Tag Archives: comfort

Just don’t.

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Like millions of other Minnesotans and Midwesterners, I spent much of my weekend in tears and when I wasn’t crying, I spent the rest of my time on my knees praying for the family of Jacob Wetterling.  Much like other moments in history, I remember exactly where I was when I learned of his disappearance.  I was a college junior in North Dakota, eating supper with my family.  We prayed then and we pray now for his family. At the time, my sister was just a month shy of her seventh birthday. Around that time a little girl went missing from our neighborhood.  Unlike Jacob’s story, hers had a happy ending.  She, at three years old, decided to ride her tricycle to the Dairy Queen about 8 blocks away.  I stayed behind with the neighborhood kids while the adults formed a search party.  Long before the advent of the cellular era, word finally came back that she was found.  After all the kids had gone to their respective homes, I held my baby sister really tight and made her promise she would never, never, NOT EVER, do something like that.  In her naivete, she responded with I don’t even know how to get to the Dairy Queen. Through my tears, I laughed, but the reality was the carefree days of letting your children play and run about the neighborhood were gone.

Because of the actions of one, the innocence of a child, a family, and an entire region were stolen.  We sang along to the Jacob’s Hope song, we looked at every child’s face hoping he would be Jacob, but mostly we cried and we prayed.  Jacob’s story and his beautiful full-of-life face were burned into our collective psyche.

It would be many years before I would be married and have a son of my own, and through all this time, I have admired the quiet, displayed strength of Jacob’s mom, Patty.  I would shake my head and wonder how she goes on each and every day with such a gigantic hole in her heart.  To me, and I am certain to countless other moms she was the pillar of strength, of which I am equally certain she never wanted to have that label.

Every time a new “break in the case” would occur, I would pray for peace and for answers, knowing both had to be in short supply for the Wetterling family.  At some point in time, Patty’s face to me became as personally iconic as Jacob’s.  She was the face of every mom’s worst nightmare and selfishly, I thanked God that I wasn’t her because I never wanted to walk in her shoes.

This isn’t a message about being careful what you wish for, but I now know what that prayer of thanks looks like on the countenances of other people.  While my story and Patty’s are not at all similar, I know the deep grief of losing a son in tragic circumstances, and I know grief is never comparable.  I know what it is like to be today’s news story, and I know what it is like to have news media camped out on my lawn and at the hospital where my other son was fighting to live. I know what it is like to lose friends because they just can’t stand to think that their children might die too and I know the pain of someone asking “Aren’t you over that yet?”. And I know all the wrong things people say when they are trying to comfort grieving people.

I know the days where if someone told me I was so strong one more time, I was going to punch them because what they don’t see (and probably what we don’t see of Patty’s life) are the days where tears are all I have to offer the world. There are plenty of days where getting out of bed seems like an insurmountable task. But like what I hope for Patty, there are the days I can physically feel the prayers and well wishes sent our way, and I go on.

With a huge hole in my heart and with scars of pain that sear deeply, I go on. We go on.

I am sure Patty saw our news story of four children dying in a school bus crash and thought about us too.  She just strikes me as that kind of mom and dynamo in this world.  And even though, she and I have never met and quite possibly never will, when I was crying or praying this weekend, I had a burning desire to want to protect her from all the things I know are coming her way.  While I cannot do that, nor would I want to disrupt their private grieving, I can do one thing.

That one thing is to be the antithesis to Nike’s “Just Do It” campaign.  My message today is all about don’t.  As the news broke about the possible discovery of sweet Jacob, social media and news media went bonkers. And with each posting and reposting, my heart broke for Jacob, for Patty, for his brother and his friend, for his dad Jerry, for his sisters, and for all the rest of his family.  In my own quiet momma corner of the world, I wanted everyone to just stop saying one word. Closure. Don’t.  Just don’t.

The word was used often after the trial and the conviction of the woman in our story, but let me tell you there was absolutely not one ounce, not even a scintilla of closure.  My son has been gone for 8 ½ years now and I am NEVER going to have closure. Neither are my husband or our kids or families.  Patty and Jerry won’t either.

We will all go on, but this side of heaven, we won’t find this elusive closure.

Just don’t say it. Don’t post it. Just don’t.  The Wetterlings have endured more than what most people could and they have done so with grace, going on to fight to save and protect all of our children.  Let’s not diminish their courage and fortitude with the word closure.

We can close on a house.  We can close the door, literally and figuratively. We close on business deals. But we don’t ever CLOSE on our children.  The love a mother has for children is a love so deep that it doesn’t have an ending.  Ever. Period. Amen.

Closure – Stop saying it. Refrain from posting it. Don’t think it. Don’t utter it. Do not even breathe it around grieving people. Remove it from the vernacular. Don’t. Just don’t.

I know I am not the only one who has cried and prayed for the Wetterlings this weekend.  I also know I am not the only one who has bristled at the flagrant use of that awful word.  I believe a small educational lesson can go a long way to help all grieving people, and I am simply sorry it has to be for Jacob.

Yet, his mother has taught us so much about grace and dignity and hope.  So, even though I will most likely never meet her, I had to smile when I saw her message for us all as her words echoed the message I gave shortly after the bus crash.  I shared a statement that was read on my behalf about the amazingness known as my son, Reed, and asked everyone to go home and hug their children.

As much as I desire for people to “don’t say the word closure”, we can all DO something.  Patty’s message to all of us is something we can and should do for the Wetterlings, but mostly to honor the boy we have all grown to love.

jacob-wetterling

Photo from KSMSP Fox 9 News

And as for me and my house, we are going to hug the mess out of our kids and believe in the good in the world.

 

 

 

 

Grief came to visit

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GRIEF came to visit a few days ago and to make matters worse he brought EXHAUSTION, the kind of fatigue that causes the world to swirl as I sink further away. I STRUGGLE to hold my head up, to keep my teary eyes open. Deep in the back of mind, I am reminded all those who say I am a STRONG. Do they not know how some days I can barely BREATHE? The maniacal laughter of DOUBT rises from my soul as I remember a recent splurge of DISTRACTION. Drawn by the allure of my roots, I played one of those silly online quizzes to uncover my Celtic name.

boudicca

I am certain Boudicca would be DISAPPOINTED. I feel nothing like a Celtic warrior. The lingering thoughts of FAILURE of all those I have let down wiggle to the surface. I want to rise up and fight the INVASION, but I have absolute zero ENERGY left to do so. I WORRY about the ways I am not enough for my husband, my kids.

Then somewhere from deep inside me my own words come back to HAUNT me.

Be gentle and kind to yourself.

I may not be a warrior, but in the moment, those appear to be wise words. I CHOOSE to EMBRACE them. I don’t plan away the seconds, and I am PRESENT in the moments of our ordinary day – a day scarred by GRIEF and EXHAUSTION. I CHOOSE not to listen to the enemy’s LIES.

Eventually, I do the only thing that makes any sense. I CRY out to God. I lift an OFFERING of EMPTINESS. Empty hands and lifted face pour out a heart that hurts. And as much as a warrior I am NOT, he is – a LEGION of comforters at the ready.

HOPE arrives.

My daily bread.

My nothing is transformed into his SOMETHING.

It is the SMALL that I find the IMMENSE. God is present in it all.

A phone call from a friend who just “knew” I needed encouragement – RE-ENERGIZES and REFRESHES. A card from a coworker ACKNOWLEDGES the pain and reminds me that many are PRAYING. A Facebook message WHISPERS – God loves you!

I LIFT empty hands and DISCOVER God’s hands are not empty because I am CRADLED there, rocked gently by his LOVE. Even though GRIEF came to visit, God PROVIDED the comfort to ask the houseguest to leave.

And for me that is MORE than ENOUGH.

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Not at my table

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Twice on my trip to Kentucky, I was invited to dine at the home of one of the most adorable Sunday school teachers.  Cloaked inside her petite exterior is one of the biggest hearts I have ever met. A heart that has been equipped with the gift of hospitality which made my own heart do flipper-de-loos each time I crossed the steps into her adorable cottage style home.

Lovingly known as “Miss E” to some, she has a personality that draws near.  (On a side note, she is a teacher (not just on Sundays), and I have long been drawn to other lovers of learning.) Her humble home just exudes “Come on in. Sit a spell. And the proverbial Southern favorite, “Y’all eaten yet?”.

On that last one, she didn’t have to ask because we were invited there for that very reason.  Well, that and of course, good old-fashioned girl time.  One night we even had dinner and a movie – a chick flick with pizza and tissues.  All girls will get that combination.

Clearly a proud momma, her decor consisted of artwork done by her very talented children.  Rooms filled with a delightful mix of family heirlooms and inviting, cushioning chairs beckoned my soul to slow down and relax.  All of it beautiful without being showy.

But there was something present that the eye could not see, but the spirit could certainly feel.  This home – this communion of souls – was filled with the grace that only can be found when God’s love is present.

One moment will be forever etched in my memory.  For our first dinner it was requested that we bring our own beverages to accompany the meal.  Grabbing our favorite drinks – a Coke in a bottle and McD’s sweet tea in the Styrofoam cup – we happily arrived feeling we were allowed to add something to the evening’s experience.

As we gathered at the table, Miss E informed us that we could place our beverages in the goblets already on the table.  One among us protested that wasn’t necessary.  In a gentle but firm reply, we were informed that at her home we WOULD NOT be using those containers.

As my Mama would say, “We are not common people”.  That old saying was fitting here. We were not just guests. No! We were beloved sisters in Christ – blessed with the gift of friendship.

Looking back, I realized that someday that’s how it will be at Jesus’ table.  Imagine it! He will want only the best setting  for his girls.  All the junk (rage, bitterness, fear, worry, doubt) we allow into our lives really doesn’t belong at His table anyway.  I don’t think Jesus cares about the quality of the china, but he does cars about the way we approach the table. It is the effort that we give to each other through his grace that matters. If that (like Miss E’s glasses) is how we come together, then the dining will be divinely appointed!

Not so long ago at the table of one sweet lady, I was served with Southern hospitality and dined, grace-filled, like royalty.

Comforted to know I really am, and thankful to have been reminded.

 

Miss E and I waiting for my train to arrive

Miss E and I waiting for my train to arrive

 

 

The thing about grief . . . Part 4

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There seems to be a prevalent myth that only the first year of grief is the hardest.  Don’t get me wrong it is enormously difficult to encounter the “firsts”. For me it was things like the first St. Patrick’s Day with one less leprechaun trap, the first birthday without a birthday boy, the first day of school with only 3 backpacks, the first football game without a left guard named Stevens, and the first Christmas with an empty stocking.  All of those were difficult, but honestly, sometimes the anticipation of the day was worse.

Earning an Olympic gold medal in worrying, I fretted about if we could handle it. For the most part, the day eventually arrived and we survived.   Often times quietly, but never alone.  God would place it on the heart of a friend to reach out and make that first better. We were buoyed by the friend who offered to pack those backpacks and the friend who showed up with a batch of cookies for the first football game, knowing that I probably wouldn’t have the heart to bake that day.  I have said it before, but I will say it again we are RICH in friends.

The first year is awful, but the truth is “firsts” happen for years to come.  When it comes to grieving Reed, later year milestones hurt as bad as the first Christmas.  He didn’t get his driver’s license nor earn a letter in football, and neither will he walk across the stage at the upcoming emptiness of graduation. I can only imagine all the firsts that will happen for those, like the Newtown families, who lost one so little.

Heart-wrenching are the events that you didn’t think a whole lot about but yet sneak up on you.    Those firsts apply to all the losses we grieve. I tried to call my Nannie on Christmas day only to realize that I don’t know heaven’s extension.  I grieve our three miscarried babies.  For my little ones, the hardest days have always been the time of the loss, the first day of school, and the day we hang Christmas stockings.  Those days always hit me hard. I seem to go through the motions, while my heart is literally aching.

What I didn’t expect was the physical and emotional response that I had two years ago at my church.  We give Bibles to the first-graders.  It is such a sweet day.  These little bundles of energy are given a child’s Bible with parents, grandparents and congregation looking on.  There are flashes from cameras, big smiles, and rousing applause.  There I sat, when suddenly I broke out into a sweat, my heart was pounding, and I started to feel flush.  What in the world is going on here? Am I ill?

Eventually, I knew the reason for the reaction; I should have a little one up there on the altar steps.  I should have a camera, giving “a big thumbs up” to my little boy. Tears began to trickle down, slowly at first.  Those tears turned to gushes of anguish until I had to excuse myself from the sanctuary.  I sat in the foyer sobbing for a little boy that I never held in my arms, but I still hold in my heart.

The hardest part was I knew that it was “Bible Sunday”, and I hadn’t paid it any attention with my habitual worry and fret.  It just snuck up on me.  Those are the firsts that are the most challenging – the ones you didn’t even know you should be worried about. We all do it.  It can be a smell that reminds you of your grandma’s cooking, and then you miss her more. It can be a song on a radio, and you wish you had your mom to sing the harmony.  It can be the fishing spot that was your best friend’s special place. They sneak up and grab you when you didn’t have time to batten down the hatches on your emotions.

Thankfully, there are those who have walked this road before me.  One of those friends told me, “The first year is difficult as you experience all the firsts, but the second year is much more difficult as your heart begins to realize that the ache and emptiness are always there.”  Her words didn’t make it better, but they did offer hope.  Hope that we would survive and that we weren’t alone. But her words were also like “marching orders” that someday we would be able to offer the same encouragement to another grieving family.

I wonder if that is how God created grief.  It is painfully debilitating, eliciting physical responses and numbing to the mind and soul.  You walk through it – not always well – but somehow you pick up one foot and then another, until you wake up one day and it isn’t the first thing that you think about it.  Sadly, you do revisit it. Just as physical scars remind us of past injuries, heart scars remind us of our loss but also of our survival. Maybe God’s plan is such that we can put that grief to good use to someday walking along someone else as they experience their own heartache.

I don’t know for certain if that is true, but I do know that God sent people to comfort me in my darkest hours.  Even though it hurts like crazy, maybe just maybe, all those firsts, seconds, and even thirds will help me to love someone else.

He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. (New Living Translation © 2007)

photo from jQuery by example

photo from jQuery by example

The thing about grief . . . Part 1

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Drawing Copyrighted property of Reed's Run

Drawing Copyrighted property of Reed’s Run

There was a momentary pause in my writings in December.  I had originally intended to write one more blog in “The Long Road Home” series.  Then came December 14, 2012. At our house it was Clo’s 8th birthday, but for the rest of the world it will be remembered as the day that beautiful souls entered into heaven as a result of the Newtown tragedy.

Around lunchtime, I learned of a school shooting via text message. Thankfully, I didn’t learn any real details until well into the evening.  For my birthday girl’s sake, I am glad that I didn’t.  The first thing I learned was parents were waiting at a local fire hall waiting for word about their sweet babies.

Those words were all it took to push a button on a trap door in my living room floor that led to an avalanche of grief.  No matter how tightly I gripped and clawed to the edge of reality, I was sucked into a vortex of emotions.  Instantaneously, I was transported back to the night of my darkest nightmare when I was the last mom left in the school’s Media Center on February 19, 2008 – waiting, waiting, prayerfully waiting to find out where Reed was.

I collapsed into the nearest chair and sobbed.  I bawled for Reed, (and for Jesse, Emilee, and Hunter), for the dreams gone, for the children lost at Newtown, but mostly my heart ached for those parents still awaiting word.  This is one cup that I desperately wished had passed me, but sadly, I knew what is was like to walk in those parents shoes.

That trap door to my emotions spiraled out of control.  For days I was locked inside an emotional coma. I didn’t eat, sleep, or do anything well.  If I caught a glimpse on television or internet, I sank deeper into the bottomless pit of grief. Caught in the rip current and frantically swimming parallel to the shore of my life, I wasn’t getting out of it.  Inevitably, I unplugged – literally and figuratively.

Eventually, I did have to reconnect, and when I did I discovered several e-mails affirming that I wasn’t going crazy.  All were from trusted grief professionals providing comfort with the same message.  When challenged with something as senseless as losing a child in an unforeseen way, the brain tends to fracture all the emotions at the time of tragedy, hiding them in the deepest, darkest recesses of gray matter.  It is a coping mechanism.  All seems fine and then, (WHAM!), out of nowhere a switch flips – which is like your brain playing a colossal game of Hide-N-Seek – finding that splintered memory.

The messages were soothing, yes, helping me to find my footing again. But for the record, I hate that my brain still has slivers that I am inevitably going to encounter someday.  I hate that for someone who usually remains composed and logical, that grief, at times, is bigger than rational thinking and even normal body rhythms. Disheartened, I know there will always be another tragedy, because after all this isn’t heaven.

During the deepest part of my emotional coma, my husband found me one day – crying and rocking, rocking and crying.  I spoke about how I wanted to rush out to Connecticut just to rock and cry with the parents who babies hands they no longer held. I blathered on about the why and the how, when his gentle hand rested on my own.  In his own grief, he pleaded with me to stop trying to make sense of the senseless.

That’s when it really penetrated my heart (and my brain) that the place I needed to be wasn’t relying on myself or standing on my feet.  The place of healing was on my knees, asking God to fill up the hurt places in my heart and soul as well as in the hearts of anyone else, anywhere in the world, touched by tragedy.  Slowly over the coming days, the fog lifted, and I swam out of that rip current of dark grief.  Battle worn and weary, I knew that my prayers were answered.  I still don’t like my battle scars proclaiming “how I got here”, but I know my journey has created in me a new heart – one that honestly knows that I – without God – wouldn’t have survived any of it.

Easter Countdown #2 – Love God, Serve Others!

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On our grief journey, we have learned that one of the things most helpful to our family has been the reminder given by Paul in 2 Corinthians.  He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 2 Cor 1:4 (NCV) We have been comforted by simple acts of kindness and love, and now, we are able to do the same for others.

I distinctly remember Easter 2008 when my best friend called and said, “You are getting out of the house this weekend.”  I hadn’t left my children’s side (other than school for them) since the bus crash.  So I wasn’t sure how I was going to physically leave, but deep down I knew I needed to do it.  She told me that she had boiled about a bazillion eggs and that she and her family were coming over to dye Easter eggs with the kids.  She knew how much traditions (including egg-dyeing) mean to us.  She also knew I had zero energy to pull that off.  The day came and with God’s help, I mustered the courage and sense of peace to leave my house and take a break.

I have spoken about how simple acts fueled my family through many dark hours.  This is the type of comfort that I think Paul was addressing when he reminded us that we need to give to others the same comfort we were given.

For our Easter countdown activity, our family wanted to remember exactly how Jesus lived.  Throughout his life, he embodied our family’s mission statement: Love God, Serve Others!  It’s really that simple! In everything Jesus did, he humbled himself . . . fully God, yet fully human . . . to love on others, often the ones most neglected by others.  He fed, he nurtured, he wept,  he healed, he dried tears, he washed feet, . . never thinking of himself first, yet always knowing the precise amount of comfort to proffer.

As a family, we are often reminded of the love we felt when someone comforted us.  With all that in mind, we ventured off to the dollar store to purchase items for miniature baskets for a dear group of friends who we want to love on this week.  Sadly they were out of tiny baskets, but we found lovely Easter themed gift bags.

After returning home with our supplies in hand, we had supper and once again, got to work.  This time, we created an assembly line to stuff Easter grass, a tiny decoration, and chocolate bunny in our bags.  The whole time we talked about our friends and the special stories we have cherished from past times spent together.

We thought hard on who we could bless this week.  It didn’t take us long to decide, and of course, we had to the do the work for Huck, because he doesn’t have thumbs.  Our recipients will be Huck’s buddies at the nursing home that he visits.  The love that we receive from each resident pales in comparison to the joyful dog energy and companionship that we bring to them.  I think that Cloie’s card sums up what each of the residents mean to our family.

Through the visits our family has made to the nursing home, our children’s minds and hearts have been etched not to  fear the elderly, but instead see each one as a friend just waiting to be treasured.  Our only wish is that the love in those tiny packages carries as long as the love and memories that went into making them! If so, then Paul’s reminder will come true as the circle of love and comfort will continue to envelope others in our path!

Take-away: Is there someone in your circle of influence that could use a blessing this week?  Could you be the hands and feet of Jesus by serving someone else in love?  This doesn’t have to be costly, as a card or note can be a great pick me up!  If you are a baker, make a little extra of something yummy and share that.  Heaven is the limit on boundless love!

Idealism update: Please note how cluttered the rest of the room was while we worked on our masterpieces. 🙂  Despite what we all tell ourselves, you don’t have to have it all together to love on someone else!