NOT Crying is exhausting

 

 

This is something that can maybe only be fully understood by people walking through a similar fire: that as draining as it can be to let the grief pour out, holding it in is exhausting in a whole other way.

Today, Michael's mommy came out to play. I wrote about this concept several years ago, but I'll explain for anyone who hasn't read those words.

The way I have survived our terrible loss, and the reason I am able to function on a daily basis (in addition to the precious grace and comfort of Jesus) is my ability to compartmentalize. The home in which I grew was not a good place to let "unwelcome" emotions (anger, frustration, etc.) show on the surface. I learned to bury them deep and hide them.

Curiously, this hard-gained skill became a great help to me when our precious Michael took his life in 2018. In the first few days, my fiery pain was right out in the open for all to see. As soon, as I had to leave the house, though, and interact in public, I had to have a place to put that consuming pain. And so...I compartmentalized into three facets. 

As I explained it at the time, and as still holds true, Michael's mommy is curled in a safe, protected room, howling and wailing her pain. Michael's mom carried on, dealing with the practical realities of his death; things like meeting with an attorney about his small estate, dealing with creditors, organizing a viewing and then a memorial service, and ordering a headstone. While Michael's mommy writhed in pain, and his mom dealt with these hard, but necessary, tasks, Kristie ran errands, spent time with family and friends, and just...carried on with life. At all times, all three of me are very much alive and active, though Kristie is usually the one people see. Sometimes, if conversation turns that way, Michael's mom will rise to the surface, welling my eyes with tears and making my voice tremble. Michael's mommy, though, I usually keep tucked away where her terrible suffering is private and safe.

Not everyone...few people, in fact...can really handle the raw, naked pain of others' intense grief, or handle it in a helpful way. The heart of Michael's mommy is so vulnerable in its deep, relentless pain that it must be protected from anything that hurts it more. 

This is what has worked for me. It may not be right for everyone, but it works for me.

It is also...exhausting.

I tried to explain this to a friend recently, and she was surprised. She said that she'd have thought that crying would be more draining. She's not wrong. Letting the pain rise to the surface and boil over is certainly draining. Holding it back, though, is exhausting in a whole other way.

I could plop down and cry at any moment.

Yes, after five whole years, the pain is that ready and present, when pinged by well-aimed triggers.

Five long years. It feels like forever and like yesterday. A moment; one harsh, in-drawn breath.

I think that people imagine the goal of grieving to be reaching a place where the pain no longer ruffles the water of daily life. I can't imagine a time when my dear son's life and death will no longer weigh on my every moment to some extent. As long as he's dead, I will not be truly okay. I don't walk around feeling the intensity of our loss every moment, but it is also never absent.

It is this weight, the constant, relentless truth of his death, that presses on me. Even when I am laughing, with sparkling eyes, with dear family or friends, cuddled on the shoulder of my dear husband, or gazing with wondering joy on our precious new grandson...the truth of Michael's death is still real, and still heavy. Whether at the forefront or in the background of my thoughts, it is always there.

Holding that weight, but keeping it set apart in a protected space, draws on my reserves of energy, like a bank of blinding spotlights plugged into an extension cord. As long as the lights are the only thing drawing on that power source, everything will seem fine. For every other thing that is plugged into the same source, though, the strain on the system grows, until things start to sputter and fail.

To step out of metaphor and into my real life: I seem fine most of the time. In many ways, I am fine. Granted, my stamina and capacity are noticeably less than before, but within those bounds, I do well enough. The problem arises when too many strains are placed on the system. The weight of my grief presses harder on me when I'm tired. 

Today, I was very tired. 

I have been going hard for too many days, with not enough respite or rest.

Today, I felt the hard, gray weight of my grief, pressing on my shoulders, clinging to my back, dragging at my limbs, trying to pull me down. Usually, I shove it back into its assigned space and firmly close the door. Today...I just didn't have it in me. I was so tired, on top of everything else, of the struggle to not feel. And so...I gave up.

I plugged in my earbuds, pulled up that certain playlist on my phone, and opened the door of the room where Michael's mommy lives. I took her hand and gently invited her out into the open. I cried.

And cried. 

And cried and cried and cried.

This is what I mean when I say that Michael's mommy came out to play. It means that either I have made a space for the grief to rise, or it has ripped to the surface from some other cause.

It means that I dropped my stoic determination and let myself feel for once.

It is both draining and a huge relief. 

In a way, I was less weary after this extensive romp with my hard emotions than I was before. The weight of it just gets so crushing when I don't let it out from time to time. It was a relief to rip the lid off and, as they said in the old days of the American West, "Let 'er rip!" 

Where is the hope or the useful arrow in this? Well...a couple of things:

*If you carry grief (or trauma or depression or clinical anxiety...) it's important to remember that your physical body carries this weight. It needs to be fed and watered and rested, or its ability to hold up under the load will be compromised. We need to care for our bodies so they can help us carry this weight. If we're unusually tired and worn down, we should expect the grief to rise to the surface, and give it room to do so, when and where and how it will feel safe and healthy to us. Be gentle with yourself. Give yourself the comfort, care, and permission for rest that you need.

*If you know someone who is grieving, or carrying some other heavy emotional load, give grace to their limits (when they say they can't do something...believe them), don't try to "fix" it when their emotions make an appearance, and do not hold onto the expectation that they will return to their "old self." That person doesn't exist anymore. It's harmful and hurtful to be pressured to pretend that we are the person who never weathered this terrible loss. We are forever changed. There is no going back; only trying to find a grace-touched balance of sorrow and joy, moving forward.

~~~

I wrote this post last August, two months after the fifth anniversary of Michael's death. I don't remember why I didn't post it then, but here it's sat as a draft, all these months. I heard something today that reminded me of this post, and I think it's a helpful addition to the conversation.

This morning, I listened to episode #656 of the podcast called The Happy Hour with Jamie Ivey. There was a guest host for this episode, a woman named Toni Collier, who interviewed Dr. Curt Thompson. The conversation was so healing and so helpful to me that the moment it ended, I sat down with a notepad and pen and listened to the whole thing again, taking notes.

One of the things they discussed was the cost of not feeling. I could sure resonate with that! They talked about healthy, emotionally safe ways to bring the grief into the open. They talked about many things, and I took many notes. One of the final comments by Dr. Thompson was so healing for me. He said that the goal of grieving is not that we'll no longer feel sad. He said, "He (God) is not just trying to get us to work through our grief. He's trying to turn us into people who are unafraid of it."

Unafraid of grief. 

That is a goal I can stand to live toward. 

That feels honest and real to me.

May we all find safe people and places for bringing our grief into the sunlight. May we heal and grow to be unafraid of grief; to accept its reality as a normal part of the human experience. May we give grace to one another as we feel our real feelings and live our true stories. May we love each other well.

[The photo at the top of this post shows the first blossoms on my Grandpa Dick's Rainier Cherry tree. He's been gone since 1996, so this tree is growing elderly. It grows by the slowly crumbling root cellar my grandparents once used for storing root crops and home-canned fruits and vegetables. The gray behind the blossoms is the concrete of the root cellar's roof. I love this image- this delicate, fruitful, hopeful beauty growing out of this gnarled old tree, above the cracked and weathered cellar. As the old saying goes, where there is life, there is hope. Here's to finding small, sweet breaths of hope as we navigate this hard, gnarly journey.]

No New Favorite Pictures

When we passed the five-year anniversary of the death of our son Michael, in June of this year, I flinched away from sharing a collage of favorite photos from his life on Instagram or Facebook.

It suddenly hit me, with painful clarity, that they would be the same exact pictures I'd shared for the fourth year, and the third, and the second... They're wonderful pictures, from various moments in his twenty-six years. I treasure them.

What stopped me? 

There will never be a new favorite picture of our son.

This is it; this fistful of most-favorite moments. The stack will never grow taller or wider. 

If I share favorite photos every birthday and deathday, they will be the exact same pictures, over and over again, because the chance for capturing new moments died with him. 

Having that painful truth hit me from this fresh angle made it impossible for me to even go look at my desktop file of his pictures. It has, in fact, taken almost three months for me to be able to look at pictures since this realization hit me.

The pictures are so precious. I love them.

There will never be more, and that is...hard.

Five years today- the kintsugi life

 Five years ago today, at (the best we can figure) 10:30 or 11 in the morning, our beloved son Michael took his life. His death would not be discovered for roughly thirty-one hours. During that time, none of us knew anything was wrong. Our family's first inkling that our world was irrevocably changed was when a police officer knocked on our door to deliver the news.

By the grace of God, we are still standing.

We have seen and lived in the thick of God's merciful goodness and tender love every day of these five years.

We are, also, forever, shattered by his absence. 

Maybe we're examples of the Japanese art of kintsugi, in which cracks are not fixed to make the vessel seem unbroken. Instead, as the vessel is mended, the cracks are filled in such a way as to still be visible. While the shattered pieces are put back together, the breaking is honored. No one pretends the vessel never broke; they honor its past while assuring a future life of use and beauty.

I am glad and grateful that by sharing our sorrow publicly, people have been blessed and encouraged, and some have even chosen life over death- a powerful grace!!! I can see and appreciate and value good that has come during and through our heart-breaking loss. I can treasure it and thank God for it.

I am still...broken.

I will never be someone whose heart did not shatter.

Being who I was before is not on the table; not remotely possible. We are forever changed.

The best, the very best, that I can hope and pray for, is for this broken and gently mended life of mine to still hold beauty and to share that beauty with others.

I will always be a mom whose heart was shattered. I can also be someone who lives, alongside my forever-sadness, with faith and courage and hope and love and joy. Sometimes, joy feels the most courageous of all. 

On today's square on my calendar, my dear sister wrote "Psalm 62:5." I waited until today to look up this verse, wanting its specific blessing for when my heart needed it most.

"Let all that I am wait quietly before God, for my hope is in him."

What sweet, healing, hopeful, true words.

I sit at the feet of Jesus, the safest place for my heart to rest. His bottomless compassion comforts me and holds me close.

I am loved, and seen, and known, and tenderly held.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

I also miss my son with every breath.

Both are fully true, and that's okay.

I love you, Michael, my dear, handsome, deep-voiced, tender hearted Paul Bunyan of a son, with your big appetite and even bigger heart. What I wouldn't give to meet you at Gustav's or La Provence or one of your other delicious "finds" and share a great meal and catch up on life. What I wouldn't give to even take another ride with you in your pickup on a breathlessly hot day and sweat so much from the vinyl seats that I look like I wet my pants. I would do it in a heartbeat. How I miss you. <3

. 

Here are links to a couple of thoughtful articles on kintsugi as a metaphor for grief:

https://www.craftcourses.com/blog/cracks-are-how-the-light-gets-in-kintsugi-grief

https://medium.com/illumination-curated/kintsugi-the-art-of-repairing-a-soul-15b7a2883bc5

 

Never the same, never, never...

When I think the words, "Never the same," I hear it like this refrain of the song Never Enough from the movie The Greatest Showman.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                No matter the cause of the trauma, those who have experienced great disruption of their lives are never quite the same afterward. Our lives have this sharp point of demarcation between Before and After. We may look essentially the same to others, but in profound and fundamental ways, we are forever changed.

This may show up in a variety of ways: mental health, physical health, stamina, temper, capacity. From conversations in an online grief group, I learned that many who have experienced a sudden, shocking, and/or profound loss find themselves dealing with  degrees or kinds of depression, anxiety and health problems they never had before. 

Our emotional bandwidth, especially in those first months and years, is substantially less than before. Our stamina in  all areas- physical, emotional, mental, social- is dramatically less. Our interests, our enthusiasms, our capacity for creativity...all these things take a severe blow. Some may recover, in part or fully; other may never return. 

In those first early days of our great grief, I remember thinking that I felt like champagne suddenly robbed of its bubbles and froth. I felt flat and dull and devoid of sparkle. I wondered if it would ever return.

There are times when I seem like my old bubbly self, but they're rare and somewhat of an illusion. Even at my most excited, I still hold a grave ballast that never leaves. 

Though I trust God whole-heartedly; though I choose to live riveted on hope and joy...I am still... never the same. This is not a personal failure; it's simple fact. Great loss changes us, permanently.

For the grief-adjacent-  those who are close to people who have weathered great loss- this is important to know, and to never forget. Please, leave room for the grieving to be who they are now, with no pressure to be who they once were. There is no getting back to who they were before. That's simply never going to be true. 

Please, don't put pressure on others to ease your sadness, discomfort, and concern by being who they used  to be. I know it's unconscious, but people have this longing to see their loved ones "back to their old selves," back to being okay. That is unfair, unrealistic and unkind. 

There is no going back. 

There is only finding livable ways to go forward.

Please, leave space for others, and for yourself, to figure out who they are, who you are, now.

The changes are not all bad. Often, there is greater compassion, courage, and tenderness. There is often a new determination to love well and to live boldly. There is greater wisdom in handling relationships and in not wasting the time we have with our living loved ones. 

There is loss, and there is gain, but both reflect permanent change. 

Those who have lost are...never the same. 

 

 

Four years Eight months...how am I still here? Here is the answer.

 

 

Four years and eight months ago, at almost this exact moment- 10:30 AM, on what was that year a Sunday morning, our beloved son Michael, twenty-six years old, ended his life.

The heavy weight and razor-sharp edges of this loss never change. Sometimes we feel them more acutely and sometimes they sink below the surface, but they never diminish and they never leave.

The closest thing I can think of to living with loss, especially a shocking and brutal loss, is the sudden amputation of an arm or leg. Over time, the initial wound does heal, and the person learns to adapt to life without that limb...but the arm or leg never grows back. That place is permanently empty, and that void affects life in big and small ways every moment of every day for the rest of the person's life.

This is how the death of our son feels to me, nearly five years in. 

Yes, there has been solid, deep healing of that initial bloody wound. We are not as shell-shocked and wide-eyed with horror as we were in those first days. Our lives look...normal, now. This is where my amputation analogy breaks down. Unlike with a missing limb, our devastating loss is not readily visible. Its impact is felt, though, in many ways.

I have learned that my reserves of energy- physically, emotionally, socially, mentally- are limited. Those tanks are far shallower than they used to be, and they leak.  I seem fine to those who don't know better and that confuses people. Looking at my seeming strength and capability from the outside, they may be puzzled that I don't do more. They can't see, and don't know, unless I - again - explain the tragic why behind my limits. They don't know that, emotionally, I am missing a leg and that makes it hard to run the way others do.

What enables me to function so "normally?" There are two answers to that question, both springing from the same source: Jesus.

 ***I have intense, unbearable regrets as a mom. Every parent fails their child in some ways, because we are imperfect humans. Those failures are thrown into a painfully bright spotlight when that child dies, and if they leave by suicide that hindsight only gets more vivid and harsh. No kind and comforting assurances can change the raw facts of my failures in my relationship with Michael. Nobody else actually lived that relationship. I did. Michael did. He and I are the only people who really know the ways I let him down. Yes, I fought for that relationship and did some things very right and loved him and hung in there with him when it wasn't easy. I did the best I knew how, to love him well. I loved him and he loved me, and I found out from others after he was gone that he was very proud of me, and that means the absolute world to me. I also let him down in important moments and ways that only became clear in blood-stained hindsight. 

There is only one thing that makes this hard truth bearable: the mercy of God. The first time I deliberately waded into these hard waters of truth, a friend threw me a lifeline of God-laced hope: "That's rough. I'm so glad God has mercy on our failures." Those simple words were a spark of help and hope that I needed desperately. To this day, this truth is the only thing that helps me keep breathing when those regrets hit hard. If I could look Jesus straight in the eyes and say, "Lord, look at the ways I failed my boy," I think he would not pat me on the head or try to brush away my regrets. He would look at them honestly with me. He would speak hard truth, and as he did so many times in Scripture, he would say it with love and follow it with mercy. He might say something very similar to what my friend said; something like, "Yes, beloved, while you got some things right you also let Michael down in ways that hurt him." And he would turn to me, and rest his hand gently on my shoulder and look me in the eyes and say, "Beloved, I forgive you for your failures. They are covered by my mercy. I know they pain you deeply, but I will hold that pain for you." 

There are aspects of our loss of Michael that are actually unbearable. This is how we are able to bear these unbearable things: Jesus carries them for us. When I am overcome by the searing weight of pain or regret, I let the pain out through tears and then I turn to Jesus and say, "It's too heavy for me. Will you carry it for me, please?" This is what I do with my regrets as a mom. The weight is unbearable, but I am not alone and I do not have to try to carry it on my own. Jesus carries all my sins and failures, and this one is no different. He looked down the halls of time before I was even born, saw every single way I would ever falter and fail and said, "Beloved, if you'll let me, I will carry that for you."

 

***"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18) "When you go through deep waters, I will be with you; when you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown." (Isaiah 43:2) "Yet not I, but through Christ in me..." (lyrics from a song, paraphrased from Galatians 2:20)

These words of life and truth have kept me sane and breathing for the past four years and eight months. The only reasons I am functional at all are the powerful tenderness of Jesus, that carries me when I can't walk and holds me close when my heartbreak boils to the surface, and his love that holds my deep and painful regrets and covers that bleeding wound with his mercy. 

God doesn't shy away from the hard truth of our failures, but while he looks at our messy lives under the clear, revealing light of his holiness, his eyes do not hold scorn or disgust or condemnation. He looks steadily at us with clear eyes that lay bare our most uncomfortable truths. He may look at us seriously or sadly. He may get intense in his urging us away from paths of destruction. But all of that, always, is fully infused with his intense love for us, and our pain and regret and repentance are met with unbelievable mercy. 

This is how I am able to live with apparent normalcy-

The mercy of God for my failures.

The tenderness of God for my great grief.

The comfort and strength of God to hold me close and keep my chin above water.

His capacity pouring through me, to enable me to carry on when I do not have what it takes.

The mercy of God and his tender care for my heart are the answer; the reasons I am still standing. They are the reason I am not only sane and mostly functional, but able to laugh and love and live.

Not helpful? Telling me I'm doing it wrong...

A very few people have essentially (or actually) told me that I'm doing this wrong. 

Of these few, 100% of their children are walking around alive. This is an important point.

A friend of mine lost an adult son a couple of years after we lost Michael. He left this earth in a different, but equally sudden and tragic way. She is also a mental health counselor. She knows a lot about healthy ways of handling emotions. Do you know what she does not do? She has never once told me, or even implied, that I am doing grief wrong.

Why is it that these other folks have tried to push me in a different direction?

It's because I'm still sad...because Michael's death still, daily, has an impact on me. Because I still think about it and talk about it. Because...his death still makes my life harder.

The reason for their words is rooted in their pain at seeing me suffer. They love me and they want so badly for me to not suffer so much. For them, and for others, their motivation is a deep desire to help. They want so badly to say something that will ease my suffering and make this not so heavy for me.

None of this is ill-intended. 

These are all people who love me.

Their desire, I fully believe, is rooted in love and caring and a longing to somehow help me in this.

The problem?

No matter the depths of love and kindness that drive the words, the words still land hard and crosswise on my heart.  I do my level best to respond with patience and grace, believing that the motivation is loving, and not wanting to hurt these people who matter to me. Still...their words hurt.

What should we all not do? Tell somehow whose heart is broken that they're bleeding the wrong way.

There is no "fix" for my pain. Michael is gone and nothing will bring him back. His absence is the cause of my pain, and nothing changes that. 

Grief is not something to fix or to solve. Loss is an unyielding fact.

My continued sadness is not an indication that I'm doing something wrong. It is the most natural reaction to the loss of my child.

What prompted me to sit down and write this? A memory of someone- again, someone who loves me and deeply desires to help- suggesting that my use of words is somehow...an avoidance of really working through my feelings.The comments were well-intended. The problem? 

I am a verbal processor. Words are the best and deepest way that I dig down to and wade through my thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I talk, I write, I pray- all ways I use my words to understand my own heart. While it may be true that for some folks, talking about things can be an avoidance of doing something about them, for a verbal processor, words are the most direct and effective way of sorting, learning, and understanding. For someone whose mind and emotions work this way, words are doing something.

I know that because I am writing this and sharing it, there will be a few people who will (or who will badly want to) come to me  privately and suggest that I shouldn't have. They will be concerned that my words will hurt someone's feelings or make them feel bad. They will want to remind me that everyone means well and is just doing their best. 

May I just gently point out the irony of telling me I'm wrong for talking about how it hurts when people tell me I'm doing this wrong?

 

My opening up about something that has hurt me is not the problem. The hurtful words are the problem.

 

Why is it my job to protect people from the discomfort of knowing that their words have made my burden heavier and harder to bear? It's...okay for others to hurt me, but I'm not allowed to mind? It's okay for them to hurt me, but not for me to say, "That hurt?"

 I am not writing this to be mean, to get revenge, or to shame or embarrass people.

So why am I writing it?

Because nothing will get better if we don't talk about the things that hurt us.

Because we all need to do better, at walking alongside the grieving.

Because people have asked me to share my experiences, so they can learn better ways.

Because before my own huge loss, I have also said all the wrong things to grieving people.

 

Now that I, sadly, know better, here is what I want to say:

Please, please oh please, stop telling, suggesting or implying that grieving people are doing grief wrong.

It doesn't help.

It really hurts.

It only adds to an already terribly heavy burden.

Grief is not a problem to be solved.

Expressing sadness is not a request for helpful solutions.

Maybe, instead of trying to fix or solve the grief, or advise the hurting person on how to hurt the right way, we could just...listen? 

You don't have to have the right words in response to grief or the expression of grief.

There are no words that make it not sad and hard.

Words are not what is needed.

What is needed is compassion, grace, and room to just be sad without people trying to fix it.

Dawn of Slow Healing

 

Four years, four months since that horrible day.  

On June 25, 2018, we got the shattering news of the death of our son Michael. He had taken his life the day before, on a Sunday morning. A friend of his, also a co-worker, went to check on him after work on Monday, because he hadn't shown up and wasn't answering his phone. We got the news soon after.

Every month since then, for four years, I've gone into a decided slump as those dates rolled around. This wasn't some private drama I invented but a pattern I noticed over time. The first time I realized this was happening came maybe seven or nine months after his death. My hubby Lee and I were
watching TV one evening and I suddenly felt like I was about to burst into tears. I turned to him and said, "I feel like I'm about to cry, but I don't know why." 

Then we realized what date it was, and the time. It was the twenty-fifth of the month, and almost the time when the officer knocked on our door to deliver the news.

After that, I recognized the pattern. Every month, as the dates of his death and of our receiving the news rolled around again, my physical energy and emotional reserves would take a dive. I learned to build my schedule around this cycle, keeping my calendar clear around those dates. I learned to be extra gentle with my grieving self through those days. Even on the few months when I didn't realize the date, everything in me downshifted to a low, heavy idle. There's a saying, "The body keeps the score," and I've found that very true. Even when my conscious mind was not paying attention, my body and my emotions were very aware of and very affected by the return of those dates.

...until recently.

I didn't say anything for a while, even to my closest people, because I though it might be a fluke; a temporary reprieve. 

It wasn't. 

It has now been four months.

June of this year, the fourth anniversary of Michael's death, is the last time I got pulled into dark, clammy quicksand on those dates. I am...cautiously celebrating. After four years of living through that downward pull and the slow climb back to the light, I'm a little afraid to jump for joy quite yet.

Still...for four months now, those dates pass, and I am...okay. I'm actually fine. 

Let me clarify: I am still, forever, intensely sad and miss our beautiful son deeply.

I'm not saying that I'm done grieving. 

What I am saying is that the monthly cycle of exhaustion and depression has...lifted. 

That bone-deep weariness has not hit me a single time since June. 

I have not needed to retreat to my dark corner of our bedroom for two days straight, to sleep for hours and to stare bleakly at shadows as I did early on. I have not struggled (or failed) to carry out the most basic of tasks, like eating, taking a shower, and getting dressed. Though still a little more tired than usual on those days, I have had the physical and emotional energy to carry on with normal daily life. Rather than my sailboat of life nearly capsizing every single month, it has stayed upright and gently on course.

I am so grateful.

Fourth Deathiversary...Am I "fine?"

This fourth "deathiversary" was a good example of the awkwardness of grief wedged into the mundane.

For my hubby it was a workday, so he carried his sadness in his pocket and went about his day with necessary normalcy.

I had "cleared my decks" in preparation for these days of memory. With no appointments or plans, I left my heart all the room to feel however it wanted to feel about these days. 

There are two consecutive days that I mark each year; the day that our Michael took his life and the next day, when he was found by a friend who went to his home to see why he hadn't come to work.

In many ways, these days passed in completely normal ways. The sun shone, we ate meals, we took the dog out for potty walks. Also, I took a lawn chair up to the cemetery and hung out for a while. His ashes don't live there yet, but the headstone is in place. Aside from the cemetery time, anyone seeing me through most of either day would never have guessed it was a heavier day than most. It all looked very...normal.

And then there is the other side. It looks like any other day, but it also looks like this weary mom lying in bed, curled around a metal box packed with the crumbled bones of our beloved son, breaking my heart.

I rarely let the agony out to play.

Based on comments I've received, from well-meaning people who love me, I guess people think that if I'll just let the feelings out, they'll...I don't know...pass...or dissipate. And I'll be fine. Like if I just have one really good cry (as if I haven't!) then I can dust off my hands and...move on.

Here's the thing...there is no bottom to this pain. 

It's not walking through the fire...as if it has an exit or end that leads to the rest of life. It is living life, every day, in the fire. This is not something I pass through, to get to the rest of my life.

This IS the rest of my life! 

The. Rest. Of. My. Life...

...I will live with the very present, painful reality of the death of our child. That will never change. It will never go away. It will never be okay. It will never stop being permanently, intensely painful. No amount of grieving will change what is true- that our son is no longer alive.

Yes, I seem "fine" most of the time.

Also, I am always this intensely heartbroken, deep inside where most people do not see.

I just cannot go through life wearing my agony on the front of my face.

I don't stuff it out of sight and pretend it's not real. I am always fully aware of its presence, existing alongside everything else. I experience peace and fun and even delighted joy. 

And all of it is alongside this also-truth  of deep sadness.

Because I seem "fine" most of the time, it can seem to some people that maybe it's really not that bad. For those who wear all of their emotions openly, I can see how this could be confusing. This is not how I roll. My life has taught me to hold my true feelings in one place while functioning in another. This practice of compartmentalizing enabled me to hold onto my sanity in the wake of Michael's suicide. It makes it possible for me to function, and even to live a full and happy life, while also holding close the truth of my terrible sadness. This does give the impression that I am, somehow, fine, because I am not visibly in torment and can often speak of our loss calmly.

(Sidenote: Being "fine" takes a tremendous amount of energy. It's part of why I am often very tired.)

All appearances to the contrary, let me say...

Having our beloved Michael kill himself is always, in every single moment, waking or sleeping, the most shocking and agonizingly hideous truth of my entire life. 

It is horrible in ways I cannot even begin to explain. Always. Every moment.

Yes, I live with the matchless, blessed peace of God filling and healing my heart.

Also, having the peace of God does not mean not being sad!!!!

Even with the very real peace of God, it's not a one-or-the-other deal.

I have the peace of God. 

I am also very sad.

And that is okay.

 

The Juggling of Sorrow and Joy

 I've written about this awkward balancing act with sorrow and joy before, but it is on my mind again.

Yesterday was my husband's and my thirty-third wedding anniversary, which is a joyful accomplishment and testament to God's grace. We've walked through some hard years and are grateful for the healing God has done in our marriage. I savor the sweetness we have.

Yesterday also marks the last time I ever talked to our son Michael.

Three years ago, on our thirtieth anniversary, Michael called. I had a lovely visit with him. We talked for about forty minutes about all kinds of things. I loved hearing his enthusiasm over dreams and ideas, trips he wanted to take, new career possibilities and a cookbook he wanted to write. 

One week later, we got the devastating news that he had taken his life. 

I miss him so badly. 

I am so glad for that final conversation with our beloved son.

Also...that precious memory now casts a shadow over my joy on our wedding anniversary.

In the three years since our hearts were shattered at the news of Michael's death, one of the big things we've learned is the carrying of both sorrow and joy. Neither cancels out the other.

Sorrow cannot kill joy.

Joy does not magically "solve" sorrow.

Instead, we learned to hold both at the same time. 

The most joyous event on our family's horizon this year is the wedding of our youngest child. Her engagement was the big bright spot in the surreal mess that was 2020. Her fiance is a wonderful young man and they suit each other well. Their wedding will be a day of true joy. 

Also...her brother Michael should be here.

He should be there to stand in the line of groomsmen, along with our other son. Our older daughter is Maid of Honor. All of our children will be up there, except for Michael.

He should be there with his big laugh and love of celebrating.

He should be here today, as we move our daughter into the home she'll soon share with her new husband. Michael was great about showing up for moving days, and his strength was a huge help.

I am excited to help with the moving-in today. This is a fun and happy occasion. 

I am thrilled to celebrate our daughter's wedding next month. That will be a truly joyous day.

At the same time, I carry sorrow.

Michael should be here.

The Spear That No-one Sees

There is a spear shoved through my middle,
jagged, splintered, rusted, rough
skewering me to a moment in time:

The sober-eyed officer standing just inside our front door,
kind in his terrible duty.

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

I am impaled, forever suspended
in the thick of that crushing moment.


A savage blade
shoved violently,
twisting and tearing,
through my heart's core.

And yet...

Because I seem so outwardly fine, so normal...

I move, talk, breathe, chat,
cook, smile,
write, love, laugh,
find joy in simple daily things...

Few may realize how,

...every moment of every day...

I still struggle to understand
how to live in a world

where our son is dead.


Sometimes,
even I forget

the jagged shaft
protruding
from my body;
it's heaviness and heft,
the relentless pressure
as it shoves aside my heart and lungs,
leaving me aching and short of breath.

Every moment.
Every breath.
Every beat of my heart.

In those rare moments,
I frown upon myself for being less,
not doing more.

Forgetting how
behind it all
sits Michael's mom,
shaking her head

...shaking...

Bewildered.
How can it be true?

Pierced to my bones
Frozen
Trapped in the echo

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

Songs that help my heart

There's a playlist on my Apple music app that I turn to when my heart needs help. It starts with two beautiful, powerful songs that we sang at our son's memorial service. Because of the deeply personal connection to those songs, they usually move me to tears. This can be very healing and needed. Also, it's important that I not sink down that hole and vanish.

I built this playlist to meet my heart in that hard and tender place, and then to gently lead me back to a place of peace. As I listened to these songs last night, I thought they might be helpful to others.

Those first few songs take me to such a worshipful, healing place. I've added others that maintain that sense of love and worship. Here's the full list:

O Come to the Altar (Elevation Worship)
Reckless Love (Cory Asbury)
Thy Will (Hillary Scott & the Scott Family)
Do It Again (Elevation Worship)
There Was Jesus (Zach Williams & Dolly Parton)

{the whole album by Elevation Worship: Acoustic Sessions 2017}
Songs on the album:
-O Come to the Altar [again]
-Fullness
-Resurrecting
-Yahweh
-There Is A Cloud
-Yours (Glory and Praise)
-Overcome
-Here As In Heaven
-Mighty Cross
-Do It Again
-Here In the Presence

Songs from a different playlist that I'm thinking about adding because of how they breathe life to my heart:
Who You Say I Am (Hillsong Worship)
So Will I (Hillsong Worship)
Broken Vessels (Amazing Grace) (Hillsong Worship)
O Praise the Name (Anastasis) (Hillsong Worship)
Everything (Lauren Daigle)
Rescue (Lauren Daigle)
Fight Song/Amazing Grace (Piano Guys &Wasatch and District Pipe Band)

I hope you find something here that comforts and uplifts your heart.

What Forgiveness is NOT

I have learned many things about forgiveness, and one of the most important is what forgiveness is not.

Forgiveness is a personal matter, concerned with how each of us chooses to handle the emotions we have surrounding an incident of hurt. It means freeing ourselves from the prison of bitterness. In the process, the other person might be freed from a solitary confinement we have created, but it is not about them. It concerns only our own hearts.

It is possible to forgive someone who will never understand what they’ve done, let alone apologize. It is possible to forgive someone who has died. If the wounding took place in childhood and the wounded person does not learn about forgiveness until they’re grown, sometimes the opportunity for restoration is forever gone. The opportunity to forgive, though, is never lost.

*Forgiveness does not need to involve the other person.

Some people have the damaging idea that to forgive means to give the offender complete, unbridled access into their life. This could not be more wrong!

One of the best contradictions of this I’ve heard:

“If someone embezzles from you, you may choose to forgive them. You do not let them handle your money!”

(I wish I knew where I’d heard that, so I could give due credit!)

*Forgiveness, especially for large, deep wounds, must include the setting of wise and careful boundaries for the future!

Creating a new, more safe and healthy future does not mean that you have not forgiven. To protect yourself from further harm is not “holding grudges.” It simply means that you have learned from a hard thing and are doing what is best for your heart’s future.

To forgive and completely forget is mostly God’s business.

For we humans, a better wisdom is often to take important lessons from hurt, in order to create a better future. As the old saying goes, “He who forgets the past is doomed to repeat it.”

If we have moved through the process of forgiving, the memory of the hurt may fade and lose its power over time. That’s good and can be a huge relief, but forgetting is not required for true forgiveness to take place. 

*Forgiveness does not require telling the offender they’ve been forgiven.

The decision to share that information much be considered very carefully, taking into consideration the many aspects of the relationship and whether that conversation would lead to a better place. In some cases, it can lead to good, healing conversations and a better, brighter future. I have also known people who expressed forgiveness and had the conversations explode in their faces. Be very thoughtful about telling someone you’ve forgiven them when there has been no prior conversation about the hurt between you. 

*Forgiving does not mean that what was done to us was somehow fine.

That is not what it means at all. It only means that we will no longer allow that hurt to hold power over us. We willingly set it aside, to free ourselves from its pain.


*Forgiveness does not mean glossing over the offense as if it never happened.

It is vital to our healing that we acknowledge the very real hurt that was done, and the wrongness of it. We need to acknowledge that our wounding is both real and justified.


*Forgiveness is not a moment in time.

The decision to forgive is a moment. The process of living out that decision is a journey.

*Forgiveness does not necessarily mean staying in that relationship.

There are offenses and circumstances so deep and wrong that a complete severing of the relationship is necessary. There comes a time when we must, for our own physical, emotional, mental or spiritual safety, cut an offender out of our lives completely. That decision is often very painful and hard, and may continue to be hard for many years. Ultimately, it is our job to protect ourselves from all forms of assault…and we have every right to do so.

People may be deeply hurt, offended, mystified or very angry when that door of relationship is  closed. That’s unfortunate and can be very hard to face, but it does not mean it is wrong to set that boundary. Whether or not explain what you are doing and why must be wisely considered.

I have had to do this once, and in that case it was the right thing to tell the other person what was happening and why. I wrote a letter, laying out clearly what was done, and that this deep breach of trust in the friendship left no room for a future. It was absolutely the right decision for my own well-being. It was also hard and painful, and remained painful for a long time. It still makes me sad, nearly twenty years later, but it was still the deeply right decision.

In other situations, it may be the best, wisest and safest thing to just close that door quietly and privately, and move on without a word. Neither way is right or wrong. Each situation must be handled in its own unique, best way.

One of the best analogies I've ever heard:

"Refusing to forgive is like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die."

In the end, holding onto hurt, resentment or bitterness does the most and deepest harm to our own hearts and minds. Refusing to forgive is like insisting on staying in a prison cell when the door is wide open and we are free to go. 

Even where the hurt is vast and profound, choosing the path to forgiveness is still the best possible healing journey for the sake of our own brighter futures. 

Jesus and Grief

Recently, in my weekly email, I wrote about the idea of women as bearers of Gods messages to His people. I loved what I found.

In the process of that research, as I was reading/thinking/writing about Jesus' having given Mary of Magdala a message to speak to His followers, I started to notice another facet of the situation. I saw it in the account given in the gospel of Mark, but wanted to double check my theory. I read through that same section in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John and also the first part of Acts, just to be sure.

Here is the thing that has been driving my eager search:

While Jesus rebuked his disciples for their hardness of heart, for not believing those He'd sent with news of His return to life, He never rebuked the disciples for their grief over his death!!

I have heard Bible teachers scorn Jesus' followers for huddling together in grief and despair, as if they really should have known better. We, with the benefit of hindsight and the whole New Testament at our fingertips could easily roll our eyes at their response. "Seriously. He told them, over and over, what was going to happen! They should have just believed Him! Sheesh!"

We've gotten it so wrong! Having walked the harrowing halls of tragic loss this past year, I have a whole new view of the situation. I have grown a deep compassion for those shocked, traumatized, devastated disciples. Of course they were huddled together behind locked doors, shaking and grieving! Of course they felt abandoned and completely at-sea.

They did not have the benefit of hindsight or a fistful of explanatory New Testament Scriptures to enlighten them. They had just seen the one they loved the most tortured and torn to pieces and brutally killed. The mob that screamed for Jesus to be crucified could very well have been out for the blood of His followers as well. They must have been terrified! And absolutely heartbroken.

Then, in came Mary, shaking and stumbling over her words, insisting that she'd just seen Jesus and spoken to Him. They brushed aside her claims. I imagine that some of them may even have been angry at her. Under intense emotional strain, people often revert to less-developed versions of themselves. Trauma does not tend to bring out the best in people. Everything in their cultural background, and in her own personal, pre-Jesus history, told them she had no right to speak and should not be believed. They refused to believe her. A few, including Peter, at least went to check out her story. In fact, it says Peter ran to see for himself.

Later, when Jesus himself suddenly appeared among them, behind those closed, locked doors, did He shame them for their shock and grief? No. He rebuked them for not believing any of the messengers He'd sent to tell them of His resurrection.

Mark 16:14 "...he rebuked them for their unbelief and hardness of heart, because they had not believed those who saw him after he had risen."

Each Gospel gives the account of Jesus' life, death and resurrection differently. Not that any is right and the others wrong. They were written by individuals who were more deeply impacted by one fact of their experiences or another, and told it from their own point of view.

-Matthew leaves out this first encounter, skipping to their final meeting on the mountain in Galilee.

-Mark says He rebuked their hardness of heart and unbelief.

-Luke tells how startled and frightened they were at his sudden appearance, how he questioned their troubled, doubtful hearts and then assured them of the truth of His identity and life.

-both Luke and John say that He greeted them with, "Peace be with you." John also tells what Luke did- that Jesus showed them the wounds of His crucifixion to assure them of his identity.

He never rebuked them for their traumatized far, and, so important to me just now,

He never rebuked them for their grief. <3 <3

In some circles, grief is shamed as weakness or a lack of faith. This is not biblical! The Bible does say, in 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 that we should not grieve as those who have no hope, but it never says that we should not grieve at all. The Bible does not urge this sort of forced, stoic, false "victory" over justified sadness. On the contrary, Jesus himself said, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Matthew 5:4

There is no shame in grief. There is no agenda to hurry through it. Grief, in Jesus' agenda, was met with compassion and the promise of comfort.

In the same way, He meets us today in our grief, with tender love and bottomless compassion.

*Where to find those accounts:
Matthew chapter 28, Mark chapter 16, Luke chapter 24, John chapters 20 & 21
 *Soon, I hope to have my website finished, with a handy link for subscribing to my weekly emails. In the meantime, if you're interested in joining my mailing list, you can write me at kristiewrites@yahoo.com and I will gladly add you. My weekly notes are generally light-hearted, random musings, with occasional bits of deeper thought.