Exposure

This was how the birth of Jesus Christ took place. His mother Mary was engaged to Joseph, but before they were married, she found out that she was going to have a baby by the Holy Spirit. Matthew 1:18

 

Often the winter holidays bring to mind memories of Christmases past. It has been long enough since my son died that sweeter memories have percolated to the surface of my thoughts. It’s hard the first months, maybe even years, to think of anything positive, so don’t feel discouraged if this is where you are. It won’t always be so.

As I recall this story I am about to share with you, my son had grown to the age where he thought he was old enough to make his own decisions without parental input. Having no prior experience at parenting, and he being my first child, I probably let out the “leash” a little too slowly for his liking. This led him to become my teacher at times and say in exasperation, “Mom, I can do it by myself!” This is a precious memory born out of one of those experiences.

Christmas was just around the corner, and like many churches the world over, our little church was decked out in finery. The Christmas tree lights twinkled, and the poinsettia plants, lining the platform, added velvety-red beauty to the usual greenery.

All the decorating was a reminder that soon a manger display would take its place front and center. Now it was time to put the finishing touches on the annual Christmas program. The Children’s Divisions were humming with activity, as teachers assigned music and readings to kids of all ages. My firstborn was chosen to read a verse from the book of Matthew which would signal the beginning of the much-anticipated event.

I asked my son if he needed any help learning the passage, just in case there was a challenging word or two he did not know how to pronounce. He said, “No, Mom. I can do it by myself.” Of course he could. What was I thinking? I should have checked the version from which he read, just in case. I forgot that his little Bible was the King James version with its “old” English style. My precious little boy stood up on stage and recited the passage from Matthew this way:

“. . . When as his mother Mary was exposed to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child . . .”

Bless his sweet heart. Of course the word “espoused” could trip anybody up. He was truthful; Mary had been exposed.

My son, growing independent far too fast for my liking, had no idea why his reading evoked chuckles from across the congregation. We parents stifled our mirth, realizing that our son could be embarrassed by his faux pas. I don’t think he caught his mispronunciation, and I never brought it to his attention; innocence is so tender in young children. Years later this story would become a cherished memory added to the few I have left of him now.

Sadly, my firstborn grew up insecure and lonely. In his quiet nature, he could not easily open up and speak of his pain. Looking back now, I see more clearly what I could not see then. No doubt he suffered with depression and all the struggles that go with this silent disease. My firstborn got to the place where he could no longer handle his problems. He just wanted the pain to stop. He wanted peace, not pain, and he got it when he ended his life.

Who but God knew that my son would grow up lonely. Who but God knew that he craved a special relationship with someone, and he felt it would elude him forever. Who but God knew that all he wanted was a wife and family.

I sometimes pause to read a parent’s description of the child she or he lost to suicide. The child is always pictured as gentle, helpful, the kind of person who would gladly give the shirt off his back if someone needed it. It is the vast contrast between their sweet characters and their final, harsh action that make their deaths so hard to comprehend and nearly impossible to accept.

What gives me comfort, even during the holiday season, is to remind myself that my son came into this world designed just the way his Creator intended: sweet-natured, tender-hearted, lovable ~ no doubt just like your child. God knew my child before he was ever born. He knew the number of hairs on his head. He had engraved the name we chose on the palm of his hand. God also knew how many days my son would live. Nevertheless, this child was too special not to make us a family, even though our hearts would one day break under the strain of pain and loss.

I once heard someone say something like this, and it stuck with me: where we put a period, God puts a comma. Or to quote T.D, Jakes, “It’s not over, until the Lord says it’s over.”  God has put a comma after my son’s name. He cannot forget my child any more than he can forget yours. Someday soon the God of heaven will reunite children with parents. This time for all eternity!

Verse selected from Good News Translation (GNT)

 

 

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This entry was posted on December 1, 2017. 4 Comments

Glory on Tour

God’s glory is on tour in the skies, God-craft on exhibit across the horizon. Psalm 19:1

What’s not to love about this picture? The colors, under a canopy of thick clouds, are brilliant hues of red, yellow, orange and green. I don’t have the luxury of living in Alaska where I can savor views like this, but we are seeing fall colors emerge here, too. We don’t have tundra, but the maples, oaks, and birches are strutting their beauty like papa peacocks. Occasional winds and rain bring leaves fluttering to the ground in whirlwinds, constantly shifting their positions in a game of tag. All too soon we are raking and blowing the leaves into fluffy piles like the white stuff soon to follow.

A few years back I was walking outside and talking to God, while getting some exercise. The air was cool. The bright fall colors were made more vivid by the sun’s reflection. Gorgeous. Just in that moment of peace, a thud hit my stomach. My son was not able to see this beautiful day. He was sleeping under a blanket of soft green a few miles away. “Not fair,” I wailed at heaven above the blue sky. No, not the least bit fair. And your loss is not fair either. We would change our circumstances in a heartbeat, but it is beyond our control.

My loss was the result of suicide. What was the cause of yours? Cancer? Street drugs? Vehicular homicide? Old age? Or from suicide just like mine. Tough coping isn’t it? If the death of your loved one was recent, the pain is horrendously harsh, and I am so sorry. The force with which reality hits us pushes our backs to the wall, defying comprehension.

I chose to bury myself for weeks, months, after the death of my son. I didn’t have a job to go to like my husband did. He said it gave him some relief to be forced to concentrate on other things. I was slowly being smothered by four walls which felt like they were closing in for the kill. Silence was brutal, broken only by the occasional ring of the telephone. I couldn’t care less. I had no place to go. No hole to dig where I could bury the pain. It was mine to keep forever. I did not want it, but I did not want to give it up entirely either. The pain of losing one of my children was more than I wanted to bear, but I had no choice. He was my flesh and blood. I loved him from the moment I realized he was growing inside my tummy. I could not stop loving him in death. I know I will love him as long as I draw breath.

Sad, emotional picture, I know. Over time I have been able to release lots of the pain washed in tears and words. As God guided me to journal my thoughts in what became a book, “Shattered by Suicide,” I felt the pain shift, suffocating me less and less. Eventually it became obvious to my foggy brain that the Healer was guiding my every move. He was in this mess with me. What a defining moment! God was in this with me, and he will never leave me, says Deuteronomy 31:6. Our Creator God (Job 35:10), the same One who created the breathtaking scenery in the picture above, was not going anywhere. He was, and is, still holding my hand as we walk side by side. Sometimes we chat. Sometimes we walk along in silence absorbed in the beauty that he smiles upon us every day. Take a look around. And then . . .

Take a moment to thank God. I just did.

 Now God has us where he wants us, with all the time in this world and the next to shower grace and kindness upon us in Christ Jesus. Saving is all his idea, and all his work. All we do is trust him enough to let him do it. It’s God’s gift from start to finish! Ephesians 2:7-8

Verses shared from The Message (MSG)

Double Blessings

Twin kids

. . . she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me’ . . . Luke 15:9b

It is unfathomable to me how new life could ever burst forth out of the ashes of sorrow, but thankfully it does. New life will soon burst forth in our family, and I am ecstatic! All I have to do is wait in expectant expectation until this sweet, new journey begins. I just had to share the good news with my readers . . . my kids are making me a grandma! And not just one baby, but two! My youngest son and his lovely wife will soon become parents to identical twin baby girls!

Those of you who are proud members of the “Grandparents Society” will let me “sign up,” won’t you? Surely this club allows members exclusive bragging rights. I don’t wish to bore you, but I would like to share the prefix to this exciting new journey, already a cherished memory. (Also, I’m open to any advice other grandparents have to share.)

Hubby and I had already been surprised with the announcement, “We’re pregnant!” Days later, after the ultrasound, the kids popped in. As my daughter-in-law (really just my “daughter”) stepped across the threshold, she put her phone up close so I could get a good look at the screen. Yes, it was obviously an ultrasound picture which, quite frankly, I have always struggled to see anything remotely human on those things. This time I saw it plainly: there were two tiny “dots” on the screen. Dumbfounded, I looked up and met her blue eyes, opened wide in amazement. “T-w-i-n-s?? I asked.

“Yes! We are having TWO babies!” she squealed.

Chatting like magpies, both my son and new mommy blew passed me into the kitchen. First my daughter said breathlessly, “I don’t know how this happened. *We don’t have twins in our family.”

I responded, “My grandma had twins.”

Suddenly my son was all ears, his normal deep voice cracking in tenor. “She did? Why didn’t I know that!?”

I responded, “Probably because it wasn’t important before.”

“Well, it’s important now! I want to know everything!” he exclaimed between bites of a sandwich they bought on the way over.

It seems that when the kids saw the ultrasound screen, and the attendant pointed out Baby A and Baby B, my son’s reaction was quick. “I think I’m going to faint.” Someone rolled a chair up behind his knees, and he plopped down heavily. “Whew!” he exclaimed. “This is a lot to take in!”

My daughter seemed to be thinking out loud. We’ll need two of everything: two car seats, two strollers, two high chairs . . . and from long distance her dad interjected . . . and two college tuitions! Thanks for the reminder, Dad. Whew! It is a lot to take in!

It’s been a few weeks, and both families have had a chance to digest the news. It won’t be long now before parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles will excitedly welcome two little bundles of joy into the world.

As I share the beginning of our wonderful journey with you, dear reader, I am aware that some of you have likely lost babies either before or after they were born and before you got the chance to get to know them. As you read this piece, your heart may be acutely reminded of your loss, and I am so sorry if that is your story. No matter the age of the children we have buried there will always be painful reminders.

My blog is mostly about the grief journey and rightly so. Together, we explore the many facets of grief that we face each and every day in this circle of life. We celebrate all the milestones: births, weddings, graduations, birthdays, and the like. When the circle of life ends in death, our hearts break, and we mourn our losses.

Here’s the good news! This amazing circle of life, with its exciting new beginning for our family, comes in to nestle alongside the memories of a precious child lost. This co-mingling of life and death, which circles from birth to death and back around to birth again, will come to an end before eternity begins. We could be disoriented by the newness of heaven, but I doubt for long. Never again will one flower wilt, one leaf wither, or one person die. And therein lies our hope.

See, I will create new heavens and a new earth. The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind. I will rejoice over Jerusalem and take delight in my people; the sound of weeping and of crying will be heard in it no more.
Never again will there be in it an infant who lives but a few days, or an old man who does not live out his years.           Isaiah 65:17, 19-20a 

PS – As can happen with multiple births, our babies came early before this piece was posted. We are blessed that they are both healthy.

Scripture shared from the New International Version (NIV)

 

 

 

This entry was posted on October 13, 2017. 2 Comments

Invisible Footprints

 We stand fearless at the cliff-edge . . . Psalm 46:1a

pretty spearfish canyon - Black Hills

Spearfish Canyon

Ever hear a voice speak to you while in a solitary moment? Startled you wheel around expecting to be surprised by someone, but you are alone. It’s enough to make the little hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.

I’ve heard such a voice. It happened about a year after my son lost his battle with depression and ended his pain. This story appears in a book I have shared from previously, Shattered By Suicide. I share it again in the hope that it may provide encouragement in some way. Perhaps my experience will remind you of one of your own.

*****

“It was hard those first few months after our son’s death, to even think of a reason to leave the house. I didn’t want to go anywhere, but I didn’t want to stay at home either. I felt myself falling, falling into nothingness . . . with no way to get my bearings . . . and I didn’t care.

“After some time had passed, and we had settled into our sorrow a bit, we felt the need to get away and experience a different environment. Getting our exercise walking the hills and valleys at our vacation destination did us both good. As my eyes gazed upward into the rugged ridges framed by deep blue sky, I felt God’s awesome presence in a way I had not felt it in a long time. I began to relax, not realizing how stressed I had become following my son’s death. In the stillness of that beautiful place . . . in the quieting of my mind . . . perhaps I was ready to listen . . . in case He spoke to my barren soul.

“One early morning I decided to take a walk alone, venturing a little higher than usual. I had to lean in for balance and dig my toes in the loose gravel to keep my footing on the steep climb. I paused to catch my breath, sucking in deep draughts of crisp, clean air. The woods were thick and hard for my eyes to penetrate, but in them were sure to be eyes looking back at me . . . wild ones. This was God’s country where wild animals roamed freely in their habitat. I was very much aware that I was stepping into their domain. Being alone, I thought I should turn around and head down the trail.

“Traversing down the hill was easier, but still I had to proceed cautiously, or I could lose my footing in the shifting gravel under my feet. Rounding the bend, I peered over the edge of a ridge, and my tummy did a flip-flop. I did not realize how far up I had climbed. And just at that moment, I heard a voice speak clearly in my head, “Go ahead, jump! You can end your misery right now and join him. No one will know . . . and they won’t find your body for days. Do it!”  The voice was emphatic and crystal clear.

“Stunned I sucked in my breath and held it for a few seconds, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. My mind whirled as I tried to comprehend what I had just heard. Certainly God wouldn’t say such a thing. It had to be . . . Satan! Yes! It must have been Satan goading me to end my life and stop the pain . . . just like he goaded my son!

“When I felt strength return to my shaky legs, I hurried back down to my husband and safety. That was a strong directive. I realized, then and there, that the enemy would never leave me alone. He had taken my child, but he wasn’t satisfied. He would keep pressuring me to follow my son’s actions, as other grievers have done.

“If we believe that God exists, then we can talk to Him like we talk to a friend. We can avail ourselves of His comfort and counsel. And when we feel Satan pushing us to the edge of life, we can tell him to ‘beat it’ just like Jesus did.”

“Jesus’ refusal was curt: ‘Beat it, Satan!'” Matthew 4:10

God is a safe place to hide, ready to help when we need him. We stand fearless at the cliff-edge of doom, courageous in seastorm and earthquake, before the rush and roar of oceans, the tremors that shift mountains. Jacob-wrestling God fights for us, God-of-Angel-Armies protects us.  Psalm 46:1-3  

Story shared from the book, Shattered By Suicide: My Conversations With God After the Tragic Death of My Son, by Gracie Thompson

Bible verses selected from The Message Bible (MSG)

This entry was posted on September 1, 2017. 2 Comments

Every breath . . . every beat

You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book. Psalm 56:8

IMG_0128 -Dewdrop Tears

In Honor of My Son ~ Gone Too Soon
August 21, 1974 ~ August 11, 2005

With every breath I take and with every beat of my heart, I miss my firstborn son, and particularly now, as another anniversary looms on the horizon. Dear Reader, I know you understand. I know you miss your child, too. It’s true that our minds are stuck on our loss for a long time, but even after a long time has passed, the ones we miss are always in our thoughts. After the fog lifts, and we come to grips with the truth that they are never coming back home, we get good at multi-tasking; we learn to do the normal day-to-day activities while still keeping a heart watch on our pain. It’s a lifetime journey, this grief, but I also suspect that surviving is a lifetime journey, too, and one I am committed to. I write to help others and to keep alive the memories of the one I have lost. There is not a day that goes by that we don’t think about them and wish they were with us. And it’s okay to feel that way.

I share a piece entitled “Why Did He Do It?” written some years ago. Even now the question is still uppermost in my heart. Perhaps it will be a blessing to those of you who are new to your grief journey. I am so sorry we have the tragic death of our children in common, and I feel your pain. Though it has been years, I can easily reach back and pull up horrible memories at a time when grief was fresh and so very cruel. It was during this time that I cried out to God:

“Why Did He Do It?”

Dear Lord,

Why did he do it? I’m probably not going to get an answer . . . at least not one that I could even begin to accept this side of heaven. My mind understands that my firstborn son chose to end his life. But my heart still cries. It cries out because of his pain that I could not stop. It cries out because he thought there was no other way to end his pain.

Reasoning, I get. You and I have written about it ~ but my mother heart still cries. It cries bitter tears for all the beautiful days he’s missing out on. It cries for the college degree he will never have the chance to spread his wings in the job market with, or the woman he could have met who would have loved, understood, and accepted him just the way he was. And I shed tears for all the sweet grandchildren we will never get to enjoy.

I look at his picture with his big grin ~ and my heart breaks. I see other brothers pummeling each other, obviously acting like brothers ~ and my heart breaks. I pick up his billfold and finger each personal piece of paper ~ and my heart breaks. I go to the cemetery and look down at the slab of marble with his name engraved in bronze ~ and my heart breaks. I hear of other suicide deaths on the news ~ and my heart breaks for the loved ones left behind to pick up the pieces.

Lord, how can we blend together the business of daily toil with heartbreak? Life is a mixture of pain and joy, suffering and comfort, tragedy and peace. How do we blend them together to make an emulsion when they are opposites, like oil and water?

This is where You come in, isn’t it? You are the “glue” that holds us together in the midst of our times of joy and trouble. Lord, I am sure there will be more sadness and tears, but with Your huge arms wrapped around me, we can walk this journey together and when it ends, it will be all joy and no more tears.

You’ve promised.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever. Revelation 21:4

Verses selected from the New Living Translation (NLT)

“Why Did He Do It?” poem from Shattered By Suicide, My Conversations With God After the Death of My Son, by Gracie Thompson, pgs. 5-7

 

 

Showers of Blessings

I’ll send down plenty of rain in season—showers of blessing! Ezekiel 34:26

file2201238521882-shower head

Grief is a heavy topic and rarely do I segue from it into humor. It took a long time after I lost my son to suicide before I found anything to be funny. Slowly the humor returned, and sometimes situations present themselves that just “itch” to be shared. You know what I mean? However, if you feel that humor would be an unwelcome intrusion at this time, please tuck this post away for later reading. You won’t offend me in the least. I get it.

My weeks consist mostly of the repetitive drip, drip, drip of daily grind. But sometimes showers come out of nowhere. Have you ever been caught by a sudden rain shower, and you didn’t have your umbrella? I imagine most of us can recall a time or two when we were surprised by a downpour from the heavens, and we got soaking wet. Recently I had a shower experience of a different kind.

If you have found that your humor has returned, please grab a towel and laugh at my expense. Why the towel? You’ll see.

We have both a stationary shower head and a hand-held one in our bathroom shower. I wanted to spare getting my hair wet one particular morning, so I turned the dial to the rarely used position, which would send water to the hand-held shower head. No problem. The shower head did what it was supposed to do, but the following morning . . . not so much.

As you have likely figured out, I forgot to change the setting back to the stationary shower head after I finished yesterday’s shower, and had long since forgotten that I had changed the knob’s position. I turned on the water, heard the whoosh, anticipated the spray, but instead of getting me wet, a jet stream of water shot over the shower door and hit the wall across the room! The water splashed the mirror, ran down the wall, and drenched everything below. Stunned, but with quick recovery, I turned off the water and surveyed the damage. Fortunately clean-up was easy since bathrooms are designed to get wet . . . just not hosed down!

Mind you, all of this took place in a matter of seconds. First shock, then it registered in my brain, “Turn the water off!” It took longer to clean up the mess than to make it. (And isn’t that usually the way it is?) I can live the rest of my life quite satisfied to never again soak my bathroom with a shower head, but I will always welcome other kinds of showers.

I consider foibles to be at the top of my list of accomplishments . . . said with tongue in cheek. I’m probably not alone in this gift, but rather quite safely centered in a larger population, if they are willing to admit to it. “Why admit it?” you may ask. Because we are all broken. If we didn’t think so before, we surely do after burying a child. Burying a child breaks us. It leaves us in a deep heap of shattered shards of our broken parts, does it not?

This is where showers come in. Not the wet kind, although those are good, but heavenly showers; showers of cleansing as well as showers of blessing. Sometimes blessings are hard to be cognizant of after tragic loss, but God still sends them. I rather like the analogy. Getting refreshed by showers on the outside or inside of me are blessings on which I have come to depend.

Thus far in my life it seems that God will take an unexpected event (like my indoor shower), refurbish it, and weave it into a spiritual application for my understanding and character building. With your permission I will share a possible spiritual application from my mishap.

May I ask a question? Have you been aware of the showers of blessing in your life? Perhaps you feel God deserted you with the death of your loved one, and therefore, you turned away from Him? You may be thinking, He ignored my pleas to save my child, therefore I know He doesn’t care about me or my family. Ravaged by grief, like millions on this planet are, it is not easy to see the good. Our eyes are dim with tears and our hearts broken from loss. With the sudden death of our precious child, we may feel we are no longer blessed, totally forgotten. Perhaps you ask, “Where’s my blessing? How can the God of blessings also be the God who allows His children to die?” Hard questions which remain suspended in midair. They may go unanswered for now.

I shall remind us both that God never leaves us forsaken in our loss (Hebrews 13:5). He’s right here, holding us. Day by day He whispers sweet promises in our ears. When we are quiet and listening, we will hear them. He wills us to ask for a daily dose of His strength for the days, months, and years ahead. Could it be that His strength and comfort are among the showers of blessing? Could it be that the touch from others is among the showers of blessings? Or could it be that we aren’t used to receiving blessings from above, so we don’t anticipate an abundant shower of them? Why not?

“He doesn’t say: I will cut you off from My blessings. He says, ‘Come to Me and drink.'”

Quote from Today Is Your Best Day by Roy Lessin, pg. 126

Scripture shared from The Message (MSG)

 

 

 

 

 

Not by chance . . .

A real friend loves you no matter what happens. Proverbs 17:17

file561270689520 (1)

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” Albert Einstein

Her name I cannot share, but perhaps you have met someone like her in your life. If not, I will share our story, our connection, with the hope that it will bless every reader today.

We met a long time ago during a craft class. We were young mothers; she had one small child, and I had two. We had been mothers long enough to hunger for the fellowship of other women; a time to rekindle our place as women in the world. It was not by chance that we met in a macrame class, working our fingers while chatting about our lives.

Not by chance . . . we liked each other enough to stay in touch after the class was over: getting together so our children could play, or do outings, or share canning fruit and veggie know-how.

Not by chance . . . we kept in contact over the growing pains of raising rambunctious kids and her declining, crumbling marriage.

Not by chance . . . we found that we shared a love for God, and our conversations took on deeper topics of spiritual significance.

Not by chance . . . we kept in touch through trials of divorce and chronic illnesses. We prayed together, mostly over the phone, joining our voices to call out to the God of heaven for help and relief.

Not by chance . . . we have remained close friends through the battle of disease and a heart shattered by suicide. Thirty-eight years and counting, God has led each of us. Easy? Absolutely not. Faithful to Him and to each other? Absolutely.

Not by chance . . . God orchestrated our friendship so many years ago when life was fresh, and we were full of joy and excited about the future. We still are. Battered and bruised by the trials and tragedies of life, we press on together, knowing that we trust in God’s amazing grace.

Not by chance . . . my friend has pulled through the most trying year of her life. Facing so many physical challenges, enough to cause others to give up, yet God has sustained her. One of the ways He chose to do so was to connect us yet again, as a writing team. How? I’m glad you asked! Read on for the amazing twist in our shared story.

One day my friend called me. We had chatted a bit when she blurted out with a sigh, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Do what?” I asked.

With just a hint of frustration in her voice (as if I should know the answer already) she responded, “I will help you edit your blogs!”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Did I nod off during our conversation? I don’t remember asking you to help me,” I stammered.

“God has been bugging me for months to help you, and each time I heard His voice speaking to my heart to get involved, I gave Him my laundry list of objections. But you know how persistent He can be, so I gave in. I will help you edit your blog.”

Not usually at a loss for words, this day I was. My friend relayed more of her journey. She let me in on her private pain and struggle for the past year, saying that it had been worse than her divorce, which I knew had been terrible. Not only were her personal struggles daunting, she still continued to work, so her life was full to overflowing. Bad timing for God to ask a favor, or so she thought. But at His insistence, she gave in and called to tell me she was willing to help.

Not by chance . . . I could use her help. In fact, I could have used her grammar expertise for both books, now in print, but God had not “bugged” her when those were in process. He chose to do it this year, during the worse year of her life. Were we to understand, at least from a human perspective, why He chose now?

Not by chance . . . God knew that my friend had not grieved her many losses. He knew she needed an outlet for her grief, which had been hidden away and ignored. He knows the subject matter of my blog first hand, because I rely on Him to give me ideas, words, and perspective from His loving heart. Even though my story involves suicide, she and others who have different losses can relate to grieving, no matter the cause.

Not by chance . . . as my friend reads my drafts and works on them with her skills, the emotional side of her connects to my sorrow, and the dam breaks ~ over and over again. Long held off tears begin to flow. Suddenly, we get it. It becomes crystal clear why God connected us so long ago, held us together for most of our adult years, and then reconnected us again to work together. If I had asked for her help, it would have been for my benefit. Because God asked my friend to help me, it was for her benefit. We have come to realize that it is all for His glory and for our spiritual growth.

Not by chance . . . our loving heavenly Father knew years ago that we would need each other even more now. He knows that writing is healing, and we would both benefit. Actually, it’s a win/win/win relationship; a three-way friendship begun on earth which will continue in heaven.

Not by chance . . . God works in the lives of all His children. His ways and thoughts are higher than ours (Isaiah 55:9). He knows the best plan, the best path to take. He knocks at the door of every heart. If we choose to answer, it’s our gain, and not by chance . . . but by divine design.

Verse from the Clear Word paraphrase

 

Awash in tears

My eyes pour out tears to God. Job 16:20b

“Back then” I never thought I had a story worth sharing. My life was too ordinary, too boring; it didn’t contain elements that would capture anyone’s attention. I even prayed about this ever so often . . . and then the indescribable happened . . . creating a story awash in tears.

Perhaps it will benefit someone to hear my story from the beginning. I don’t share it often, because it remains so painful to talk about even after all these years. “To go there” is to bring the tragic loss of my son back into sharp focus where the memories of loss still have razor-sharp edges. Truth can be painful, can it not? It would be easier if it were a mere fictional account from an overactive mind. Unfortunately, it is not.

A further word about sharing one’s story before I get into mine: telling our stories is important; there is healing in the telling. I know it hurts to tell. It’s a rather bittersweet quandary, you might say, with benefits not readily seen, but they are there. Beyond personal help, it is my hope that it helps a reader along his or her journey into grief.

I had an uneventful life until that day which turned my world upside down. It began with a phone call that changed everything I had known up to that moment and . . . ended with the burial of one of my precious children. How do you recover completely from a horrific, senseless tragedy that leaves you mercilessly spinning like a top? We both know the answer. You don’t.

At 10:00 AM that Thursday the phone rang. The call was from my firstborn’s boss. I had never spoken to him before, so he instantly had my attention. He called to say that my son had not shown up for work yet. Since it was unlike him to be late, he suggested that I have the police do a well-check at his apartment. With shaking fingers and pounding heart I dialed the number at the precinct.

An eerie, sinking feeling began to form a knot in the pit of my stomach. My heart  thumped wildly as I completed the request and hung up the phone. I paced the floor, praying. I prayed and paced for the next three hours. What could possibly take the police so long? Was it an indication of something bad? I dared not allow my mind to go there.

I called my husband at work. His voice remained calm when I told him. As I hung up, I thought perhaps I was being overly dramatic, and this was nothing more than a delay from a flat tire. Eventually I called the police back to get an update. I was told that someone would be calling me. Now worry joined the sinking feeling in my stomach. If the well check had found nothing, why would it take so long to let me know?

Waiting was so hard! I prayed constantly that my boy was safe, but the knot of fear in my belly was growing and moving upward, threatening to choke me. Finally I was talking to a policeman on the phone. He asked if I was alone and I said, “Yes.” He asked me to call someone to be with me. At that point the pressure of waiting needed to escape, and I exploded, “JUST TELL ME!” And he did.

“Sorry, ma’am. Your son is dead.”

Two short sentences ~ six little words struck horror in my heart. I dropped the phone and screamed and screamed and screamed. This was the beginning of my “nightmare of sorrows.” Six little words, and the wall of my life came tumbling down.

These two sentences changed my life forever. I could stop right here, say no more, and readers who have lost a child could fill in details from their own personal story of tragic loss. If your story includes suicide, your mind immediately flashes back to the beginning of your tragedy, does it not? Whether our stories mirror each other’s or not does not matter; the loss of one’s own child is horror enough.

Much of what happened next is fuzzy. It involved phone calls to family members who quickly carried the awful news from person to person. Caring people brought in food along with their hugs and tears. Friends took us places where one goes to make final arrangements when a loved one dies, so why were we going? Loved ones die of old age, not suicide. It was all so wrong, but sadly, it was necessary. As overwhelming and confusing as it was, there was no ditching the tasks set before us. I just wanted to drop into the space my son would occupy and pull a blanket of dirt over the two of us. How could I go on without my firstborn child?

Memories remain sketchy, but I do remember someone trying to engage me in light conversation. She leaned toward me and asked, “Have you been doing any crafts lately?” My mind was toast . . . crafts . . . crafts, what does that word mean? I couldn’t even process this ordinary word. I had no room in my brain for mundane. No longer did I have an interest in anything from my former life. It was all ashes.

Amazingly, I have survived without my firstborn almost twelve years now. It seems impossible that this much time has passed when I didn’t think I could last a week. If you are new to your grief journey, please don’t be discouraged. Suffering loss is just that . . . it’s suffering, and who can put a timetable on suffering? One must allow the painful process of healing to work at its own pace. Fortunately, pain will wax and wane in its intensity over time as we all make our way along our journey of grief.

A shattered heart cannot be put back together, but it can be recreated, and that is where the next chapter of my life began. I finally came to the realization that my God was [and is] never absent. He did not kill my son. He loved my son. His love, which goes beyond my human understanding, is constant and comforting. According to His promise, He will never leave or forsake His children (Deut. 31:6).

My trial is awash in tears, but there is good news! I plan to see all my missing family when we are reunited in the air when Jesus returns! I am sure you plan to spend eternity with your loved ones, too. My hope, spelled out in Scripture, is where my faith is anchored.

This hope is a safe anchor for our souls. It will never move. Hebrews 6:16a

Verses selected from New Life Version (NLV)

This entry was posted on June 17, 2017. 2 Comments

The cheerio cherubs

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Memories. Life is made up of them, is it not? After losing my firstborn to suicide, all the memories that crowded front and center in my mind were harsh ones. Painful ones.

It seems like good memories take a long time to surface. And making new, happy memories somehow feels disloyal to the beloved someone we are outliving. It took lots of time before memories of my children, when they were little, finally began to trickle into my thoughts. I could smile as I relived them before shedding some tears.

Please don’t be discouraged if all you can recall right now are sad memories. Making new memories will happen in time. They might just catch you by surprise.

When my two boys were little they would often get into stuff and make a mess. Sorry to say, I got upset with them, thinking about all the extra work they made for me as I cleaned up after them. How trivial it seems now. I’d love to go back to those experiences and laugh at their childishness ~ laugh at innocent children having fun. I have a memory that I would like to share with you. There is probably nothing of value in it, except to give you encouragement that you, too, at some point, will have good memories to soften the edges of the sad ones, even bring on peals of laughter.

The boys were probably a little younger than ages 2 and 4 at the time this story took place. To set the stage properly, I should tell you that even though hubby had worked a double shift, he had agreed to watch the children while I slipped away to buy groceries. I fixed dinner for them before I left, thinking that by the time the three of them had eaten the meal and played for a while, I’d be back home.

I pulled into the garage, savoring the last remnants of my peaceful outing alone. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to find out whether or not my time management plan had worked. I stepped inside the house and stared with my mouth open. It looked as if a tiny tornado had ripped through our house! The kitchen was a mess. Food and dishes were scattered all over the table and floor. Apparently no one was hurt, for two little boys met me at the doorway, smiling, and the younger one saying, “Dink, Mommy, dink” code for “I’m thirsty.”

I looked over the heads of my chubby cherubs to the lower level, which used to wear green carpet, but all I could see was brown. What on earth? My voice trailed off as realization set in. I took a few tentative steps forward, slowing venturing into the crime scene. “Where’s Daddy?” I asked weakly. They pointed downstairs. Ah, yes. Tired Daddy was sound asleep on the sofa. He was peacefully snoring, oblivious to the tornado our tykes had created.

The brown on the carpet was, you guessed it, cereal. Boxes and boxes of cereal! And how do I know it was a whole bunch of boxes? I had a pantry which closed with a door, but no lock. I stored canned goods and other things on the shelves, plus I stocked up on boxes of the boys’ favorite cereals when they were on sale. I figured I had at least 10 boxes of cereal on hand and most of them Cheerios . . . but no more.

Since the boys weren’t able to articulate what happened, I put my detective hard hat on, and decided that this is how this escapade went down. My firstborn, looking for something interesting to fill the time, got into the pantry. A light bulb went off in his little head. We love cereal! Look at all these boxes! They stuffed their faces, opening up box after box. Soon tiring of eating from the abundance, older brother, the idea king of this outfit, got another brainstorm. Let’s fill our dump trucks with cereal and haul it around!

And that’s just what they did. They probably made lots of racket, as little boys do, making motor sounds as they pushed their large dump trucks, heaped high with cereal, around the basement floor. Round and round they went, even circling the sofa where Daddy lay sleeping soundly.

More cereal. More hauling. Stomp, stamp, trample that cereal into the carpet. Throw it high into the air. Whee! What fun! And then . . . killjoy Mom came home. They looked at her with innocent, upturned faces, (and she read the message written there) “Thanks for all the cereal, Mommy. We’re thirsty. We’ve had a blast entertaining ourselves while Daddy took a nap.” Blast indeed!

Daddy’s nap was O-V-E-R! “What were you thinking (or not thinking)?” I asked in exasperation, with hands on hips. “You don’t leave two little tykes to their own devices! You were supposed to babysit, remember? How could you allow yourself to fall asleep?”

“Easy!” he yawned. “Double shift, remember?” Oh, yes. I remember. I also remember WE WERE OUT OF FOOD . . . except for the cereal . . . which used to be in unopened boxes. Sigh. Here’s some trivia for you: did you know that when you attempt to vacuum Cheerios, they bounce off the sweeper and explode . . . ping! . . . into tiny fragments, making even more of them to sweep up? After I finally got the mess cleaned up, I needed a little sympathy from another understanding mother. Wisdom is supposed to come with age, so I called the children’s grandmother. She had the nerve to laugh! The more details I shared, the harder she laughed! It was not funny!

No, not funny then, but it’s funny now. I’m grateful to have one of those little boys . . . all grown up now . . . to share this story with, again and again. It may be embarrassing, but also a memory that he will delight his own children with one day. Perhaps history will repeat itself. Who knows?

Like Paul Harvey used to say on his broadcast, “Now you know the rest of the story . . .” there’s more to this one, too. Like I said, the pantry door had no lock. When hubby had sufficiently recovered from my tirade, he affixed a hook on the pantry door. There. That should protect groceries going forward. Not so fast. Little ones can out-think grown-ups, just in case you didn’t know that. LOL

One morning, these little guys were being way too rambunctious so early in the morning. “Boys, go sit in the rocking chair in the corner while Mommy gets dressed,” I instructed them, “then I will fix your breakfast.” They dutifully got into the chair, and I hustled upstairs. In what seemed like just seconds, I heard giggling coming from the direction of the corner chair. I peered over the stair railing to see what was going on. There sat my little cherubs eating cereal. HOW DID THEY GET LOCKED-UP CEREAL? “Easy, Mommy,” chirped the idea king, (who would always coordinated these heists I was beginning to learn). Being the obedient son that he was, he stayed in the chair so as to not get into trouble, but he conned his little brother, who had an under-developed conscience at this point, to be the disobedient one. “See,” he continued his teaching lesson, “I told my brother to pull up a chair to the pantry door, stand on it so he could reach the hook, and unlock the door. That’s how we got cereal.” He beamed, apparently quite pleased with their team effort. They both giggled again.

Outwit, outplay the grownups. Yep, I’d been played. It may have been the first time, but it wouldn’t be the last. Those giggles are treasured, sweet music among my memories. Wouldn’t we all go back to a time of innocence . . . if we could?

He will once again fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy. Job 8:21

Scripture from the New Living Translation (NLT)

Jonah: The Man Who Ran

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Ever lived an impossible day when you wished you could run away? How about an impossible week or month? How about an impossible year? Those of us who grieve, live in or have lived through the inescapable darkness of sadness. I learned this darkness first hand when I lost my firstborn to suicide over ten years ago.

Long, long before our time, there was a prophet of God who ran when he faced what looked like an impossible task. His name was Jonah, and his fascinating story is found in the Old Testament. It’s a gripping story that was perfect for my imagination when I first heard it as a kid. I was captivated by the prophet who dared defy God and ended up doing time in the belly of a mammoth fish. More about the fish in a later story. First, let’s explore the running part.

As one of God’s prophets, Jonah had likely completed missions before, but he was about to refuse one. Refuse God? How does a puny human dare do that? It does not appear in the story that Jonah answered God, but he made a decision not to obey nonetheless. God, who knows everything and cannot be fooled, knew what His prophet was plotting, but He did not interfere. Instead, He allowed the situation to play out in real time.

Act One of Jonah’s story unfolds as God directs him to the enemy territory of Nineveh. Probably fearful for his own safety, Jonah heads for the harbor and boards a ship headed in the opposite direction from Nineveh. It is obvious to the reader that he does not intend to obey orders, as he works a plan to get as far away from God’s commission as possible.

I did not run away physically from my situation, like Jonah did from his “mission impossible” assignment, but I wanted to run away emotionally. Run from the agony and shock that engulfed me. Run from the relentless, clawing fingers of emotional pain. Run from the choking fog, my constant companion. Run from the voices screaming in my head, you could have prevented this so why didn’t you? It was later, after lots of time on the hamster wheel of brutal guilt and blame, that God helped me understand who was behind the negative guilt messages assaulting my brain. They are never from my God who loves me. Instead, they are always from the enemy who hates me. Always.

How could I continue to live? How could life be worth living without my firstborn child in it? Many such questions flooded my mind in the beginning months of my grief journey. I was to learn that it takes time to sort out the emotions and feelings that come after loss, and in time, I was able to embrace the loved ones in my life who still needed me. Finally, I came to grips with the truth that I was not responsible for my child’s death. That horrific decision was his alone (no doubt coerced by the enemy of souls).

You may be wondering, what does a grief journey, in the here and now, have to do with Jonah’s story of long ago? The correlation, for me, is this: just as Jonah thought he could hide from God, and God wouldn’t notice, I “hid” from life after my son died. I can’t remember how long I avoided mixing with people, but I do remember that I was still in deep grief when I heard a voice give me a “mission impossible” assignment.

I was alone in the house that day when I heard a voice speak in my head. I was both startled and surprised . . . is that YouGod? God had never spoken to me before, but somehow I assumed the Voice was His. What the Voice said stunned me to my toes.

You want me to do what? The Voice did not repeat the assignment. It simply said, “I want you to reach out to help others in similar pain.” I could not believe my ears. If I heard God correctly, He was asking me, this broken-hearted, broken-down mom, who was still stuck in the mire of her own throbbing pain, to reach out and lend my shattered heart to help others in similar sorrow. I panicked at the very thought! How could a weakling, such as I, help anyone? I pretended not to hear.

Avoidance was something I was familiar with. Like Jonah, “I ran” from the assignment. I thought, God can pick on somebody else better suited. I have enough pain on my plate to deal with, and quite frankly, I could use a little help from someone who is surviving her own suicide grief journey! What I did not understand, at the time, was that God had the exact same idea in mind, and help was on the way. When I finally relented to follow His plan by reaching out to help others in grief, I found that every contact, every word written helps me along my healing journey as well.

We are never alone. No matter what, God is always there to comfort us, as He has said, “I will never leave you; I will always be by your side.” Hebrews 13:5b

Scripture from The Voice (VOICE)

 

This entry was posted on May 20, 2017. 2 Comments