Dear Matt,

Your birthday is in just three weeks. You'd be 19yrs old. (Oh, how I want so desperately to say instead, "you'll be...") I've now missed three years of your life, three birthdays. My heart hurts so badly, the ache so intense. As is the way of grief, the anticipation of these "special" days stirs up the ashes of my sorrow, blowing upon the embers and causing them to reignite. Again, I just want to go away until it's over. *sigh* I hate grief. I hate death.

If it were not for God and His word, I would certainly despair. He has been good to me. I have much to be thankful for. I have much to live for. I have much to look forward to.

Psalm 119:89-94

Forever, O Lord,
Your word is settled in heaven. 

Your faithfulness continues throughout all generations;
You established the earth, and it stands. 

They stand this day according to Your ordinances, 

For all things are Your servants. 

If Your law had not been my delight,
Then I would have perished in my affliction. 

I will never forget Your precepts,
For by them You have revived me. 

I am Yours, save me;
For I have sought Your precepts.

I am so thankful for the promises of God, for His comfort, and for the hope that He gives. He continues to surround me with His love and truth. Of all things, Kay Arthur (on the video at my Precepts Bible study on the book of John this week) made a statement that really struck home. She said, "There is no choice; the wound must heal." I don't recall how it related to the study at all, but it really ministered to me. Only when I allow the Great Physician to work on my wound will healing happen. He is the healer. I must allow Him to do His work. I have to trust Him that He knows what He's doing, that His plan is best. 

I miss you, son. I miss your voice and the way you sauntered into a room. I miss cutting your hair. I miss seeing you with your friends. I miss your genius at the computer. I miss seeing you at the dinner table. I miss your quiet presence. For every "miss," however, I remind myself that God says it will be worth it, that there will be an eternal glory that far outweighs this excruciating, temporary separation. (2 Cor.4:17) I love you, Matt. 

Love, Mom 

The fluidness of grief

We celebrated child #6's birthday on the 29th. Though it was a "29th" (the day our 16yo. son died), the day was a good one. Of course, Mr. Stoic (Matt) came to our minds many times on Saturday, but grief wasn't at the forefront or the center of attention. It doesn't often overwhelm anymore. Instead, it has transformed into a dull ache. The raging tsunami of grief that characterized the beginning of the journey now lies quietly like a puddle.

I find myself often perplexed at this changing state of sorrow. It is a curious thing to witness while in the midst of it. It feels a bit disorienting, this life melded with death. As if somehow I'm supposed to figure out how the scales of joy and sorrow balance. Yet I am unequipped and feel very much like a bystander. I am not the one who weighs out the trials and blessings in this temporary life. It is God. He is the potter, and we are the clay. (Isaiah 64:8, 45:9, 29:16) I do, however, get to decide how I respond to these trials, to this shaping and molding. Maybe I'm not supposed to figure out how the scales work, but instead, to accurately reflect the weight of what has been deposited upon each.

I am thankful this week for weighing joy. The joy of memories, the joy of birthdays with little boys (two in one week!), and the joy of studying His word, precept upon precept.

 

That moment

I ran into an old client of mine last week from back in the day when I worked as a cosmetologist. I hadn't seen her in about 13 years. In just a matter of seconds, however, I was slammed against the wall by the bully Grief with just one simple punch. A jab to the gut with an innocent inquiry. "How old's Matt now?" she asked.

You'd think that after 2 1/2 years, I would get used to this, that an answer would glide smoothly off my tongue and that it would be me comforting her. Only it was that moment. The moment where you're caught off guard, where you figured you were safe because a) everyone you know already knows of your loss or b) you meet new people and you get to steer the conversation.

I stumbled backward in my mind, frantically trying to come up with something that sounded good, but the long pause before I uttered my standard response of "He'd be 18" gave me away. I croaked out my rehearsed reply anyway, but it fell flat. Then, to my surprise, I started to cry. Because I recognized something. She was actually one of those who listened. She had caught the subtle side-stepping I had done. Most people don't catch it. But she did, and instead of me comforting her, she comforted me. 

Thankfully, I found my footing quickly and stepped back into the ring. Grief rarely knocks me out any more, and I recovered well. As I left, I smiled to myself because I realized the bully Grief wasn't going to win. Not that day. Though he ambushed, he failed to drag me away or take me out. I determined that I was not going to wallow in what I had lost and reminded myself again of the truth.

 But we do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope.  For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus. For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

The truth about grief

My daughter cried herself to sleep the other night. A white mountain of crumpled tissues lay on the floor beside her bed like the piles of snow outside; evidence of the blizzard of emotions that swirled relentlessly all evening long. I know the pain she feels, but I can't relieve it. I know the fight ahead of her, but I can't fight it for her. I know what she needs to believe, but I can't make her believe it.

I can, however, lift her up in prayer to the Only One who knows her heart, her pain, and her sorrow. I can validate her pain. I can comfort without words, platitudes, expectations, or lectures. I can love her unconditionally.

Grief from the death of her brother is an experience that she will revisit more than once throughout her life. I wish it wasn't so. But it is a fact. Children grieve differently than adults in that their grief comes in bits and pieces, in spurts. As their brains develop and they grow in wisdom and understanding, new layers of grief will be exposed. I trust that this is the way God has ordained it. After all, it only makes sense. They're children and, as children, they don't have the capability to handle or understand grief like an adult because they're not adults. It is a good thing, really, else they would not survive such a blow. God made their grief to occur in spurts for their protection.

As a parent, I'd give anything if I could take this away from her, but I can't. It's another layer of grief for me as I watch my daughter struggle with her own grief. It is a horrible helpless feeling. I am, however, deeply thankful for GriefShare. The videos reiterate the truth of God's word and reinforce what healthy grieving looks like.

Lesson ten from GriefShare last Monday night was a good one, though it spoke some hard truths. Speaker Paul David Tripp spoke of two lies that we tend to believe when faced with the death of a loved one. The first one is that something has been taken from you that you can't live without. The second is that there's no way out of what I'm experiencing. Wow. Hard, right? What parent wants to believe that? Our hearts scream that it just can't be true, and our minds can't fathom how. But he also went on, clarifying the first lie by the reassurance that your loved one who died is precious, but not essential to you living. He cautioned against believing the lie that God would take something essential from you. Second, though you can't change the circumstance, you can be different in the circumstance. As I've blogged about before, it's the difference between Job's answer ("Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him...") and his wife's answer ("Curse God and die!"). Our situation doesn't change; our loved ones remain gone. But we are comforted and filled with hope. We experience God's grace, strength, and peace.

I continue to hurt for my daughter, but ultimately, I know that she, like all those who grieve, must trust God with her loss. The truth about grief is harsh. None of us are exempt from the troubles of this world. (John 16:33) But the truth about God is this: He loves us with an everlasting love. (Jeremiah 31)

The ties that bind

Losing a child is a parent's greatest fear. This fear was realized when I lost my son, and it was realized for my bereaved mom friends when they lost their children. Our worst nightmare came true. We did lose a child. The only thing that could make it worse is losing another child. Last Friday evening, my dear friend Deb lost a second child, her 20 year old son, just 9 months after losing her 24 year old daughter. I have no words to say, except to lament with her, to mourn with her, to grieve with her and her family. Please pray for the GOD of all comfort to comfort her and her family, to grant them strength and peace. May they be reminded of His great, overwhelming love for them. May they lean hard on Him and on the truth of His word. May we be the hands and feet of Jesus for Deb and her family.

Deb is a part of our mom's group, as she calls it. (Because, really, what do we call ourselves? We don't want to be defined by our loss, so we don't call it our "bereaved moms" group even though loss of a child is exactly how each one of us got connected. We met, too, for many months doing a book study, but we don't call ourselves a book group either; because our getting together is about so much more than going through a book.) We are a group of women who know what it's like to experience a parent's greatest fear and live to tell about it. We are women who are stronger today than we could have ever possibly imagined. We are a group of women whose lives are forever changed. We are a group of women whose faith has been more shaken, yet more solid, than we ever thought possible.

I attended the funeral yesterday for Deb's son with some of the women from this "mom's group." We carpooled together, this unlikely quad. Four women about as different as the deaths that claimed their children's lives. Four women whose paths crossed only because we each have a child alive in heaven. Some might say that these friendships were the result of bad luck, but we know that's not true. They were forged by the loving hands of an Almighty God. Though we don't profess to know His reasons or even come close to understanding His purposes, we rest in knowing that He has a plan; a good, perfect, and pleasing plan.      

God's grace is always abundant and always for the moment. He granted Deb the grace to stand before hundreds of grieving people yesterday and proclaim His truth, the truth that this world is not our home, that Jesus Christ died for each one of us and has gone to prepare a place for us. 

John 14:1-3

“Do not let your heart be troubled; believe in God, believe also in Me. 

In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; 

for I go to prepare a place for you. 

If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, 

that where I am, there you may be also.

Shared sorrow is the tie that binds this amazing group of women together, but it is ultimately our faith in the finished work of Christ on the cross that unites us and gives us the hope that one day soon we will not only see our precious children, but we will see our Savior, and there will be the death of death. Until then, may we be found "looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith..." (Heb. 12:2)

Living in the bittersweet

Bittersweet. It is the one word that encapsulates grief well right now. I was able to, for the first time, watch a video last week with Matt in it. Not only was I able to watch a video with him in it, I watched it without ending up in a pit of grief. I watched it with a bittersweet heart. Of course, it doesn't surprise me that Matt wasn't looking at the camera or talking. That just wouldn't be him. He hated getting his picture taken, and he was a "man of few words." (Hence, the nickname Mr. Stoic.) He rarely smiled, though his best buddies always got him to smile and laugh. If an adult got him to smirk, they were doing well, indeed! I always like to say that he is like "quiet waters that run deep." He was a thinker, alright.

One of his favorite songs was Million Pieces by Newsboys. Matt's "second mom" (also my best friend) posted on his FB page this week that she had heard the song playing and thought of him. It warms my heart whenever anyone remembers him, and even more so when they share it.



Bittersweet also describes this week as I've been filling out post secondary education option (PSEO) forms for Matt's sister. Bitter because I never got to do this with Matt, but sweet because I get to do this with "Sweet Stuff." It's been more emotional than I had anticipated (bitter), but not as overwhelmingly painful as life two years ago (sweet).

Bittersweet, too, was the dream I had of Matt last night. It brought the message that he is fine and doing well. He had matured and was a responsible young man, standing amongst a group of college-aged friends. He had changed, yet not changed. Bittersweet was the moment I woke up. He spoke to me in the dream, and I replied. I heard his voice. (sweet) I saw him and stood close to him. (sweet) But then the dream ended. (bitter)

Living in the bittersweet is difficult to describe. It feels a bit like coasting. It's not exactly exhilarating, but neither is it a deep and miry pit. At the beginning of the grief journey, I just desperately wanted the steep roller coaster ride to end, the jarring ups and downs to level out. However, now that it has, I'm not entirely sure I like this "flat" section of the ride, either. It's a different sort of unsettled feeling.

One thing I know, however, is that no matter how unsettled I am, God is not. He is a strong tower, a steady rock that girds this ride. He does not change, though the course does. (Psalm 18, Hebrews 13:8) And one of these days, I, too, will be kissing my cares goodbye, no longer living in the bittersweet.

Healing will come, I promise

I don't recognize how much healing has taken place in my own journey of child loss until I meet new members of this club that no one wants to be a part of. I see their devastation, the raw pain, the incomprehensible, shell-shocked look on their faces. I look at them and instantly realize that I'm no longer back there. I ache for these bereaved parents because I know the battle ahead of them. I know the fight they're facing, the fight to somehow be made whole again. I tell them softly that healing will come, I promise. But it won't be quick, and it won't be easy. In fact, it will be the hardest thing they will ever do, healing from the loss of their child. It will take a determined choice to believe God, to find joy, and to reinvest in life again. The beginning of the journey to healing will be a second by second decision to trust God, to remember His promises, and to stay focused on eternity.

After meeting many new bereaved parents in the last several weeks, I decided to make a list representative of the healing that's taken place in me over the past two and a half years. Some signs of healing, things that I thought I would never do again, are:

smile
laugh
joke
sleep through the night
make meals, plan the menu, and enjoy food
notice the sounds and color of nature
find things to be thankful for
look at pictures and videos of Matt 
pray

I no longer:
cry every day
wish I had died
need sleeping pills or alcohol to help me sleep
cringe when I hear a helicopter
find it painful to go out or to go shopping
avoid people for fear of breaking down
meditate on the "if-only's" and "what if's"
take my husband for granted by assuming he'll always be here (The widows I've met at GriefShare are proof of this.)
expect that life is a given

Healing, however, does not diminish difficult moments. I still don't sing in church. I have no explanation for it, either. I can only surmise it's because church is one of the most obvious situation where not all of my children are present. I look down the row, or behind me at the sound board where Matt would usually sit, and I still catch myself counting kids and coming up one short. It's the one place where I continue to see "whole" families, but am reminded that mine is not. We've been at our church for 20 years, so it's reasonable to me that this would still be an area of difficulty. It doesn't mean I don't worship, by any means. I worship the LORD with all my heart, in my heart, but I cannot sing from the heart. I just don't know how else to explain it.

Neither does healing imply the end of grief. It is, instead, a melding of one's life "before" loss with one's life "after" loss. Healing is the sea into which the raging river of grief empties itself. I know, most assuredly, that there will be many more times when sorrow will roll in and drag me out to sea, yet I am so thankful for the healing God has accomplished thus far. He has calmed the storm, and when it raged, He kept me safe within His arms. I pray that these newly bereaved parents will find the same God-given comfort, strength, truth, and love on this journey that we have.