Dear Matt

Dear Matt,

I think about you every day. We talk about you all the time. You are missed. You are loved beyond measure. I think you would be proud of me, Matt. I have finally come to a place of resolution in traversing this grief journey. I've navigated this massive mountain of child loss and made it through the valley of sorrow. I army-crawled through the mine field of grief and made it out alive. Oh, I didn't come out whole, but I came out stronger. And it's funny, because strength wasn't what I wanted. But strength is what I got, because, as I've said many times before, I believe there are only two choices in surviving: better or bitter. (And surviving? I didn't even want that for a long time.)

I've wrestled for months with this feeling of resolution, not quite knowing what it was. But then we watched the movie Inside Out over Thanksgiving break, and I bawled unreservedly because it finally gave birth to what I had been laboring to deliver: this new life of joy and grief. See, after loss our society tells us that at some point, we will be over our grief, that our grief will be in the past, a done deal. But that is a lie. Our culture brainwashes us into believing that our sorrow (especially any sorrow lasting more than a year in length) is somehow not normal, that we are divergent if we don't "get over it."

This resolution I feel is because I have finally come to terms with the fact that I will always have grief. I will always miss you. I will miss you until the day I die. But I also have joy. I have laughter. I have love. I have learned to be grateful and forgiving. (And trust me, if grief doesn't teach you to be grateful and forgiving, then I don't know what will.) Changing our understanding of what it means to have closure is pivotal in healing from loss.

The struggle in healing from grief is not the choosing between joy and grief. It is not an either-or decision. It is the reconciliation of joy and grief to coexist, to cohabitate and assimilate them in one's life after devastating loss. It is moving forward with both, knowing that there will be times (especially in the beginning years of loss) where one outweighs the other. And that is o.k. because it is not a this-or-that position. It is, instead, a "I will lean hard on God, trusting in Him" choice. It is the decision to feel the pain, the anger, the confusion, the sorrow, and every other grief emotion while pressing into Jesus, allowing Him to carry me. He carried the cross for me. I know that He can carry this, this mess, this grief. He carries me.

Watching Inside Out and Beyond closure gave me the validation I had been searching for. See, Matt, the idea endorsed is that if one has joy in this life, then they can't have grief also. That, somehow, the grief is "over." But there is no "over" in child loss. There is, instead, a moving forward, forward with shrapnel, scars, and missing body parts, but forward nonetheless. Yet there is beauty in the ugly because it necessitates the acknowledgement of victory, victory in overcoming devastation. It proclaims healing. It affirms a story, a story of the faithfulness of God.

As we endure yet another Christmas without you, Matt, I ache. I ache. I cry. I long for you, my son. I cling to God's word, for it is my life. This world holds joy and grief, and there is plenty of both on earth. But I don't cling to this life. This life is temporary. The present joy and grief are merely the birth pangs to eternal life, a life in the presence of God. You are looking into the face of your Savior, Matt. I can't imagine it, yet I know it is all and only joy in His presence. I am comforted in knowing that you are being taken care of in the most perfect way ever.

Love, Mom

Dear Matt,

Dear Matt,
It's Christmas. My grief moms group hasn't met in a couple of weeks. The busyness of the holidays has kept us apart, and we are all struggling. Thank God for the internet and FB chats! We talked yesterday about wanting to crawl under the covers and sleep until the new year, or go away somewhere, anywhere. The holidays are, undeniably, a time for family. But for us, they have become painful reminders that our families are not complete. Nonetheless, we treasure the joy of the season, for we know the truth, that Christ's birth is the reason we can truly celebrate. There is joy in that.

We talked about heaven, which we often do, wondering what it's like. We envisioned the excitement, joy, and laughter that must surely be present. We pictured our kids in the company of angels, having parties, and hanging out with other loved ones. We talked of what our kids would be saying, telling us to "Get it together." and "It's all good." We talked about hope, truth, and joy. We mentioned you all by name: Matt, Dustin, Kaylie, Tyler, Declan, Sloan, Craig, and Trevor. We cherished seeing your names in writing and the freedom and validation in mentioning them.

We don't talk about the "What ifs" or the "If onlys," because we've learned that they aren't productive. They only serve to send us spiraling down, and we've worked so, so hard to fly! We want so much to make our kids proud of us. We remind ourselves often of how short this life is. Not because we don't know how short it is (for our children's deaths certainly did that), but because we struggle with how long life appears when we look ahead to it without our kids. We reassure one another that this short life will soon transform into a glorious reunion.

In the meantime, we treasure what we have. We count our blessings. We cultivate thankfulness and choose joy. We appreciate the little things. We cherish our families. We cling to God's grace. We make new memories, and we savor the ones we were blessed to have. We cry. We laugh. We wish we could have a snapshot of our "angels" together, but then we realize that we don't need one...because we get to spend eternity together, never to be separated again by death, for "there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain..." (Rev. 21:4)

I miss you, Matt. I wish you were here. I will always wish you were here...until I am there. 
Love, mom

P.S. - I hope you like your tree. :)

 

Muddling through

This past Sunday found me feeling very worn. I was tired and ached with longing to see my son. I was just so sad and in disbelief, once again, that it's been 28 months since I've seen Matt or talked to him. 28 months since I've heard his deep, quiet voice or seen him walk through the house. 28 months since seeing him sitting in the middle of the couch with his laptop open atop his lap. 28 months since I've heard the creak of the kitchen cupboard door at 10:30pm when he would help himself to his nightly bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal. I miss Matt. I miss him with an ache so deep it is indescribable. There is nothing that takes away the pain when these moments hit. They are the "phantom" pains an amputee experiences, pains that one simply has to endure.

I found myself despairing and wondering how on earth I was going to get through the next several weeks. Compared to Christmas, getting through Thanksgiving was easy. Thanksgiving is just one day in that it doesn't have a countdown of days like Christmas, nor does it hold the same excitement or build-up for people that Christmas does. We muddled through Thanksgiving mainly because we were able to share the day with another family who is experiencing a tremendously difficult situation. We didn't need to hide our pain from one another or pretend to be o.k. We understood that the holiday was exceptionally difficult for both of our families.

Having survived Thanksgiving, there was barely room to breathe before the onslaught of Christmas. By Sunday, the radio stations were in full swing playing Christmas music. I remembered it being excruciating to hear last year. While it's not as painful this year, I'm still not ready to be inundated by the 24 hour merriment of holiday songs. Thankfully, I am prepared with several CD's in the van, ones I burned with my favorite "grief" songs over the past two years.

As the rest of the family got ready for church on Sunday, I dragged behind. Grief had already wrapped his cold, bony fingers around my bloodshot eyes and had whispered, "Despair!" enough times to make me want to forget about going altogether. However, I knew it was better to stay out of the pit to begin with than to climb out of it later. I told the rest of my family to go ahead without me and that I would drive separately and be there shortly. I finished getting ready and wandered into the dining room. I stood looking out the window at the bird feeders. There were no birds in sight, and the trees in the back yard looked desolate. I silently prayed to God, asking Him to help me make it through the day. I told Him how I felt and asked Him to show me hope, to remind me that the veil between Heaven and earth is thin. I wanted to see a cardinal. It had been so long since I'd seen one. The first year Matt was gone, we saw a cardinal every single day. The second year, it became a little less. Recently, it's only been every once in a while, and just the kids have seen it. I didn't need to see one, but I desperately wanted to see one, and I told God that.

The bird feeder remained empty, though, and I then left the room to put on my coat. As I finished getting it on, I turned one last time to look out the dining room window. There, at the feeder, was a cardinal. It hopped and turned my direction, then cocked it's head as if to say, "Matt is near." I cried. I cried at God's goodness, at His answer to my prayer. He doesn't always give us what we want, and He doesn't have to. He is God, and I am not. Seeing the cardinal, however, was as if He tenderly reminded me that He hears. He hears my hurting heart and gives me His presence.

I realized right then that I wouldn't have to muddle through the next three weeks. Instead, I would have to appropriate the grace God gives. And the grace He gives is for the moment. I will stop running ahead with the future and trust Him with now. I will remember how He has been good to me and fix my eyes on the hope He has promised. 

The Birds in the Trees

by Angie Cherney

I saw the branches of the trees.

Brown they were, without leaves.

They appeared lifeless and cold.

So much like me, and old.

I asked God for a red bird so fair,

Then flew one swiftly in the air!

The birds in the trees so bare

I did not see them, though there.

Hidden treasures for me,

A cardinal I did see.

In the lion's den

I spent several days last week, before and after Christmas, in the lion's den. Bully grief shoved me from behind and I fell into the pit. They were long, terrible days of emotional and mental war with grief in the dark confines of the den. There are times when the grief is so overwhelming that all I want to do is die, to commit suicide. I don't want to leave my husband and family, but I just want the pain to go away. Last week was the third time I have felt like that since our son died.

The lion's den is a dark, foul place. The battle of the finite mind against the truth of God's Word echoes with deafening roar in the pit. Your eyes see nothing, only darkness, while your hands grope frantically about seeking to find anything of comfort and familiarity to grab hold of. The reverberating lies of the enemy bounce off the ears and clang with acute sharpness in the mind. Mercifully, however, the hand of the God of hope reaches out and takes a firm hold of yours. His calm, unhurried whisper brushes next to your ear. Suddenly, the noise of grief is drowned out by the words of the Comforter. "Be still."

God's voice, through His Word, comforts His children. ^"For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart." (Hebrews 4:12) God knew. He knew where I was. He knew what I was thinking. He knew what I was feeling. I was not alone in the lion's den.

God's Word is the light that pierces the darkness. Truth is the slayer of the liar Assassin in the pit. But truth does not stand alone. Just as Batman has Robin, Truth has Hope. Hope is what gives you the strength to crawl out of the pit, with Truth pushing your backside up and out of the lair. 

I managed to get out of the pit. I turned on the praise and worship music and shared what I was feeling with my husband. The LORD gave me the key to escape when He reminded me to focus on Him, to worship Him, to pour out my heart to Him in honest lament. What is brought into the light cannot be hidden by the dark. The journey of grief is indeed dark at times, but the words of Corrie Ten Boom are wise: "When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don't throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer." Giving thanks to the LORD, for He is good. (Lam. 3:19-26)

 

Grief is a bully

Grief is a bully. He strides in inconspicuously without warning and knocks you over before you know what hit you. He walks with purpose and strength. His one, sole aim is to knock you over, unawares. And he is effective. Oh, so effective. How do you fight an enemy that has perfected the art of ambush? I still don't know. But I am learning to get back up, little by little. And though my attempts are feeble, I know that each time I do, I will get stronger and better at it. To be honest, however, there are times I don't feel like getting back up. Sometimes I'd like to just lie there in defeat. Yet I know that's not what God wants. He doesn't want me to give in to the enemy or allow him a foothold. Yet He also knows I'm not strong enough to fight on my own. He is there waiting for me to take hold of His outstretched hand, to pull me up, where I can stand firm beside Him in His strength.

Not surprisingly, today was tough. The roller coaster of emotions has left me physically and mentally exhausted. After grief has knocked you down, he proceeds to kick you. He is a master at implanting envy and doubt with each stamp of his foot. He taunts viciously, "See all those pictures of everyone else's family? Their families are whole." And you can't argue with him because it's the truth. There is no empty chair at their table, and you can't deny the glaring, barren spot at yours, no matter how hard you try. No amount of wishing or attempts at filling the chair with another body replaces the one who is gone.

Grief continues his assault, spewing hateful things in your ear, planting seeds of doubt. Things like, "So where is God? Where is this Jesus that you are hoping in? He hasn't returned. It's been centuries. You're still waiting, and you're still suffering. Are you really sure Heaven's real? Where's the proof?"

I tried to ignore the enemies lies and taunts, yet hearing Grief's whispers made my heart ache. My son is gone. There is no celebrating the holidays with him. I realized I wasn't escaping the ambush. I've learned enough the past 16 months to know that when I'm pinned, I'm pinned. I cried, "Uncle" and went to my bedroom to cry. After about 10 or 15 minutes, however, the incessant banging by our three year old on the door coerced me into getting up. It was a good thing, anyway, as company was due to arrive within the half hour, and I still had a lot of meal preparation to do.

I realized I needed some praise and worship music to help deflect the blows of bully Grief. Christian music is a powerful thing, enabling the truth to speak quietly into a hurting heart. The lyrics lifted my eyes back to the Author of life, the giver of all good things. And as our company arrived, I was reminded that we are not alone, that the troubles of this life are only overcome through faith and trust in Christ.

God's grace is sufficient and got us through the day. However, the reality is, as author Isabel Fleece said, "...grace is not an anesthetic."(Not By Accident) The LORD uses the painful things of our lives to turn us toward Him, to remind us that we need Him. It seems to make no sense, but after all, I am the created, not the Creator. Then just when I needed it tonight, God spoke to me about today. I cried once again reading the homeschool devotional in my email inbox, and though today's struggle didn't have to do with homeschooling, the LORD had a message for me.

Daily Focus - A Christmas Love Letter

I see you sitting there tired, worn out, and empty. Another year of homeschooling has used you up. You feel helpless like a baby. That's OK. I know all about being a baby. I was born one for you many years ago. I know the ache you feel to be held and loved, and that is why I came. I knew you would be sitting there in the future, praying and asking me to hold you, and I am, dear one. Let me give you a special Christmas gift of love as I breathe new life into the center of your soul.

Do you know that I think of you every moment of every day? I watch you patiently homeschool the children I gave you, and I know how badly you feel when you fail and lose your temper. I forgive you, my child, just as you forgive your children when they make a mistake. "It's OK. We'll try again," you say to them, and I'm telling you the same thing. I'm so proud of you and how you've followed me when I asked you to teach your children about me at home. Your sacrifice says that you love me. I know all about that, too. I left everything that was mine when I came from heaven. I know how you feel when the Father asks so much of you.

Look at me, my child. You may feel beat up, but do you know that you are still beautiful? I see that smile. Yes, you're still as beautiful as the day I created you. I love who you are, and I'm whispering your name. Can you hear me? Remember, my child, this is not your home. You really belong here with me in heaven, but I want you where you are now to love this family I gave you. Don't give up. I want you to trust me. I won't let you down. Every promise I've made is true, and someday, I'm coming back for you. For now, rest in my love, and tonight and even tomorrow when you wake up, I'll be here watching over you. I love you. Merry Christmas.

"Seeing then that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our profession. For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities" (Hebrews 4:14-15a).

Jesus, thank You for the best Christmas gift I could ever receive, Your forgiveness and love. My heart sings with praise to You for understanding my every need. I love You, Jesus, and offer You my life again to use however You choose. In Your name I pray, Amen.

God sent His son at Christmas to save us, to redeem all that was lost; His Creation, the world, and everything in it. A day today filled with grief, yes, but still a blessed Christmas.


Toby Mac - Get Back Up