Where have I been? Death and bots

It has been a long time since I posted on here. There are a couple of reasons. 

Last Fall, my mother-in-law had a quick succession of health events and then passed away. 

It was a very hard ending, for her and for us.

This is grief piled on grief. It's heavy. 

This hard, painful loss came at the end of a year that was already very hard for me, and I've been in survival mode until very recently. I thought of things I'd like to write and share here, but I just didn't have it in me to make it happen. I'm slowly doing better now, most of the time, and so...here I am.

The other reasons is...bots. 

It took me a while to figure out what was happening. I check the stats for my blog from time to time. It doesn't show me anything personal about my readers, just indicates from which countries my blog is accessed. Suddenly, there were hundreds and hundreds of "looks" at the blog, all originating from one country.

I was puzzled. Either my words on grief suddenly went viral in Singapore, or...something was wrong.

I did an internet search and found that this is a large and growing problem. There are bots that people use to scan every word on every page that others have written. Maybe it's part of gathering fodder for AI. I don't know.

What I do know is that while this would always feel intrusive, and it's frustrating that there's not really anything I can do about it...to have something like this happen with the words my grieving heart has bled onto these pages is awful. 

This blog means something to me, something special and important.

The people who come here and read what I've shared matter a great deal to me. Nobody comes here for casual reasons. When I look at those stats, and note how many people have visited, I pray for them...for you. I pray for those with hurting hearts, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible and find ways to keep breathing and living. I pray for comfort and hope and peace and strength to carry on. I pray for healing of broken hearts and broken families. I pray for those who come here with generous, compassionate hearts, wanting to learn how to walk alongside their grieving loved ones in helpful ways.

When people have told me that what I've written here has helped them in some way, that is deeply meaningful to me. 

This is a place where I can talk about hard and painful things, in the hope of somehow helping others find hope or understanding or just to know they're not alone. 

Having these hard, heartfelt words casually plundered feels terrible.

It may not be a personally hostile act, but it can't help but feel very personal to me...because these words and these topics are very, very personal for me.

I don't want this intrusion to ruin this good thing.

And so... I will carry on anyway.

For you, the real, hurting people who have somehow found my small corner of the internet and have read my words, I am so glad that you are here. I am also deeply sorry for the pain in your life that led you here. I hope that something I've shared has been of some comfort or help to you. I wish I could give you a hug and sit gently with our shared heartbreak.

For my own loved ones who read my words...thank you. Your support means the absolute world to me.

For those who read what I've shared so that you can love others well...your hearts are beautiful. I dearly hope that something I've shared has been helpful to you.

Thank you for being here.

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.

You are not alone.

The past week:

On Wednesday, we learned of some heartbreaking things happening in our family.

On Thursday, I heard of a serious situation in the life of a young person who is like family to me.

On Saturday, at four o'clock in the morning, I was driving a family member to the emergency room.

On Tuesday, we got the news that a long-time family friend had suddenly died.

And that a family member's brother had died.

All of this...in just one week.

It's a lot.

 

Last summer and into the Fall, we got news of a death among our family and friends at least once a week. In the space of six weeks, six women that I know lost their husbands. 

This constant news of death is heart-breaking and heavy.

Also...we're not unusual. 

If you're feeling weary...you're not alone. People speak of "compassion fatigue." There must also be such a thing as...tragedy fatigue. For many of us, these past two years have been a nearly non-stop stream of tragedy and heartbreak. 

News of a trauma or death is like taking a body blow. It hits, and leaves a mark. Some blows are lighter, while others bruise deeply. Over time, we heal from such blows. These past two years have been like being stuck in the ring with the world heavyweight boxing champ, in a bout where the bell never rings. For many of us, the blows just keep coming, with  little chance to catch our breath, let alone heal.

It is taking a toll. We are weary and sad and our hearts are very sore.

At the same time...this is the marrow of life; standing in the hard places with one another.

In the wake of our son's death three and a half years ago, people were lovingly careful of me. They did not come to me with sadness or hard news. I was deeply grateful for their thoughtfulness. I was carrying all I could carry. While I am still, always, devastated by our own loss, it is good to see that I have healed enough to walk with others in their pain. I am glad I wasn't sheltered from the news of pain and hard concern in the lives of people I love. I am glad to once again be someone a friend can come to, with a heavy heart, asking for prayer. It tells me that I am, in fact, healing.

If you are exhausted from the endless stream of bad news, you are, sadly, not alone.

Also- good news! You are not alone! My friend, you are not alone. 

We can either plod along in a stunned parade, staring blankly at our own inner wastelands, or we can put our arms around each other and walk together. I think of soldiers from some old-time war, making their way back from the Front. I picture one guy wounded in the leg, while the other has an arm in a sling and a bandage over his eyes. The one guy puts his arm around the shoulders of his friend, to take the weight from his injured leg. In return, he acts as the "eyes" for his friend, so he doesn't run into obstacles.They could each struggle along alone, but instead they make that trek together. 

Our "wounds," and the heavy loads we carry may be different, but we can help each other along. We can, at the very least, help each other to feel less alone. When we're able, we can put a shoulder under the burden of our friend and help bear the weight for a while. 

Sometimes, all we can carry is our own suffering.

Sometimes, we are able to help carry the suffering of another.

Always, it is good to remember that we are not alone.

We are not alone in our suffering and in our care for the suffering of others.

If you are in a hard and heavy place today, and feeling alone, may I just say...I see you there. 

My heart goes out to you, with all that you are carrying. 

I see you.

And I pray that the peace of God will gently gather you up and carry you.

I pray that you will feel his loving comfort, so tender with our wounded places.

I pray that you will know that you are seen and loved, and that you are not alone.

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. 

"Don't let it ruin your vacation..."

A while back, I started to write about things not to say to a person who is grieving. People have asked me to help them know how to respond to loss and, as this is an important part of that, I feel I should share what I've learned.

What I learned while trying to write that post is that I have a lot of unprocessed, painful emotion around some things that were said to us in the past year. I pulled open that internal door and was floored by what poured out. I am not ready yet to talk about those things publicly.

I do think it is a deeply important conversation, though, so I thought I'd start talking about it through a trauma that is not quite so fresh.

Some of you know about a traumatic experience that our family had in the summer of 1994.

Lee and I had taken our two little children camping, along with our first Golden Retriever, Mandy.

We had camped at the Standish Hickey State Recreation Area on the Eel River in California.

I think it was on the second day of our time there that we walked over to play in the river. We have some wonderful pictures of our little two- and four-year old kiddos playing in the sparkling blue water in their bright orange life jackets.

What the pictures don't show is what branded that day on all our memories, for life.

As we were enjoying our fun water time, Lee suddenly said, "I think those people are calling for help." I had not heard anything, but he had. We gathered up our little troop and headed upriver. The shore was rocky, so we were wearing sturdy shoes. As we got closer, Lee heard what the people were shouting. He gave me his watch and rushed into the water, swimming across the deep hole to where a frantic man and woman stood, on the far bank.

A family with four or five growing boys was having a fun camping trip in the same park. One of them, a boy of around twelve, wanted to play on the river, so he took one of those floaty-mattress pool toys to use. He went in where the water was shallower and started floating down. At some point he fell off, and ended up in a deep pool.

He could not swim, and neither could his parents. They crashed through the shallower water upriver and scrambled along the rocky bank. They could see him down in the water, but they could do nothing to save him. They stood on the bank, helpless and desperate, screaming for someone to come.

Without hesitating, Lee dove down to the bottom of the hole and pulled up their boy. He was not breathing. We had no experience or training with life-saving, but Lee started doing what he could, trying to express the water and give him mouth-to-mouth. We were all so focused on the boy that it took Lee's startled shout to make me realize that the dad had disappeared into the water. Maybe he had a heart attack or stroke from the intense distress. We don't know. We only know that he was there, and then he was gone, sinking to the bottom of the same deep pool that took his son.

Leaving the boy up on the rocks with his mom, Lee again dove down to the bottom of that deep hole. He brought the man to the surface, but Lee was tiring so quickly that he could not hold him up pand bring him to shore. He had to let the man go. I told our little Heather, four years old, "Hold onto Mandy and Michael. Do not let them in the water!" I told little two-year-old Michael, "Stay with Heather!"

Though I am a poor swimmer at best, I headed into the water.

There was no-one else to do it. I had to.

I dove down, pushing myself all the way to the bottom of the hole, grabbed that big man by the arm, and hauled him to the surface. I have always been convinced that God sent angels to help me that day. The guy was tall and heavy, probably well over two hundred pounds...and I pulled him from twelve feet down to the surface, with one hand. Angels.

I towed him over and passed him off to Lee and the man's wife, then struggled back to the shore where our little kids waited. I barely made it. I was exhausted by the time I staggered from the water.

Like I said, we had absolutely no experience or training with life-saving, so it had not occurred to either of us to take off our shoes before diving in. We just didn't know. Wearing heavy sneakers to swim and dive, under intense stress, will do you in.

We had no background to help us. We were simply the only two people on that whole stretch of river, besides those frantic parents.

After I made it back to shore, another guy showed up and swam across to help. Soon, others came. I remember shouting, "Call 911!!!" over and over, until someone assured me that one of the others had gone to make the call.

Soon, the sirens came screaming. Professionals helped bring father and son across, using our kids' life jackets to help float them, and rushed them away in ambulances. It was much too late, as both were gone before we pulled them from the water, but still every effort was made to bring them back.

The ambulances left, and the crowd milled around, excitedly talking over what had happened. I saw this wife and mother standing, stunned, alone in the crowd. I went to her and wrapped my arms around her. I think I was the only one there who realized who she was. She held onto me so tightly.

That whole scene is a vivid scar on all our memories. For me, the worst parts are the memory of the man's face, as I pulled him up through the green water, lifeless.... and the desperate embrace of that suddenly bereaved wife and mom as I held her close in the faceless crowd.

For Lee, it was the trauma of being in the middle of such intense loss, and then the fear that he could not make it back across the river; the horror it would be to his own little family if he drowned in front of us. The possibility was all too real. It had just happened to this other family, and he was exhausted from all he'd done to help.

For the kids, the trauma lingered also. For Heather, it was the terrible responsibility of keeping a strong dog and a very young brother safely on the riverbank, while watching both her parents disappear into deep water, then struggle to make it back to shore. For Michael, the intense desire to do something was so strong that he actually thought he'd been out in there river with us, helping.

As I hugged that mama close, and thought of the immensity of her loss. I started to shake. Shock was setting in and I couldn't handle any more. I was only twenty-six. I did not know what else to do. I pulled away from that poor lady and we went quietly back to camp.

There was no question of staying. How could we possibly go back to having fun after such an experience?

A man we knew stopped by as we were loading up to leave. I think he worked for the Department of Fish and Game and had some law enforcement background. He was surprised to see us getting ready to go.

Here is where we reach the point of this story; the Things Not To Say part:

"You're going home? Why?"....

"Don't let it ruin your vacation."

We both just stared at him in disbelief.
I'm not even sure what Lee said in reply.

How do you even answer such a thing?

There we were, a young couple who had just pulled a dead father and son from the river bottom, whose two young children had just watched people die and seen us nearly drown trying to help, and.......don't let it ruin our vacation????

We did.
We let it ruin our vacation.

All we could think of was that sweet lady who had just lost her husband and her son within five minutes, and of her other boys, bereft of their dad and brother. We were in shock and deeply shaken. We headed home.

We left so quickly that we were long gone before the news reporters came looking for "heroes" to interview. The guy who swam over to help after Lee and I had pulled both of them from the river was credited as the big man who tried to save the day. Whatever. We shuddered at the thought of having to talk to anyone about it. It was horrifying.

But...don't let it ruin your vacation.

I think of that wife and mama every year when the middle of July rolls around, praying for her and her other boys, wondering how they're doing. I wish I could have held myself together a little longer; held her close for a few more minutes...helped her more.

I hope she's okay. I wish I could give her a hug.

Here's the thing: We should be impacted by tragedy and trauma and the sorrow of others.

Yes, it is terribly uncomfortable to be up close to suffering, but it is cowardly and selfish to sweep it away with dismissive words. Those kinds of words add damage on top of heartache on top of trauma. They leave scars.

It should ruin our vacation.

It should touch our deepest core and move us to reach out in love and mercy.

It should change us, and if we're wise, we'll learn from it and grow deep with compassion.

It should ruin our vacation, and it should change us for life.

~~~~~

*In memory of Gary and Linus Carter, who lost their lives that day, and of their family, who lost so much in one tragic afternoon.*

Real life

Everyone who loves me wants so badly for me to be okay. Their hearts ache for my loss as a mom, and they long for me to have happiness.

I'm often pretty quiet when I'm not doing well, partly because I don't want to make people sad.
Also, partly because when my resources are low, I'm especially unable to handle a flood of helpful (unsolicited) advice on how to do better. I usually just lie low for a while, until things improve.

So how am I doing?

I'll tell you.

I'm not doing the best that I could be doing.
I'm doing kind of the best-ish that I have at this moment.

I've been better.
I've been worse.

Sometimes, I have days when I do all of the things to help and support my own well-being.

Other times look like tonight- listening to Andrea Boccelli while washing dishes at 1 AM because that's when I finally managed to drag my most-reluctant self into the kitchen to do them.

Sometimes it's different.
Sometimes I listen to Piano Guys. Or Lauren Daigle.
Sometimes I wash the dishes at midnight or eleven-thirty.

Here's the thing...

Underneath all of the extra complications, I am still me and I still struggle with the same things I always have. It's just exaggerated now because of grief and loss and all that goes with that.

I'm not feeling especially sad right now. I'm just tired and overwhelmed with all that needs to be done. It wears me down and makes it hard for me to do the things.

I don't share my struggles as an appeal for reassurance or sympathy (though I am so grateful for all the love and kindness you dear people have shown me on here) but to tell the honest story of what this journey is like for me. My hope is that maybe someone else who struggles will read my story and know that they are not alone. Or that opening the doors on my life will help others grow in understanding and compassion. Those are the reasons I write- to build understanding and to offer encouragement and hope.

So...this is a glimpse of my real life when I'm not soaring in victorious glory.

This is what it looks like, tonight, this week, for me.
And if that's what it takes for me to carry on, that's okay.

One of the most important things to do when you are going through a hard time is to extend immense and gentle grace to yourself.
Be kind to yourself about where you are and how you're doing.

You are loved, right where you are.
You are enough.

Grief Sleeping

Sleep while grieving?

You don't.

The end.

.
.
.
.

Okay, eventually you do. But not for a while, and then not well.

After some times goes by, you flip to the other side of the coin and develop a deep need for more sleep than you ever needed before.

At least, that's how it went for me.

Scattered, shattered snatches of sleep those first few nights.
Then, the weary press of exhaustion reaching for but rarely finding that elusive prize.

Rest. Deep, soul-replenishing, life-refreshing sleep.

Later, I (and our girls, too) found that the need for sleep is much  greater than it used to be.
Our bodies and minds want more, substantially more than before.

Except...it's still not that soft sink into blissful, sweet-dreamed oblivion.

Not yet.

I stay up too late, most of the time, running from what my mind does when I stop moving.

I am so tired.

When I remember or am able, I do all of the things, in the right order and a timely fashion. I choose some favorite jammies; soft and comfortable- the kind you can't wait to crawl into. I turn off all of the screens when that reminder sounds on my phone. I take the several supplements we have to relax and to calm and to encourage sleep. I make a large mug of relaxing tea- usually Traditional Medicinals Lavender ~ Chamomile, with a spoon of good honey and a splash of coconut milk. I get comfy while I drink it, reflect on the day and record good words in my Blessing journal. I read my Bible, and then ease my way gently to bed at a surprisingly early hour.

Even then, most often, the moment my body stills, my system is jarred to wakefulness by upsetting thoughts. Not always about Michael, it can be anything that will kick my adrenalin and rev my system. There's no chance to "take all thoughts captive" when the first thought punches my adrenal system in the chest and throws it into high gear. I pick up my electronic "book," kept bedside for just this reason, and try to soothe my mind back down with a faithful old friend, or words from God's Word. After a while, when my thoughts have stopped ricocheting around my mind like panicked fawns, I try again. Sometimes it works and I sleep. Even then, all this takes time, cutting my nights shorter and shorter and leaving me tired before I even wake up the next day.

I have this fantasy that if I was really doing it "right," really dwelling in God's presence in a deep and purposeful way, I would be flooded and sustained with such deep, pervasive peace that I could slip softly to sleep without a single ripple to the surface of my thoughts. It's probably true. I'm just not there right now.

I cringe as I write this, certain that someone (probably several someones) will eagerly leap to flood me with helpful suggestions to solve my little problem. So sure there's a simple answer.

If you are feeling that urge, please don't. I know you leap with the best of loving intentions to fix what's wrong, but trust me...what I write is not a plea for advice. It is one battered refugee, plodding the no-man's-land of grief, posting a notice to share with others what it looks like here.

Not only for my own sake, but for the sake of everyone who is grieving, or dealing with issues of mental health or chronic illness or disability or motherhood or just life...please don't be so quick to shovel out advice, dust your hands and hurry on with your day. Whether it's because you honestly believe you know the one magical answer that will solve everything, or because we as humans are so deeply uncomfortable with unsolved problems and unfinished stories, pouring out advice usually does more to harm than to help. Fending off well-meant, unsolicited advice saps what little energy we have. Most likely, if there were a simple solution to our struggle, we would have already done that thing and moved on to better days.

Instead, please be willing to sit right here with us, in the great discomfort of the unsolved and unanswered. Just be with us, and really hear what we say. And let our honest words be met with only love.

Grief eating...carrot sticks and gummy bears

Grief eating? It's just all over the place.

I've been thinking about this post for a while, partly to clarify something I said in an earlier post, and partly just to talk about it.

When I was writing about the wonderful people who brought food those first couple of weeks, I made a comment about what a comfort it was to see my family fed, even though I could only eat carrot sticks. "Johnson Girl Disclaimer" (my mom and sisters will get that- the Nice Girl compulsion to explain so nobody's feelings are hurt)-  it was not that I was being pitiful, like, "Oh, poor meeee. The food is food that I cannot eat. Poor me, eating these lowly carrot sticks." The meals were lovely. It lifted a huge weight off of all of us, having meals brought. None of us had it in us to think, plan, shop or cook. Those meals, and the groceries and supplies that people brought to us were a godsend!

Here's why the carrot sticks: they were one of the few things I could stand to eat.

For the first two weeks or so, the horrible shock and unbearable grief sat in my throat, choking me. I could barely eat, and when I did eat (even something small and gentle, like one square of an allergen-free waffle) I would feel sick to my stomach for quite a while.

Our family often uses bits of dark humor to help us cope with things. The day after we got the news of Michael's death, I remember saying, "Well, this should be a good weight loss plan." Dark humor.

But it was also true. A few times a day, I would choke down a piece of waffle, one small carton of (dairy-free) yogurt, or a few carrot sticks. Those were about the only foods I could stand to put in my mouth. And then I would feel sick for an hour or two, until eventually my body would calm down, like, "Oh. Okay. That was not a hostile enemy poison attack. That was just yogurt." About every two days or so, I could actually eat a meal.

Everyone was worried about my not eating, but my body was in such a state of horrified panic that food was more than it could handle.

My husband, my mom and sister, and the kids, and my friends, were all worried and watching to make sure I ate, and I was keeping an eye on my husband, worried for him. I was relieved to see that he was actually able to eat meals. I mentioned this to one of our girls and she said, "Yeah, he eats, but a lot of his food ends up thrown away." "What do you mean?" She explained. Sure, I would see him with a plate of food; see him sitting down and eating with the family. What I had not noticed was that, as soon as a card came in the mail, with beautiful words of compassion, or someone stopped by to bring flowers or food or hugs and tears and prayer... the emotion would hit him so hard that he could not eat another bite, and would quietly go drop his meal in the trash. For both of us, the tidal waves of emotion made eating a problem.

I also ate a lot of gummy bears in those first days. In fact, one of the darkly funny moments, to us, was this:

My husband and our eldest daughter came in and saw me sitting at the computer. Them: "What are you doing?" Me: "Eating gummy bears and shopping online for cremation urns." Them, with wry humor: "Of course you are."

I needed to find an urn for our son's ashes. Horrible, hateful nightmare of a task. I also needed to eat lunch. The emotion of the search made me queasy, and the only thing I could stand to put in my mouth right then was gummy bears. So...I had gummy bears for lunch and hunted through the online jungle for just the right urn.

I've actually drawn a comic about this, and some of the other moments of this journey. One of these days, I'll share them on here.

Anyway, as predicted, this horrible loss was a "good weight-loss plan." And then it wasn't. Because everyone was so worried about me, I kept a watch on my weight just so I could reassure them. Overall, I lost about seven pounds. Since I'd started out about twenty-ish pounds over my ideal healthy weight, this was not a problem. My weight was not my main priority at that point. I kept an eye on it to be sure it didn't get dangerously low, but how my pants fit was by far the least of my worries.

I had been shaken and shattered so completely on every level that I needed to be very gentle and nurturing with myself. I was suddenly, deeply fragile and every single nerve felt raw and battered. I needed soft voices, kind words, comfortable clothes and comforting food. Comfort food was a legitimate need.

Here is something I'm proud of: even though I needed comfort food in a real way, I did not actually fall back into my old destructive eating patterns. In the past, I definitely used food to deal with my emotions. The day we put our dog to sleep, back in 1995, I ate almost everything in the freezer- even the old nasty frost-caked ice cream. I would pile food in until I could no longer feel the sadness. I would eat until the physical pain drowned out the emotional pain.

God and I have worked long and hard on this issue. To have experienced a trauma like the suicide of our child, and to come through it without reverting to those old habits feels like an incredible accomplishment to me!

Here's the thing, though...grief hits everyone differently. Some people stop eating and become dangerously thin. Some people eat their way through their grief and gain a lot of weight. It is not the same for everyone. In the past I probably would have had opinions about how other people handled things, judging whether they did it "right." I am so over that! This horrible experience has taught me a depth of compassion I did not have before. I look at how each grieving person struggles along, and I feel tender toward them. We are all, every one of us, just doing the best we know how. As my middle sister said recently, "Sometimes, people are doing their best and their best isn't very good, but it's still the best they have for that day." She's so wise.

There is not one, right way to do grief. It is so personal and so individual.

My way was hardly being able to choke things down, and then eating gentle comfort foods for many months. Eventually though, a diet of comfort food will catch up with a person.

Also, my health and eating were impacted by a whole different issue: RV life. Once we sold our home and started living full-time in a travel trailer, we both started to put on weight. When you live in about 275 square feet, you really don't move much. If I were not in all sorts of trauma, maybe I would be one of those energetic, motivated people who work out passionately, and vigorously counteract the effects of tiny-space living. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd still just be me. I am starting to make some positive changes now, cutting back on sugar and going for more and longer walks.

One of my favorite things about God is His gentle compassion. Through those long months of soothing my hurt with food, He just loved on me. Only after about seven or eight months did He gently start to nudge me about the food issue. Gentle is really the word. First, it was just coming across the phrase, "God of comfort" in something I was reading. When I read it, there was a gentle little touch on my heart. Soon after that, a pastor mentioned in a sermon that as He is the God of Comfort, we should really be turning to Him and not to other things. Again, the gentle nudge on my heart. I started thinking about that, and felt God encouraging me along that path; toward seeing Him as my source of comfort, rather than food. A couple of weeks ago, one of our kids said that God had been bringing her to the same message, in almost the exact same words. More confirmation that this was God's voice leading me.

I felt so loved. There was never, in all those months or in His redirection of my thinking, one hint of condemnation. He did not shame me. He truly is all-loving and all-compassionate. He knows the deep suffering of my heart and mind even better than I do. He has been so gentle with my broken heart. At the same time, He knows that there are better, healthier ways and when the time is right He gently leads me toward them. He loves me so much and He grieves for my sorrow. He also loves me far too much to let me continue on paths that will hurt me in other ways. He gave me time to get through those first agonizing months, just cradling me close to His heart. Then, with such love, He started easing me into ways that will lead to wholeness and health.

I think that one of the most important things, for those who are grieving, is to be gentle with ourselves. And for those around us to be gentle with us. We are all, every one of us humans, just doing the best we know how. Sometimes, our best may not be very good, but it is still the best we have to offer in that moment. We need to just love on ourselves and let ourselves be okay with where we are. And then, when God nudges us to move in a better direction, we need to lean on Him and let Him lead us there.

More signs that I missed

I am still smiling gently to myself over how many blatant signs I missed in the past couple of weeks; signs that something was amiss in my inner world. Along with what I wrote in my previous post ("When I don't even realize I'm struggling"), here are a few more things I've noticed.

~ For days, maybe even a week or two, I have spent most days sitting inside, with the shades down. Hint- hunkering down in a dark cave is an almost ridiculously obvious sign of depression!

~ Most of those days in the cave have been spent face-down in the internet, mostly watching hours of YouTube videos.  Hint- losing myself in the cyber-world for hours (days!) on end, and doing very little in the real world? Classic sign of depression/running from my own thoughts & feelings. Other hint- often, when my thoughts, feelings or inner burdens are too much for me, I run from them until I feel better able to face them. Usually this looks like binge-reading. My supply of books is limited (one unfortunate aspect of tiny-home vagabond life), so I have been turning to the internet instead. This, to me, is not always a bad thing. Being able to escape from what feels overwhelming can just be a welcome respite, filling my mind with benign input rather than painful or exhausting thoughts...as long as it doesn't last too long and take over my life. :)

~ There are several unanswered emails, letters and text messages from dear, wonderful friends. I have read all of them, smiled over them, been truly blessed by them, been concerned and prayed over them... but I just have not had the emotional energy to answer them. Now that the clouds are starting to ease from my inner world, I hope to begin working on that backlog. Hint- if responding to messages from people you love feels like an impossible task, you just might be depressed! (And/or carrying an impossible emotional burden, like the sudden, tragic death of a child.) For me, this inability to respond can be a sign of depression, or a sign that the weight of our loss is pressing me down, which are very similar conditions. The response paralysis is understandable, given the long, hard journey that is my current life...but also an indicator that the waves are winning and I need to find a way to breathe.

~ I made our bed yesterday morning and suddenly realized that I could not remember the last time I'd done that. Now, whether or not you make your bed each day is not inherently a depression-marker. That is a simple matter of personal preference. If, however, you are someone who really prefers crawling into a neatly made bed each night and who likes beginning each day by creating that little corner of orderliness, and who takes pleasant satisfaction in the sight,  and suddenly the bed lies tumbled day after day after week, that is something to notice. (Hint, Hint)

~Something less specific, but also noticeable: many things just seem more possible all of a sudden. Like...washing the dishes, taking the dogs for a walk, making dinner. When everything just feels hard and like it's just too much....you might be depressed. :) As I emerge from the fog a little more each day, this becomes more clear to me. It is becoming easier for me to do these daily things, without a huge amount of effort, without mini-drama, without feeling that I am draaaagging myself through the task. Things just feel...possible. And with this, each day our little living space becomes slightly less messy and a touch more bearable.

And now, I think I will open the blinds! :)  I will let in the light, and I will turn on some pleasant music. I will walk over to the laundry house and see if I can put in a load or two to wash. We did a lot of laundry this weekend, but I still have a few loads to do. I will eat a good breakfast, and read my devotional book and my Bible while I do so. I will pull out my prayer journal and lift up those people and issues so close to my heart. I may even stretch my tight muscles and take a nice warm shower. I will put on comfy clothes that make me feel happy. Maybe I will choose a few more things in our living space and put them where they belong. Little steps, but all moving in the better direction.

I so appreciate every single one of you dear people who read my words. This means so much to me. You are wonderful. <3  I have appreciated your responses to my last post, in which you shared your own tactics for pushing back the clouds. Thank you for that. <3  This is another thing that helps- putting my thoughts out there and knowing that others read them. The thought that what I write may help or encourage someone else means a great deal to me. <3

****When I talk about being depressed, it is what I think of as "small d" depression, the kind that is helped by simple changes in thoughts or environment. "Big D" Depression (clinical depression) is a whole different animal. Someone close to me describes it as waking every morning in a "gray wasteland." It is deep and very long-lasting. In a post from a few months ago ("How do I keep my kid alive?") I wrote about some things that have helped people I know who deal with Depression on that larger, deeper level. You really can't just think happy thoughts to solve it, or "boot-strap" your way out of Depression (or Anxiety Disorder). These things need deeper intervention. All of the things I talk about- opening the blinds, taking walks in the sunshine, listening to positive music- will also help those with the Big D, but they cannot fix it. They are good to do, and they can make a difference, but they are not the solution. Big D Depression is rooted in brain chemistry, and it needs to be addressed on a gut-deep level (literally as well as figuratively-again, see "How do I keep my kid alive?"). It can also be the result of trauma, which most certainly cannot be "solved" by just thinking happy thoughts! That needs the care of trained people who know their business, to address the deep scars of heavy wounds. (I have been hearing good things about EMDR therapy, from people who have experienced it.)****

Okay, I really felt that needed to be added- I never want to seem to trivialize the depth of other people's emotional experience and wanted to make clear the difference. <3 Now I really will make a start on the things I need, to help this be a better day. So much love and gratitude to every one who pauses to read my words. You are lovely humans. <3

It's not a mask...it's survival

We are all hanging in there, in the wake of Michael's death. We are, the best we know how, leaning into the love of God and moving forward through the storm. Because we are making such a concerted effort to meet life head-on and walk in grace (a.k.a. not vomiting our pain all over innocent bystanders) we look normal to other people. We seem just fine, most of the time.

Underneath, though, is a whole different story.

It's not a mask we wear, pretending to be okay.
It's not that we're avoiding the reality of what's going on.
We are not faking or being inauthentic.

This is gut-deep survival.

This is the only way we know to be able to carry on with life while our hearts lie bleeding on the floor.

Life, as I have said before, goes relentlessly on. No matter how brokenhearted a person may be, life demands that they keep doing the normal life things.

How? How can we possibly carry on with the mundane tasks of daily life? How can our kids carry on with work and school and other commitments, when their hearts are breaking, repeatedly breaking? They have to. We have to.

How?

One: lean hard into the arms of Jesus.
Two: wear a face of normalcy and put one foot in front of the other

The first is Life itself. That inner wellspring of love and comfort and help is the main reason any of us is sane and breathing and remotely okay.

The second is purely survival, and purely necessary.

There are other options, of course. In the face of such sudden, tragic loss, going completely to pieces is a highly reasonable response. This pain is enough to drive a person insane. It really is. Numbing the pain away with a variety of substances is also completely understandable. The pain is just unreal. I "get" in a way I never did before why people bury their pain with alcohol or drugs. The pain is exhausting and relentless. It pounds at you every moment of every day, whether you are thinking about it or not. It never stops.

Both of those roads, though, bring terrible consequences. They lead to places of more brokenness, more loss.

The alternative? Grab hard onto the hand of Jesus, lift your head, stick out your chin, and walk straight into the face of the wind.

This is the only way we saw to come through this with some semblance of wholeness, and with our lives and our family intact. By the grace of God, in the deepest sense, we are doing this hard, hard thing together, as a family.

To anyone who is not right up close to us, we seem pretty normal. We talk and laugh and listen and care and do the things that need to be done. We carry on.

It is not an act. It is real.

But the other truth is also real- that behind this face of normalcy is a deep well of sadness and loss. Sometimes, the waves of pain grow smaller and quieter and fall into the background. Sometimes, they rise up and knock us flat without warning. Every day is fraught with peril, like a grassy meadow full of forgotten land-mines. We never know when the next step will trigger an explosion that leaves us bleeding and breathless.

Life does not leave a lot of room for that; not much time for catching our breath after one of the big hits. Thankfully, God has given each of us, in some of those hardest moments, a little space, and the kindness of people who help carry the load for a few steps.

When I hear the stories of how people have loved on our kids and helped them when they struggle, my heart overflows with gratitude. That means the absolute world to me.

Oh, and a critical #3 on this road to survival: Get help. For heaven's sake, get the help you need! Find a good counselor, a grief support group, an online group of others walking the same hard road. We all, every one of us, need real help to make it through this. We do talk with one another about the real things of our grief, but it also helps, tremendously, to talk to someone who does not have a personal emotional investment in what you say, and in every shift of your feelings. There is no shame in seeking help; it is not a sign of weakness. It is pure common sense, and necessary for survival and for healing.

Have grace for yourself. Let yourself be where you are, feeling what you feel.

One of the most important things I have learned in the eight months we've been on this hard journey is to have deep grace for others, and for how they are dealing with their own hard things. We are all, every one of us humans, just doing the best we know how. We should have so much grace for each other. One of the worst things to do to someone in pain is to imply that they are somehow failing at grief; that they are doing loss or suffering the wrong way. How on earth does that help?

In the past, I might have been that person. I have a tendency to give off the message of, "you're doing it wrong" to the people closest to me. It's not nice. I'm working hard to learn better ways. I am having a stiff education on having grace for myself and extending it to others.

I love that meme that has gone around the internet in various forms; the one that says, "You never know what someone is going through, so be kind...always." I have also seen a quote attributed to Socrates, which is probably the root of the modern variations. "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

It's so true. We never know what private pain there is behind someone else's facade of "normal."  What if we all just assumed that every other person is carrying a hidden hurt of some kind, and extended grace and kindness to one another, all the time? What a difference that would make.