When you wake aching

It was one of those mornings. A morning where, before I had even opened my eyes, I knew grief had crept in under the covers and sidled up next to me during the night while I had slept. I woke heavy-hearted, the sky unlit by morning light, though the clock professed it was, indeed, daytime.

Strike one: a fitful night's sleep. Strike two: a gray, cloudy day. And strike three: my aching heart. I took a deep breath and got up. After three and a half years of grief, days like these are all too familiar. Thankfully, however, they are also now fewer and farther between and don't last nearly as long.

I've since learned how to fight back against the sorrow. I determined, though aching, to give thanks. I began to list things I was thankful for. I thanked God that He is unchanging. I thanked Him for His promises. I thanked Him that this world is not all there is. I thanked Him for the "God-nods" He's given me.

Indeed, as I finished getting ready for the day the song "Stronger" by Mandisa came on. A God-nod. I didn't feel strong, but God was reminding me that He saw my pain, and that He knew I felt anything but strong. The song finished, only to be followed by yet another grief favorite. I knew then that I would make it through the day o.k. It would be tough, but I had God's strength to get me through.

I made it through the day, stumbled a bit, but found my footing. Driving home, one last song hit me. It was Matt Redman's song, "Lord, You Never Let Go." Why I had to hear that particular song on the way home, I don't know. It's a painful song for us. Crying, I told my husband, "I wonder if I'll ever be able to listen to this song ever again without also thinking of my son's funeral." It sucks. It really sucks. Yet, there is truth. Comforting truth. God has never once let go of me. He knows. He will never let go.

Stuffing grief

Ask anyone who's lost a child, and they'll tell you that grief makes no sense. Grief doesn't play by the rules. We want to put grief in a box and make it behave. Well, it doesn't. For every 100 people grieving, you have a 100 different ways to grieve. My daughter is still struggling deeply. For whatever reason, I'm not sure she ever allowed herself to express her grief. And that's the thing about grief. If you don't face the bully of grief, he will simply wait...like a ticking time bomb. He is an expert at planning attacks and an expert at waiting. It doesn't matter to him if it takes two years or ten, he'll explode eventually.

Though my husband and I have done our best to model grieving in a healthy manner over the past two years, I still feel guilty (responsible) for her struggle. I question myself wondering if I missed something, wondering if I should have tried harder to get her to talk about Matt? I hurt for her, yet I can do nothing but stand by watching her in pain. She hurts, and I hurt.

What really sucks, too, is that the resources for children and teens are pathetic. It's hard enough finding resources for adults, much less kids. It's like finding a needle in a haystack. Most sad is the fact that the resources I've found for adults have only been found through word of mouth. And of those, very precious few are from a Christian, eternity perspective. Books, too, are just as disappointing. Of the very few children's grief books available, I have yet to find one for teens.

I am, however, forever thankful to our funeral home, not only for the amazing support they gave me and my family, but for the information they provided about Children's Grief Connection and Hearts of Hope Camp. They were instrumental in helping our kids deal with their grief and in educating me and Tim about how children grieve. The volunteers and staff at Hearts of Hope camp are simply amazing, incredible people.

As frustratingly helpless as I am that I can't take away my daughter's pain, I will be relentless in finding her help. Death may have claimed one of my children, but I'll be damned if I stand by silently while grief claims another. I will continue to pray to the LORD who knows our every need. I will continue to speak the truth; that though Matt died, he is alive. I will keep reminding my girl of the hope we have in Christ, of the hope of eternity.

It's Not Fair

It's Not Fair

It's not fair I have to live the rest of my life without my child.

It's not fair my children have to live the rest of their lives without their brother.

It's not fair my children have to deal with a broken mother.

It's not fair I have to be the parent who lost a child.

It's not fair I can't have graduations with, and a wedding for, my son.

It's not fair that I will never have grandchildren of my son's.

It's not fair that grief can come unannounced and uninvited at any moment and stay for as long as it wants.

It's not fair that grief still visits two years later.

It's not fair that somehow I get to be the unofficial spokesperson for grief and how to handle it well. (HA. Isn't that a riot?)

It's not fair that I'm a part of a club I didn't want to be a part of and didn't ask to join.

It's not fair.

It's all so damn not fair.

I wish with all my heart that this wasn't true, that my son was still here. I need to know God is here with me. I need to know I'm going to make it. I need to know my kids are going to be o.k. I need to know I can count on God. I don't want to keep asking, “God, why did you do this?” I want to know that faith is real. I want to finish the race. (Though I don't see the finish line.)



I wish it were easier, but it's not. I wish I could do this myself, but I can't. I wish it didn't hurt so bad, but it does. I wish I weren't so weak, but I am.

I need help, and I got it. I got it yesterday when Tim and I went to the One Bright Star Memorial service and sat amongst a hundred other bereaved parents. I got it last week when we participated in the Angel Walk. I got it when we attended GriefShare and Compassionate Friends and met other people who understood. I got it each and every time someone listened when I talked about Matt. I got it every time someone spoke Matt's name. I got it when I woke up every morning of these past 794 days and saw my other children and heard their voices. I got it when God sent me a foreign exchange student named David. I got it every time I heard a song that ministered to my broken heart. I got it every time I read and heard God's word.

He is here alright. He is real. He knows. And though this process is painful and feels unending, His grace is sufficient, His power is made perfect in my weakness, and His strength is abundant. I am not alone. It is as Job 23:10 says, ““But He knows the way I take; when He has tried me, I shall come forth as gold." He is with me.

The paradox of grief

I made reference to Tanya Chernov's book, "A Real Emotional Girl" in my last post. One of the lines she wrote really struck home with me. She was talking about how, after a loss, people will tell you that "it" (the grief, the pain) will get better. Only she discovered that it never really got better. It only got more familiar. When I read that, I nodded in agreement. To an extent, that's completely true. Living with grief gets awfully familiar. The physical pain, yes, subsides and lessens over time. But while it's not as physically painful, the sorrow remains just as deep.

As we drove away from the farm leaving the 4th of July weekend behind, I spent time reflecting. As I sat thinking, I had an unexpectedly profound moment. The thoughts that hit me were: "I have grieved all I can grieve. Every fiber of my being, every cell in my body, every molecule in me, has wept. I have held nothing back in my sorrow." I think there was then a turning point. A point where I "officially" stopped mourning. It wasn't a conscious decision to stop. It was, I feel, a moment when GOD, through the Holy Spirit, told me that it was done. My time of mourning was over.

Now that, most emphatically, does not mean that I don't (and will not) still grieve or won't still experience days and moments of grief. But the outward display of my sorrow is over. It doesn't mean I won't cry when I feel like it or no longer express my grief, but I have, in a sense, ceased rending my clothes and have gotten up from sitting in the ashes. It doesn't mean I no longer grieve, but that I am now standing and going forward.

Maybe that sounds strange to many, especially those who have seen me "functioning" for more than a year now. But functioning does not reveal an accurate picture of the heart. Anyone can go through the motions of existing. The outward wound can heal and even the scar can look pretty good, but only God sees the heart, the place where the real damage took place. Only He sees the healing, too, that's happened on the inside. The outside is but a poor reflection.

I guess I'm rather surprised, too, because I thought that "turning a corner" was going to look a little different, a little better than this. I mean, I knew that I wasn't going to get my son back, but I guess I thought healing was going to be "prettier." I was hoping the scar, the amputation, wasn't going to be as obvious. I had a misconception of what healing looked like. I've had to come to terms with reality. Embracing a life without my oldest child was something I fought fiercely. Figuring out what moving forward looks like while not negating my son or his life is the paradox of grief.

I believe I've finally come to accept that Matt is gone and he now lives, and is alive, in Heaven. I've concluded that I don't have to get over my son, but I do have to get over grief. I have to think of my son and not the loss of my son. I have to view the death of my child as one of the many chapters in the book of my life. It is a chapter that I wanted so desperately to leave out. But I didn't write this book. God did. He is the author. I am merely the words on the page. Because of that realization, I've decided I want those words to be light and hope. Light and hope for my family and for others who are walking this journey. I want to be able to say, "I am an overcomer."




 

Grief at bay

I can honestly say it's been an o.k. week. We got back from the farm and had to jump into the week with both feet. Two of the kids celebrated birthdays on the same day this week, and we were in cake up to our noses! About the only family tradition we have is that I make the kids' birthday cakes from scratch. The awesome thing about this is that 1) I've gotten better at making them and 2) Artsy girl loves to express her creativity with baking and has learned to make fondant from scratch. She and I also took some Wilton cake decorating classes which helped. :)

We have two more birthdays in the next three weeks with the two year anniversary of Matt's homegoing sandwiched between them. Joy and grief, a broken record; the needle of sorrow stuck in the groove of loss. Thankfully, there is One who picks up the arm of the record player, moving it ever so slightly, with care and precision, and keeps the music going. Slowly, I am learning to listen for it.

The birthday cakes devoured and the guests gone, I decided to wind down with a book. In my BC days (Before Children), I used to inhale books, often reading a 500 page book in two days. (It's been a long time since doing that!) However, the busyness of the week compelled me to "check out" mentally. Rather than finding escape through food, I chose reading. :) I'd been to a writing conference back in April and had wanted to read a book titled, "A Real Emotional Girl" by Tanya Chernov ever since. (Ms. Chernov was one of the speakers/authors on the conference panel.) I knew it was a memoir on the loss of her father, and identifying with loss is what drew me to it. I picked up the book a few days ago and was transported back to my BC reading days almost immediately upon starting chapter one. I now have three chapters left to read. I haven't gotten anything else around the house done since I started reading. Let's just say, "Moderation in all things" is a very wise saying, indeed!

It's been a relief to not live in grief this week. It's all-consuming fingers have loosened their grip and there is a reason for it. I believe God has pried Grief's claws from around my heart by speaking a word to me this past week about grief. I'm still processing it all, but I hope to post sometime in the next few weeks about it.

And speaking of relief, another bit of refreshment has been in playing Mandisa's new song, "Overcomer." It's one of my absolute new favorites!   

 

He is with you