these things. Things like why walking down the cereal aisle causes us to suddenly burst out in tears. Or why the sound of a helicopter makes us catch our breath. Things like why cardinals, dragon flies, rainbows, and hearts now mean so much more to us. These are things that only those who have suffered the loss of a loved one will understand.

It's why I know that when I tell my mom's grief group about our new used van they will get it. I hated the van that we purchased after Matt's accident. Don't get me wrong, I was, and am, extremely thankful for it. But I hated it. I hated it because every time I looked at it, it reminded me that the only reason we had it was because my 16yo. son, my firstborn, died in an accident driving our old van. And my grief moms know that every little thing in our lives after child loss remains somehow connected to before that loss. 

But Monday? Monday, we bought a new used van. A van that no longer reminds me of the accident. It is a relief. It is a symbol of a new chapter. Yet this new used van is bittersweet. So very bittersweet. Most people are just going to see our new van and think, "That's cool. I'm happy for you." (Thank you, btw. Really.) But I see our new used van, and I think of Jason Gray's lyrics to his song "Not Right Now." Three years ago, I would have said I'd never be o.k. again. Three years ago, I couldn't see anything new. All I saw was death, and everything reminded me of death.
 

But there must be new things, for death is not the end. By God's definition, life is "Life, death, life." Moving forward after child loss requires so much strength and takes so much energy for every step. For a long while, life becomes hard, and a relentless battle for joy ensues. But it gets easier. It does. It doesn't mean the hurt goes away. It doesn't mean terrible scars don't exist. It doesn't mean those ugly chapters of our lives get erased or torn out. But it does mean that some day it will be o.k. Some day, every little thing will make sense.

Don't waste your grief

I met with a dear, lovely woman for brunch several weeks ago. She is lovely, and she is devastated. She lost her son to cancer in December. My heart drops every time I learn of a new member joining "the club no one wants to be a part of." However, meeting these shattered women and giving them hope and comfort is, I believe, what we (those of us who have "been there, done that") must do.

I could never have imagined the large number of new friends I'd make along this journey of child loss. Yet meeting new friends isn't the incentive for reaching out to these new members of the "club." It is the fulfillment of 2Corinthians 1:3-4:

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God."

As the LORD has brought healing and comfort to us over the past 2 1/2 years, I am now able to reach out to others who are in need of that same comfort I received at the beginning of the journey. Scripture tells us that God does not waste our suffering, but instead turns our mourning into joy, our weeping into laughter, our ashes into beauty, and our spirit of heaviness into a garment of praise. God has given me the treasures of darkness (Isaiah 45:3) in grief, and I do not want to waste my sorrow.

I've been told that the honest outpouring of my grief through this blog has been a source of comfort for many. I am humbled and so very grateful to God for giving me this outlet, not only for myself, but for others. My purpose in blogging is several-fold: 1) to point people to Christ/God, 2) to be completely transparent about the reality of my loss, and 3) to give glory to God for the healing, help, hope, and comfort that only HE can give. 

The very name of my blog, however, defines that those reading it are only getting a glimpse of grief (and healing) through the "window." A window is just that - a small part of a bigger picture. Blogs, by nature, give a very one-sided view. Obviously, 95% of the time I blog, it's in the tough moments, the moments when grief overwhelms and ambushes. I'm not blogging the 95% when life is good, when routine is humming along and the "daily" is happening. I choose to show the view from this "window into grief" because I believe that without honesty in grief, there is no validity to healing. Grief is a season, however. The view from this window will change, be it ever so slowly. As diamonds are mined in the dark with great difficulty, the journey from mourning to joy is traveled with great exertion through a dark and deep valley.

With painstaking slowness the black curtain of grief rolls back, revealing a sky laden with color. The Master Artist unveils the canvas of our lives with each stroke of His brush. He sees the whole picture, and there is a reason His Sovereign hand has allowed my loss. My loss wasn't my choice, but my response to it is. We all have a choice about what to do with grief. We can be like Job's wife and say, "Curse God and die!" Or we can be like Job, who "fell to the ground and worshiped...nor did he blame God." Jason Gray has a line in his song "With Every Act of Love" that says: "God put a million, million doors in the world for His love to walk through. One of those doors is you." I want to be that door. Or rather, a wide-open window.

Nothing is Wasted

Jason Gray's song "Nothing is Wasted."




It's a hard, hard thing to hold on to your faith sometimes. Which is why it's so important to fill your mind with the truth. I am so thankful for the God-gifted artists who speak the truth, who remind the bereaved of their redeemer when they don't have the strength to do it themselves.

 

Death changes your perspective

"Be merciful to me, O LORD, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and my body with grief." (Psalm 31:9) It's been just over ten weeks into this season of grief. Dh had several co-workers come over Saturday morning to help with a landscaping project. We have a mound out front from an old septic system that was severely neglected. We decided many weeks ago, shortly after the funeral, that we wanted to re-do it. We received a beautiful blue bird bath from Pioneer that would be perfect on the mound along with a stepping stone the neighbors on our lane gave us. We also plan on planting some red geraniums and daisies in the mound as well come spring. A stone bench is also in the plans for completion. I know it will be a beautiful spot once it's finished. But while I am so very grateful and thankful for Dh's co-workers doing this project for us, it ushered in a new tide of grief. All of these "new" things (the van, the landscape project), while wonderful, are a painful reminder of our loss. They are forcing us, in a sense, to walk forward. And I don't want to go forward. I want time to stop while I grieve. I don't want to be rushed back into life, into "normal." There is no normal. It will never be the same again. I think that's why it's so hard...because I now have to re-define "normal." We don't have a choice in making a new normal, either, because time doesn't stand still. And I don't like it.


Another "new" is getting back to menu planning. I tried to get it done Saturday, but just couldn't do it. I took the calendar down and simply couldn't write on it. I saw Matt's name and my hand refused to write. At the beginning of the year, I had put each of the kids' names at the start of each week, rotating weeks of dish duty and table setting through to the end of the year. Then in each day's square, I put what we're having for dinner that night. The meals that have been so graciously provided have pretty much ended as of this past Friday, so I need to get the menu planning done. I just hadn't anticipated it would be this difficult to start.


I find it interesting how death changes one's perspective. Some things which I thought were so easy before are now difficult, and things which I thought were so difficult are now easy. Like menu planning. A fairly simple thing. Yet now difficult. And for Dh, it's addressing particular people about controversial topics that is easy compared to the fact that he and I have just done the hardest thing in the world, which is experience the death and burial of our sixteen year old son.


Ten and a half weeks ago, I didn't find it difficult to grocery shop, but now it's excruciating. Ten and a half weeks ago, I found it hard to ask for help, but now I don't hesitate to ask for what I need (or to accept an offer of help.) Ten and a half weeks ago, I thought skipping a meal was a big deal, but now I could care less if I ever eat again. Ten and a half weeks ago, I never worried about car accidents, but now I think of them every time I get behind the wheel. Ten and a half weeks ago, I was ignorant of grief. And now I am well acquainted with it.


Unfortunately, Dh and I are not the only ones well acquainted with it. It seems almost everyone we meet now has suffered a loss at some point in their lives. Just yesterday we heard news that a 16yo. girl had been killed in a car accident with a semi, only to discover later that she was Army boy's huddle leader from FCA camp this year. The visitation is Wednesday, and we plan on attending.


Death has put things in perspective for us. No longer will I offer platitudes or think superficially of someone else's loss. I will no longer keep silent for fear of not knowing what to say. I have learned that a simple hug is more powerful and affirming than words. Besides, there's nothing anyone can say that would take away the pain. It is far better, in my opinion, to just give a hug and say nothing more than “I'm so sorry.” Acknowledgement of our loss is crucial to the healing process. One comforting thing I did hear, however, was that God loved me. I thought it odd. I didn't realize that I needed to hear it. But each time I did, it was so very comforting. 
 

I know that these things I am feeling right now are for a season, but your emotions trick you into believing this profound pain will last forever. Tonight's Griefshare group meeting was so good. Not only were we with people who completely understood, but we were reminded via the video that this roller coaster ride WILL end. I can't fathom that right now and, honestly, I don't even believe it. But I have the promise from others who have been there, done that. My faith and hope are in the LORD, (Psalm 71) and I thank Him for using others to minister to us.

God uses people and song, of that I am certain, and last night was an evening of ministry as well. Dh and I went to a concert last night featuring Jason Gray, Aaron Shust, and Downhere. I used to work with Jason eons ago and have been a fan of his music for a long time. I actually did not want to go to the concert last night, but went anyway. And God spoke through Jason. He sang a song titled “Nothing is wasted” off of his new CD. It was incredible and I know it was the LORD's comfort to Dh and me. Here are the lyrics:

NOTHING IS WASTED

The hurt that broke your heart
And left you trembling in the dark
Feeling lost and alone
Will tell you hope’s a lie
But what if every tear you cry
Will seed the ground where joy will grow

And nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

It’s from the deepest wounds
That beauty finds a place to bloom
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece is
Gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what’s lost will be found again

And nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

From the ruins
From the ashes
Beauty will rise
From the wreckage
From the darkness
Glory will shine