Candle Lighting

This past Sunday, we attended The Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting ceremony. It's held annually on the 2nd Sunday in December from 7-8pm.

Needless to say, it's an emotional experience. I found myself staring in awe at the large number of candles lit around the room. Sad, and yet comforting. Comforting in knowing we are not alone, yet sad because there are others experiencing the same kind of loss. It is a reluctant camaraderie, but one that binds us together in hope and community.


Our particular group met before the 7pm lighting to share in a potluck meal. It's been a wonderful time to meet. There are no pretenses as to why we're there, and there's no expectation to be cheerful. It's okay to just be. To be cheerful if we feel like it or to cry if we feel like it. It's a recognition that the holidays are tough because someone we love, our child, is missing. It's the acknowledgement that no matter how many years have gone by since the loss of our child(ren), there will forever remain an empty spot in the family.

We lit our candles and spoke our children's names. There is nothing more precious, or comforting, than speaking their name. Several in our group also recently ordered stones with each of our children's names on them, and they were amazing to see and hold during the service. We began the service by lighting five specific candles. Our chapter leader lit the candles and read the following: (written by Darcie D Sims and Sherry L Williams)

As we light these five candles in honor of our loved ones,
We light one for our grief,
one for our courage,
one for our memories,
one for our love,
and one for our hope.

This candle represents our grief.
The pain of losing you is intense.
It reminds us of the depth of our love for you.
This candle represents our courage;
To confront our sorrow,
To comfort each other, and
To change our lives.
This candle is in your memory.
Remembering the times we laughed, the times we cried.
The times we were angry with each other.
The silly things you did, and
The caring and joy you gave us.
This candle is the light of love.
As we enter this holiday season, day by day we cherish
the special place in our hearts that will always be reserved
for you. We thank you for the gift your living brought to each of us.
This candle is the light of hope.
It reminds us of love and memories of you that are ours forever.
May the glow of the flame be our source of hopefulness now and forever.
We love you.

I loved the idea of lighting five candles, one each for our grief, courage, memories, love, and hope. However, I have to take difference at the glow of the flame being our source of hopefulness. For the Christian, the source of our hope is Jesus Christ. The hope of eternity, found only in Jesus, is what gives me the strength, comfort, and courage to continue this earthly life until my life is done. 

Our candles lit, we watched a slide show of our loved ones as soothing music accompanied their precious photos. We shared poems, memories, and tips for getting through the holidays. The hour passed quickly for the remembrance of our beloved children, and it was time to blow out our candles. It seems like such a simple thing, to blow out a candle. But it can be painful, as it feels as yet another ending, another good-bye. Thankfully, I had just read a Compassionate Friends leadership post on Facebook that spoke of ending the service and the mixed emotions that can accompany blowing out the candles. It was endearing to me, and I shared it with those in attendance. It said, "Remember that we are not extinguishing their flame, we are pushing their light and their love into the world." 

I found this statement to be quite comforting, and it gave me the strength I needed to blow out my candle. There were many tears, many hugs, and much hope at the end of the service. We gathered around in a circle and took turns bidding good-night to our kids. For whatever reason, I hate saying goodnight to Matt, so I always end by saying, "I love you, Matt. See you later."

As we drove home, I was thankful for the support and compassion of The Compassionate Friends group. It has been said that the time with our children, no matter their age at their death, would never have been enough for us, but yet we can be thankful for "the little while." With tears running down my face on the drive home, I was able to say, "Thanks for the little while." 

Finally, as I stated earlier, there is nothing more comforting for bereaved parents than hearing their child(ren)'s name(s). If you didn't participate in the candle lighting ceremony around the world, just know that you can light a candle any time, any where in memory of their precious child(ren). If you do, would you please let that parent know? It would make their day, I'm sure of it.

My girl's group

 

The women in the photo above are my sisters in grief, my mom's group. They "get it" because they have all "been there, done that." They are mothers who have lost a child(ren). These women are on the same journey I am, though each of our journeys are unique. We each met through GriefShare and Compassionate Friends, but have continued to meet long after the group sessions were done. We occasionally go out for drinks and/or dinner and have done several book studies together. We're currently working through Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts.

Every parent who loses a child is on their own journey, and it is a most solitary experience. Yet, though we each walk our own path of grief, we are not alone. The way is filled with fellow companions. It is an ever-fluid journey. From the beginning of my journey, God, in His great mercy, gave me what I desperately needed. Others who had "been there, done that." As anyone knows in almost any situation, having others who truly "get it" is a balm to the soul. It brings comfort in a way that nothing else can. That's what these ladies do for me.

It's funny, too, because we've each been told how strong we are. But we aren't strong because we possess some inherent strength that other people don't. It's because we've made a choice. A choice to trust God, to believe that this world isn't all there is. We've determined that the best way to honor our child/ren's memory is by living the best life we can. We've chosen to hold on to hope. Hope is the difference in our grief. Hope in God and in His Word is the anchor when we are sucked into the pit of pain. The pain of missing our children, the pain of the "what ifs" and "if onlys." The pain of enduring days that "should have been" occasions our kids experienced.

I am blessed. I wish these women were not part of "the group no one wants to be a part of," but I can honestly say I am so thankful for them. I pray that other bereaved moms would find the comfort, encouragement, and joy that I have in having a mom's group in this journey of grief.

May - making it through a multitude of emotions

I have been struggling with writing this post for over a week now. The beginning of May has been difficult. Difficult because it begins with Matt's birthday on the 2nd and is also, inevitably, preceded by a "29th." On the heels of Matt's birthday is our wedding anniversary, just six days later. Finally, to round things out, Mother's Day falls a few days after that. Needless to say, it's an emotional, heart-wrenching start to the month.

A gray thread of grief now runs through every holiday and special occasion. The loss of a child isn't something one ever forgets; your child's absence never goes unnoticed. It's as if the pages of our lives, though colored in again, are tinged with a gray outline. The naivety of life before loss is irreparable.
These first few weeks of May suck. They just do. I feel like I'm holding my breath until after Mother's Day. I can't wait until the day after Mother's Day. I wish I didn't feel this way, but I do. I've been on this roller coaster ride of grief long enough, however, to know that the plunge will, mercifully, even out.

Getting through Matt's birthday was excruciating, but we did, thanks to one of my best friends and her family. She is a selfless, amazing, and sacrificing friend who continues to be here for us. She and her boys spent Thursday and Friday night at our house while Tim and I went to a hotel. All the children enjoyed swimming in the pool, then went back to our house to play Minecraft (Matt's favorite), and watch LOTR (Lord of the Rings - also Matt's favorite). They also drank a McDonald's Mocha Frappe (again, Matt's favorite) in honor of their brother.

Being able to get away to the hotel alone was a huge relief. It allowed Tim and I to just let our grief out without reserve. We needed that outlet. I cried myself to sleep Thursday night, and then cried for a while on Friday morning. I had also booked a massage for Friday afternoon. It was therapeutic and exactly what I needed.

Matt's birthday past, we limped into our 21st anniversary the following week on the 8th. We are so incredibly blessed and are so thankful for the years God has given us, but celebrating anniversaries now is different. There is joy, there is appreciation, but never are we ignorant of the fact that our first-born is missing from the celebration. We did, however, manage to drag our tired, deflated bodies out for one last date night on Thursday to our favorite Mexican restaurant. After 33 years, it's closing because the owners are retiring. It's the end of an era, really, as we've had date nights there most every Friday evening for about the past five years. It was also a huge blessing because a dear friend gave us a gift card for it.

Our anniversary over, Friday came and, with it, another trying, emotional moment. Our 15yo. took her driver's permit. It hit me harder than I had expected, but it is exactly these times that require an act of faith. It is ironic to me that it fell at this particular time, but God's grace is sufficient. Matt's sister isn't using the same driving school that he did as, thankfully, we have three different ones in the area to choose from. I feel reassured with the one we chose. The instructor seems quite understanding and accommodating. He realizes he's dealing with rather sensitive circumstances, and I appreciate that. As we begin behind-the-wheel driving, I'd covet prayers for us all.

Finally, today is Mother's Day, and I took the advice of Compassionate Friends. I stayed home from church and enjoyed a nice, long bubble bath in the quiet while Dh went to church with the kids.

                  

This morning, I woke up to the 5yo. crying, the 7yo. yelling, and two teenagers having a loud conversation in the next room. And I gave thanks to God because they are here. I am so thankful for God's provision and grace. I am abundantly blessed.

For every mother today, I pray God's grace be multiplied, and for every woman whose arms remain empty, I pray God's peace that surpasses all understanding.

Dear Matt,

Dear Matt,
Friday night, I finished a bowl of cereal and sat on the couch flipping through the t.v. channels. I smiled when I realized it was the same time of night you always ate your bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats^© cereal and that "The Office" and the "The Red Green Show" were on at the same time. I wondered what mood you would have been in and which one you would have picked. I went with "The office." "Burn Notice" was on, too, but that's for you and Dad to watch. I'll watch "Everybody Loves Raymond" next time, maybe. I love you. Love, Mom

P.S. Dad, Sweet Stuff, Artsy Girl, and Army Guy just got back from the movies...opening night of "The Hobbit." Apparently, it's pretty good if their excitement is any indication.

SUNDAY NIGHT:
Dad, Sweet Stuff, Artsy Girl, Army Guy, and Miss T.T. were playing Poker downstairs...your favorite, too....Texas Hold 'Em. We never noticed before, either, that your poker case is the Cardinal brand. Miss you so much. Love, Mom ♥♥♥

P.S. I finally got the ornament for you that I'm putting on our local Compassionate Friends' Christmas tree at the hospital. I knew you'd like it. :) Your aunt Cathy always posts when the Pack is playing, too. Makes me feel good. Love, Mom

P.P.S. We also went to the Christmas program at church tonight. Seeing Drama boy up front reminded us so much of you. At least he didn't jump on and off the stage like you did for your first program at age 6. LOL When he was playing with his shirt sleeves with his arms up by his ears, it was like déjà vu. Love you so much! Love, Mom

TUESDAY:
I opened several Christmas cards today. I exhaled with the realization that last year, I couldn't even open any at all because it was just too painful. Healing is bittersweet. I like to think, though, that you'd be proud of me. I also listened to Matt Redman's song, "You Never Let Go." I wonder that no one told us the songs we played at your funeral were going to be so excruciating to listen to afterward. It's been 28 months, and I finally listened to it without falling apart.

P.S. Your sister asked me the other day why I hate Christmas and why I always change the radio station when Christmas songs come on. I started crying and answered, "Because Matt's not here." I don't hate Christmas, but songs like "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas!" and "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" are lies. Christmas, in society's eyes, is all about being together with family. Well, guess what? My family's not all here, and you're not coming back. BUT...BUT GOD...He reminded me of what I already knew: Christmas is about Jesus Christ who came to redeem the lost. Without Christ, I would have no hope of a reunion with you, my son. Without Christ, I would be lost. Without Christ, I would have no reason to rejoice. Though there is sorrow, I do "rejoice in the God of my salvation." (Habakkuk 3:17-18)
 

The club no one wants to be a part of

Sunday evening was emotional. There were tears, and there was laughter. We participated in the Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle-lighting ceremony. There was great comfort in getting together with our group. We had decided to meet at 6pm for a potluck before the 7pm lighting. It was a wonderful time with no pretense.

The candle lighting service began with a reading of the Compassionate Friends creed and the song "Light a Candle" by Paul Alexander. We then lit our candles and spent the hour taking turns sharing the name of our loved one and how our holidays and traditions might be done differently now. It was powerful to look around the room and see the glow of so many candle flames. There is comfort in shared sorrow because it is in sharing that we draw strength from one another and peace in knowing that there are those who will never tire of, nor be uncomfortable with, you speaking your child's name, no matter how long they've been gone. It was also very heart-warming to realize that as we blew out our candles the lighting continued elsewhere around the globe. The club no one wants to be a part of is so much bigger than I would have ever imagined.

Monday, of course, followed Sunday. I had impatiently been waiting weeks for Monday evening as several "grief" moms and I were meeting for dinner. We finished our weekly book group meetings a few months ago and hadn't gotten together since then. We managed to pick the next book by the end of dinner, but only after several hours of much laughter and tears. The restaurant was closing as we left, and I wished I had brought my camera to snap a picture of us. Who would have guessed that the lively four women at the table in the back of the restaurant shared in common the loss of a child?

We left the restaurant, each to our own vehicle, yet united in a camaraderie none of us could have fathomed a year ago. We all know getting through Christmas isn't going to be easy, but we also know we're not alone. We still wish with our whole being that we didn't have to run this marathon of child loss. Not a single one of us signed up for this club, yet each one of us has discovered that the lifetime membership comes with a pretty incredible support system.

This week turned out to be quite draining, emotionally. However, I am blessed. Blessed by the members of this club no one wants to be a part of, but also blessed by those that are not a part of it. God reminded me that we have so many friends and family that continue to support and pray for us. They may not be a part of the club, but they are on the sidelines urging us on, watching us run.

Hebrews 12:1-3 reminds me that I am to run this race with endurance, fixing my eyes on Jesus. He is the author and perfecter of my faith. He endured the cross because of the joy set before Him and I, too, have eternal joy set before me. Because of this, I will not grow weary or lose heart for long. I remember that God himself is a member of the club no one wants to be a part of.

Thanksgiving #3

I received an email from the facilitator of our local Compassionate Friends group this week as a reminder for our monthly meeting. She wrote (in part):

"Hello Friends,
We are poised on the brink of the holiday whirlwind.  Shoppers have started buying, decorations are up, and some are lighted.  Some of us would like to pull a quilt over our heads and wake up January 4.  Since that probably isn't feasible for most people, we will try to give you tools to help you get through the next few weeks as well as possible.  We want not only to survive, but to provide a nice holiday season for those we love who are with us, as well as time to remember and honor the ones we love who are celebrating in heaven this year." 

My first thought was, "How did she know that I wanted to pull a blanket over my head and wake up Jan. 4?" Then I quickly remembered that she's been there, done that, too. As another bereaved parent, she knows. Yet she and her husband are much, much farther down the road of grief. (20+ years, in fact.) It's exactly for this reason that I am so thankful for the Compassionate Friends group and the wonderful people we've met through it. Because of their transparency, compassion, and dedication to minister to other bereaved parents, I am able to see that life without my son is not only possible, but can be joyful and meaningful. These parents are a tremendous source of encouragement. They are people who do not limit grief to a specific amount of time and are always willing to listen as we struggle through ambushes of grief, even if those ambushes are years down the road. 

The Compassionate Friends meeting this month couldn't happen at a better time. While I have much to be thankful for, the reality is that grief and joy now coexist. Holidays are a mix of apprehension and settled assurance(joy). Apprehension because there's no dodging the bullet, the empty chair at the table remains empty. Assurance because what remains is deeply appreciated and not taken for granted.

So while I want nothing more than to pull up the covers over my head and wake up Jan. 4th, I know that's also not an option. I will look to God for strength and hope, and I know He will not disappoint. As we gather around our table for Thanksgiving, I will remember that He has been good. His grace is sufficient, and we are blessed. May your holiday be filled with comfort, peace, and joy from the One true source of all comfort, peace, and joy.

P.S. - Don't forget! The Worldwide Candle Lighting Ceremony is Sunday, December 8, 7-8pm. This is to commemorate and honor the memory of all children gone too soon.

 

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.