23 months

Dear Matt,
With each passing month, I wonder. I wonder, "Will it get any easier?" "Do I want it to get any easier?" "What does moving forward look like in five years?" "Will this bone-marrow-deep sorrow ever be any less?" "Does joy really exist? A joy as deep as the grief?" "Is God's word really true?" I don't have the answers, and my faith is sore. I still wake every morning thinking, "This can't be real. How can you really be gone?" I can't believe I've gone 23 months without seeing your face, without hearing your voice, without watching you lope nightly into the kitchen at 10:30pm, opening the cupboard door for your bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal. I miss cutting your hair. I miss seeing you play with your little brothers. I miss seeing you hanging out with Josh and Luke. I miss your strong, quiet presence. I wanted so badly to send out graduation announcements and host a graduation party. But it wasn't meant to be. God had different plans. So very different.

Instead of collecting graduation gifts, we are collecting memorial donations. Instead of touring colleges with you, I am touring them with David. Bittersweet doesn't begin to describe these feelings. Yet I am deeply, deeply grateful for David, for the person he is, for the experiences we have with him. He is a gift, as you were.

But there are times along this grief journey that I simply can't walk anymore. My legs fail me. My spirit lies crumpled in the dark. My soul cries out. I know God is there, though I don't see Him in these dark moments. I know these are the times when my Heavenly Father gently picks me up in His arms and carries me. He reminds me of His unfailing love and faithfulness. 

O how He loves you and me

O how He loves you and me
O how He loves you and me
He gave His life, what more could He give? 

O how He loves you
O how He loves me
O how He loves you and me 

Jesus to Calvary did go
His love for mankind to show
What He did there brought hope from despair

Author: Kurt Kaiser

Lyrics are copyrights:
? 1975 Word Music, LLC (a div. of Word Music Group, Inc.) - CCLI 15850 

All the Way My Savior Leads Me

All the way my Savior leads me;
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my Guide?
Heav’nly peace, divinest comfort,
Here by faith in Him to dwell!
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well;
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well.

All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread;
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living Bread.
Though my weary steps may falter,
And my soul athirst may be,
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see;
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see.

All the way my Savior leads me
O the fullness of His love!
Perfect rest to me is promised
In my Father’s house above.
When my spirit, clothed immortal,
Wings its flight to realms of day
This my song through endless ages—
Jesus led me all the way;
This my song through endless ages—
Jesus led me all the way.

Words: Fanny Crosby

Psalm 61

1Hear my cry, O God;

listen to my prayer.

2From the ends of the earth I call to you,

I call as my heart grows faint;

lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

3For you have been my refuge,

a strong tower against the foe.

 Isaiah 41:10

"Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; 

for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; 

yea, I will help thee; yea, 

I will uphold thee with the right hand 

of my righteousness."

Isaiah 51:12a

"I, even I, am he that comforteth you." 

I called out to Him, and He heard my cry. The next morning my inbox was filled with the following devotional, Striving Where He is Sovereign, by James MacDonald. Oh, to rest in Him. To be loved by Him. To be humbled by Him. He is my Abba Father who loves me with an everlasting love. 

How not to say the wrong thing

I came across the following article and thought it to be quite insightful and thought-provoking.

How not to say the wrong thing 

Susan Silk and Barry Goldman

April 7, 2013

When Susan had breast cancer, we heard a lot of lame remarks, but our favorite came from one of Susan's colleagues. She wanted, she needed, to visit Susan after the surgery, but Susan didn't feel like having visitors, and she said so. Her colleague's response? "This isn't just about you."

"It's not?" Susan wondered. "My breast cancer is not about me? It's about you?"
The same theme came up again when our friend Katie had a brain aneurysm. She was in intensive care for a long time and finally got out and into a step-down unit. She was no longer covered with tubes and lines and monitors, but she was still in rough shape. A friend came and saw her and then stepped into the hall with Katie's husband, Pat. "I wasn't prepared for this," she told him. "I don't know if I can handle it."
This woman loves Katie, and she said what she did because the sight of Katie in this condition moved her so deeply. But it was the wrong thing to say. And it was wrong in the same way Susan's colleague's remark was wrong.
Susan has since developed a simple technique to help people avoid this mistake. It works for all kinds of crises: medical, legal, financial, romantic, even existential. She calls it the Ring Theory.
Draw a circle. This is the center ring. In it, put the name of the person at the center of the current trauma. For Katie's aneurysm, that's Katie. Now draw a larger circle around the first one. In that ring put the name of the person next closest to the trauma. In the case of Katie's aneurysm, that was Katie's husband, Pat. Repeat the process as many times as you need to. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Parents and children before more distant relatives. Intimate friends in smaller rings, less intimate friends in larger ones. When you are done you have a Kvetching Order. One of Susan's patients found it useful to tape it to her refrigerator.
Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair" and "Why me?" That's the one payoff for being in the center ring.
Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.
When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it. Don't, for example, give advice. People who are suffering from trauma don't need advice. They need comfort and support. So say, "I'm sorry" or "This must really be hard for you" or "Can I bring you a pot roast?" Don't say, "You should hear what happened to me" or "Here's what I would do if I were you." And don't say, "This is really bringing me down."
If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are or how icky you feel, or whine about how it reminds you of all the terrible things that have happened to you lately, that's fine. It's a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.
Comfort IN, dump OUT.
There was nothing wrong with Katie's friend saying she was not prepared for how horrible Katie looked, or even that she didn't think she could handle it. The mistake was that she said those things to Pat. She dumped IN.
Complaining to someone in a smaller ring than yours doesn't do either of you any good. On the other hand, being supportive to her principal caregiver may be the best thing you can do for the patient.
Most of us know this. Almost nobody would complain to the patient about how rotten she looks. Almost no one would say that looking at her makes them think of the fragility of life and their own closeness to death. In other words, we know enough not to dump into the center ring. Ring Theory merely expands that intuition and makes it more concrete: Don't just avoid dumping into the center ring, avoid dumping into any ring smaller than your own.
Remember, you can say whatever you want if you just wait until you're talking to someone in a larger ring than yours.
And don't worry. You'll get your turn in the center ring. You can count on that.
Susan Silk is a clinical psychologist. Barry Goldman is an arbitrator and mediator and the author of "The Science of Settlement: Ideas for Negotiators."

 

Father's Day

Anyone who has experienced the loss of a child can tell you that grieving is hard, painful, and exhausting. Watching my husband grieve has been (and is) heart-wrenching. I don't know where or how our society got the idea that men aren't supposed to cry, or that tears are a sign of weakness, because it simply isn't true. I am so thankful for the Bible, for the examples it shows of how to grieve and how to respond to loss.

The honest cries and laments of David fill the pages of the book of Psalms. The commingling of Job's worship and grief is displayed like the neon lettering of a billboard. The disappointment, the anger, and the questioning of the Almighty from God-fearing men, fill the pages of the Bible from beginning to end.

I have seen my husband grieve these past 22 1/2 months, all the while giving his sorrow to the only One who can bring healing. A strong man is a man who allows himself to grieve. My husband is a man of strength. God's strength.

To all the fathers who have outlived their children, I pray God's peace and strength to you on Father's Day. May it be blessed with His love, filled with His comfort, and overflowing with His joy.   

When you see it coming

I was going to title this post, "Avoiding the unavoidable," but it's not possible. There are things along the grief journey that one simply can't avoid no matter how hard one tries to step around it, over it, or under it. Deny it all one wants, it doesn't go away, it's not a mirage. Denial.doesn't.work.

Matt's "would-be" graduation is one of them. I can't deny it. Oh, I could try. It would be easier, yes, if David were not here. But David is here (our Brazilian exchange student), and he is participating in the graduation ceremony. I want so much to just run away, to bury my head in the sand and pretend it doesn't exist. I'd like to crawl into bed and not wake up until next week. But I can't. It seems as if the only choice I have in this "fight or flight" situation is "fight." Only I'm feeling like dust, no strength, no form. I feel trampled and left for dead.

Thankfully, however, I know better by now that my strength comes from the LORD. I know that in those moments when I am overcome by grief, I can turn to my Heavenly Father. He is where I pour out my heart, my fears, and my pain. He is the one who listens and hears my cries. He knows my pain, and he provides the way of comfort. He has given me precious friends who continue to pray for me and my family. He gives me daily joys and reminds me of His abundant blessings.

As sorrowful as this week is, it is also joyful. My family and I are incredibly blessed and humbled to have David with us. David is a blessing. He is not a replacement for Matt. (No one, and no thing, can replace a loved one. Each person is an individual, unique, treasured gift from God.)

I have had to be purposeful in looking for the joy that God has given. It is a choice. I can deny the gifts God gives, choosing not to see them, choosing not to be thankful, or I can give my hurting heart to God, where He safely and tenderly holds it, understanding how fragile it is. It isn't easy, but there comes a time when one must let the Great Physician do His work. Only He can remove the gangrene grief cultivates.

The journey of grief continues, but I am never alone. My God is with me. He sees the beginning from the end. Facing the "should have's," like graduation, is only possible because of the GRACE God gives. This week, and especially tomorrow, is bittersweet. But I am sucking in every breath my Heavenly Father exhales as His holds me in His arms, my head resting on my Daddy's chest. Not for a moment have I been forsaken.

Not For A Moment
Meredith Andrews

You were reaching through the storm
Walking on the water
Even when I could not see
In the middle of it all
When I thought You were a thousand miles away
Not for a moment did You forsake me
Not for a moment did You forsake me

Chorus:

After all You are constant
After all You are only good
After all You are sovereign
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Not for a moment will You forsake me

You were singing in the dark
Whispering Your promise
Even when I could not hear
I was held in Your arms
Carried for a thousand miles to show
Not for a moment did You forsake me

Chorus:

After all You are constant
After all You are only good
After all You are sovereign
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Not for a moment will You forsake me

And every step every breath you are there
Every tear every cry every prayer
In my heart at my worst
When my world falls down
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Even in the dark
Even when it's hard
You will never leave me
After all

Chorus:

After all You are constant
After all You are only good
After all You are sovereign
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Not for a moment will You forsake me
Not for a moment will You forsake me 

Living limbless - 22 months

We went to the farm for the Memorial Weekend. There's no internet or t.v. there, but there is plenty of wood ticks and wind. We have 20 years of memories at the farm.  It's a bit different now that Grandma has moved off the farm and Grandpa is gone. Being there is bittersweet. For the kids, it remains great fun. For me and Tim, it's a chance to get away, to rest, and to disconnect from the "everyday."

Seeing the kids do so much of the same stuff their brother used to do is hard to watch because it makes me miss Matt all the more, yet it also brings joy in seeing his siblings enjoy what he did. Memories are now so very bittersweet. How is it possible to be both happy and sad at the same time? It is an enigma to me. I cherish the rest of our children and the memories-in-the-making with them all the more.

One of the bittersweet memories from this last weekend was watching Tim teach Abby how to drive the Bronco. The Bronco is a staple of our farm memories. The kids think it's SO cool to ride in it. I have no idea what makes it so amazing, but it's one of their highlights when we're there. Seeing Abby driving, of course, brought back memories of when Matt drove the Bronco with his dad.

As momentous events like graduation, driver's ed., and birthdays draw nearer and nearer with Abby (and David), I am finding it harder and harder to fight withdrawing. Today marks 22 months since losing our son. This, too, is the year Matt would have graduated. Just over a week remains until graduation. I wrestle with a multitude of conflicting emotions because David is here and will participate in the graduation ceremonies. While I want to be here for him and celebrate with him, I honestly don't know if I have the strength to get through it. Yet, I want to attend for David's mother because, at the same time, in a somewhat similar way, I know what it's like to be a mother who can't be there for her child's graduation. If I can be there for her, then I want to honor her in this way.

I feel as if I've been trying to claw my way out of a deep hole the last several days. I don't see the light at the top. I only feel weak and panicked. Yet I am frantically trying to repeat God's truth to myself. One such truth is this:

^"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

1 Cor. 13:13 

What strikes me most in this verse is actually the faith part. I've read this verse so many times before, but really only glossed over the word faith. I think I had seriously underestimated how important having and keeping faith was. Only in experiencing the loss of my child have I realized how great a role faith plays. These days where the pain of separation, loss, and grief are deepest are the hardest to hold on to my faith.

But GOD is faithful. HE will never let go. In order to have hope, one must have faith. And if faith and hope are to mean anything, then one has to realize what love is. God is love. (1John 4:7-9) The sorrows and trials of this life are not intended to destroy us. They are intended to refine us. As James MacDonald says, "God's love is not a pampering love. God's love is a perfecting love." Yes, the loss of a child feels like decimation, but the truth is, "your loved one is precious, but not essential to you living." (From my GriefShare workbook notes.)

These are hard, hard truths to swallow, aren't they? Who wants to believe that their child, spouse, or loved one isn't essential to their life? It sounds too harsh, too unbelievable. Yet if we refuse to believe the truth, then we are really saying that our loved one is/was more important than God. You see, everything and everyone can be taken from you. If that should happen, God is all you would have left. And GOD is all you need. There is no one greater, no one who loves you more.

It is because of His great love that we can hold on to our faith. Remembering that God gave up His one and only Son for me is a sustaining comfort when I am overwhelmed by grief. (Romans 5:8) Without understanding God's love, faith would be fickle. And "without faith, it is impossible to please Him." (Heb. 11:6) The good news is also this: My faith is not of my own works or strength. It is from Jesus, "the author and perfecter of faith..."(Heb. 12:2)

Romans 10:17 says, " So faith comes from hearing, and hearing by the word of Christ." For me, listening to hymns is one such way to hear the truth. Grief is a dark liar and will pounce at every opportunity to strike when one is alone and hurt. But darkness cannot hide the light and lies are revealed by the truth. I am meditating on this:

Be Gone Unbelief
Begone unbelief, my Savior is near,
And for my relief will surely appear:
By prayer let me wrestle, and He wilt perform,
With Christ in the vessel, I smile at the storm.

Though dark be my way, since He is my Guide,
’Tis mine to obey, ’tis His to provide;
Though cisterns be broken, and creatures all fail,
The Word He has spoken shall surely prevail.

His love in time past forbids me to think
He’ll leave me at last in trouble to sink;
Each sweet Ebenezer I have in review,
Confirms His good pleasure to help me quite through.

Determined to save, He watched o’er my path,
When Satan’s blind slave, I sported with death;
And can He have taught me to trust in His Name,
And thus far have brought me, to put me to shame?

Why should I complain of want or distress,
Temptation or pain? He told me no less:
The heirs of salvation, I know from His Word,
Through much tribulation must follow their Lord.

How bitter that cup, no heart can conceive,
Which He drank quite up, that sinners might live!
His way was much rougher, and darker than mine;
Did Jesus thus suffer, and shall I repine?

Since all that I meet shall work for my good,
The bitter is sweet, the medicine is food;
Though painful at present, wilt cease before long,
And then, O! how pleasant, the conqueror’s song!

Faith is not always easy. It's sometimes easier said than done. But always possible. Because God's grace is sufficient...for anything. (2 Cor. 12:9)

Staying on track

endure  
en·dure
[en-door, -dyoor] Show IPA verb, en·dured, en·dur·ing.
verb (used with object)
1. to hold out against; sustain without impairment or yielding; undergo: to endure great financial pressures with equanimity.
2. to bear without resistance or with patience; tolerate: I cannot endure your insults any longer.
3. to admit of; allow; bear: His poetry is such that it will not endure a superficial reading.
verb (used without object)
4. to continue to exist; last: These words will endure as long as people live who love freedom.
5. to support adverse force or influence of any kind; suffer without yielding; suffer patiently: Even in the darkest ages humanity has endured.
6. to have or gain continued or lasting acknowledgment or recognition, as of worth, merit or greatness: His plays have endured for more than three centuries.

This grief thing. It takes endurance. Like it or not, there are lessons to be learned from grief. This is one of them. Getting through Mother's Day took endurance. I honestly never thought of myself as a strong person (Yes, I know those of you out there who know me well are snorting right now and thinking, "What?! Are you serious?"), but within the last couple months, I am realizing I am strong. Strong in the sense of developing a thick skin, so to speak, when it comes to certain things. Things like Mother's Day and my birthday, for instance. Last year they were excruciating. Though still painful, it's a bit like physical therapy in that I am strong enough now to endure those events. Painful, but stretching, strengthening, and endurance-building as well.

The loss of my son is just as deep and irreversible as it was the morning of July 29, 2011, but the pain has receded enough that I can now acknowledge and recognize joy. Color is slowly returning to my world.

A friend recently posted on her FB asking, "What does joy really look like?" What does it mean to be full of joy? I came across the following blog post by Kay Warren, referring to joy: (click on the link to see the full article.)

Joy
"Joy is the settled assurance that God is in control of all the details of my life, the quiet confidence that ultimately everything is going to be alright, and the determined choice to praise God in every situation.
You’ll find nothing in that definition about happy feelings, because, as we all know, happiness is fleeting and temporary.
We tend to think that life comes in hills and valleys. In reality, it’s much more like train tracks. Every day of your life, wonderful, good things happen that bring pleasure and contentment and beauty to you. At the exact same time, painful things happen to you or those you love that disappoint you, hurt you, and fill you with sorrow. These two tracks — both joy and sorrow — run parallel to each other every single moment of your life." 

Kay's definition is the best I've seen yet for explaining what it's like to have joy and grief coexist. Life before losing Matt was a series of hills and valleys for me. Now, it is the synchronization of joy and grief. I now have a "settled assurance" and a "quiet confidence" that I never had before. I did make a "determined choice to praise God" when I saw our son's lifeless body. It wasn't easy, but God is trustworthy. He is good, and He is love. What I need to do now is stay on track...because some day, those rails are going to meet at their ultimate destination.

 

Special days

I opened a card from the kids on Wednesday, our 20th wedding anniversary. They had written their four year old brother's signature on it and had all signed their names to the card. It was so sweet. But then I realized Matt's name and signature weren't there and started to cry. *sigh*  I can't avoid my loss or ignore it. Grief may not consume every waking moment any longer, but never for a second do I forget that my son is not here. There are, and always will be, reminders of him.

Well meaning people say things like, "Remember, you have six other children to think of." This is poor comfort, indeed. It's like telling an amputee, "Forget about the leg you lost. Just focus on the leg you have left." It negates a bereaved parents' loss. What they don't understand is this: No one appreciates their remaining children more than a parent who has lost one. The existence of pain doesn't nullify joy. Unfortunately, that appreciation and joy, however, is embalmed in grief, unrecognizable to most bystanders.

It is so very true what a fellow bereaved parent said. The highs aren't as high, and the lows aren't as low. The world is seen through a different lens after the loss of a child. Things I once thought as such highs, simply aren't the amazing, incredible things I used to think they were. For instance, I used to think line-dried laundry was the epitome of a beautiful day. Now I shake my head at the thought. Yes, line-dried laundry is great, but it's not the be-all, end-all of a great day. The converse is true as well. Things I once thought were the major downers of a day are not any more. For example, a rainy day used to depress me, and the entire day would seem ugly and nasty, with nothing seemingly going right. Now, I take deep, abiding joy in knowing that God sends the rain, and whether I think it's necessary or not, I trust that HE is Sovereign. The circumstances of a day no longer control my mood. (At least most days, anyway.)

So here I am with an impending Mother's Day. Honestly, I want to stay home from church. I want to avoid holidays, anniversaries, and special days altogether. Yet, like the death of my son, I can't avoid it. It is what it is. What I can do, however, is rely on the grace that God gives me. I remember right after Matt died hearing things like, "This will make you stronger." and thinking, "I was perfectly fine where I was, thank you." I didn't want to be stronger. I wanted my son back. But that's not possible. And I can take what is and either allow the LORD to redeem it, or I can refuse His hand, His comfort, His help. I don't want to waste my sorrows and neither does God. He is the redeemer. With His strength, my family and I will make it through, and whether I wanted to be or not, I am stronger...because of HIM.