• Slideshow Widget

    • photo template1_zpsa2bda018.jpg" />
    • photo template2_zpsa27502f0.jpg" />
    • photo template3a_zps14b85bfc.jpg" />
    • photo template3_zpsbcc6b507.jpg" />

    Archive for 2015

    Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet

    Friday, November 20, 2015

    Some years things feel easier, and you can see your growth...how you have learned, accepted, found peace with your grief. And then there are years like this one, where the deep, settled pain twists in your gut and makes even just breathing hard. This year blindsided me. I didn't expect to feel the bitterness that crept in during the last couple of weeks. I didn't expect to yell hurtful words at those I love, didn't expect to burst into sobs that came so out of the blue, that the sound shocks you when you realize the sobbing is coming from your own lips, from your own well of pain. This year, there are no words to wrap around my sorrow, so I pulled something from my diary to place here on your birthday, Ella Kate. Seven years old. You would be seven, and the pain of losing you is so fresh, yet so settled in my soul. It is just as much a part of me today as you are. I miss you so much, and would give anything to have you here. I do not like this part of my grief...the bitterness feels ugly and lonely, but I know that even here, in this dark place, God is with me in the trenches. He will not leave me here.

    Excerpt from my journal:

    I'm not really sure what prompts me to search for the book. It is late at night, in that sweet hour of peacefulness after the kids have been tucked in tight, dishwasher humming softly through the house, letting me know the household chores are finally finished for the day, and I can have some quiet time for myself. I run the bath tub full...as full as it can possibly get without overflowing, and as hot as I can possibly stand it. I pour the bubble bath under the running water, light the candles, and go get the book that is weighing heavily on my mind. It's a beautiful story, a lovely memoir, but I have read its pages before, so I am unsure why I feel the need to go dig it out from under my bed. But I do. I open the book, and watch as a slip of paper falls from the pages and flutters softly to the floor. I reach down for it, and recognize what it is immediately. Any mother would. The glossy, thin texture, the fuzzy black and white image. It's an ultrasound photograph of my sweet girl, who is in the arms of Jesus. I close my eyes and grip the book hard in my hands. Did I read this book when I was pregnant with her? When she was still tucked away, safe and sound inside? I rifle through the pages, lie on the floor, hold the book against my heart, put it against my face. My only thought: "she was ALIVE when I read this book", and it feels as if a piece of us must be in those pages. We read it TOGETHER.

    I want to go to her, but I can't. So I talk to God, and ask him to tell her how much I love her, how much I fought for her life in prayer. I ask Him to tell her that I have planned her birthday out, from start to finish in my head. She would have a Hello Kitty cake, and pink balloons, and the most perfect outfit that I searched for months for and probably would have spent way too much money on. I ask Him to tell her about all the things we would have done together...how I would paint her toenails pink, and braid her hair; make her special snacks, and read her books before bed.

    The tears come, fresh from a never-ending well reserved just for her. I drain the water from the tub, blow out the candles, stuff the book back under my bed. There will be no relaxing tonight...the only relief from this heartache is a tender God, and a night of sweet sleep. So I crawl under the covers, close my eyes tight, and I know she will be waiting for me in my dreams. Maybe I will get to hold her there tonight? Please, Jesus...

    The Lord is close to the broken-hearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.
    Psalms 34:18

     
    Thank you Lord, for being close, even in the brokenness and the bitter moments. You are the same God in the sorrow that you are in the joy. Help me to find your sweet, unconditional love, even when it all tastes bitter.

    A satisfied soul loathes the honeycomb,
    But to a hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet.
    Proverbs 27:7

    Dear Grieving Mother,

    Thursday, August 20, 2015

    Dear Grieving Mother,  
     
     
     
    I see. I know. I understand.
     
    But more importantly,
     
    HE sees. HE knows. HE understands.
     
     
     
    I see you. I see the brave smile you plaster on your face for the world to see. You are afraid that people won't be able to handle your pain, so you hide it. Some people will be fooled by that fake smile, and others will lie to themselves that you must really be doing ok, so they don't have to live with your grief. But I see your eyes. Oh, your eyes. Deep wells trying to conceal deeper pain. I see myself there, my own grief reflected back, and it sears my heart. Please forgive me if I look away.
     
     
    I know. I know how you feel when you wake up in the morning, stretching and yawning in a groggy fog of barely-awake peacefulness, only to be slammed moments later in the chest with the heavy brick of grief that reminds you of your new reality: "My child is dead". You had forgotten in your sleep, hadn't you? I know, I know. I do that too. I know that your grief no longer feels like an emotion, but is now a dwelling place. You feel trapped there, and just when you muster up the courage to peek your head out and feel the sunshine, you are pushed forcefully back in. Door locked, key thrown to the wind. This darkness, this pain...it feels like falling, doesn't it? Falling into a deep, dark pit.
     
     
    I understand. I understand the internal struggle when a stranger asks if you have any children, and you don't know how to answer. Which is worse...saying "no" and feeling guilty, or telling them that your child died, and watching them stumble, trying to find the right words to say? I understand that sometimes even a hug or a kind word from someone can hurt and make you want to run away. It's as if your entire being is one giant, exposed nerve-ending, and even being shown compassion and kindness can cause great pain.
     
     
    I want you to know that it is ok to feel the way you are feeling. More than anything, I want you to know that it is OK to NEVER get over this, to NEVER "move on". Anyone that tells you differently has never stepped a foot along the journey you are now traveling on. But I also want you to know that there IS another side to this mountain of grief that you are struggling to climb. This pain? It will feel fresh for a very long time, much longer than you had imagined. You will struggle a few feet up the mountain, bare hands and feet clumsily gripping the rocky surface, only to lose your grip and slide back down again, scraping your hands, your knees, your heart along the way. You will dig your fingers into the dirt, desperate to climb out of that pit of grief, catch a glimpse of the sun shining above you, only to fall right back in, covered in mud and pain that can't be washed away. You will wish YOU had been buried instead of your child.
     
     
    But I want, no NEED you to know that there is a God who loves you. A God that does not CAUSE pain, although He sometimes allows it, in order to work through us and in us in ways we could never fathom. I want you to know that you have a Father that empathizes with you in your pain. He hears your cries, He shares your burden, and He will NOT leave you there alone in that dark pit, broken and suffering.
     
    The Bible says in Romans 8:28 that,
    "We know that all things work together for good to those that love God."
     
    All things. All things. ALL things. ALL THINGS.
     
    The mistakes. The shame. The failures. The regret. The deep, dark, take your breath away, can't get out of bed, tear-soaked, gut-wrenching, life-changing, searing, middle-of-the-night, can't go on, grief-stricken PAIN.
     
    All things. All things. ALL things. ALL THINGS.
     
    Have faith, friend. Everything will be used for good. And will you let Him meet you there? Right there in the middle of that pit of grief you are calling home. Sit there in silence, or cry out to Him and tell Him where it hurts. HE SEES. HE KNOWS. HE UNDERSTANDS. Let your raw pain expose you to his touch. Let your hurt push you into a deeper relationship and a brand-new understanding of who God is. He is not just the God who "gives and takes away". He is not a God who punishes bad people and rewards those who do everything "right". He is Healer. Comforter. Father. He wants us to run to Him when we are hurt, like a child runs to their earthly father.
     
     
    I am six years into my grief. My grief is mature, with a set-in, permanent knowledge that my daughter is not coming back to me here on earth. I still sometimes struggle there on the edge of the pit, feeling the dirt give way under my feet, grappling to get back to safety, a few feet back from the dark hole. You see, I was just like you - stuck in a pit that looks a lot like yours. I had a choice...run to my Heavenly Father in my pain, or turn my back and harden my heart. Little by little, I grew my faith, taking tiny steps toward Him and letting Him pull me further and further out. Then one day, I realized I was no longer in it. I was on the outside, looking down at where I had been. I still grieve. I still break down and sob. I still long for things to be different. But my grief is now something I live WITH, not IN, not because "time heals all wounds" (it doesn't), but because I have allowed God to minister to me in my brokenness. I now know a side of God that is so personal, I wonder if anyone else has ever felt His presence in quite the same way. I believe they haven't. I believe that our Father wants to give each of us that gift of something personal, something special, something just for us.
     
    Will you let Him do that for you? Will you let Him love you? All it takes is a weak, whispered "yes, Lord".
     
     
    My prayers are with anyone reading this that may be suffering through the loss of a child. There is no pain like it. You are not alone, but you ARE cared for, important, prayed over, and loved. If you need someone to talk to, please email me. I would love to be there for you. My contact info is listed below. Also, PLEASE SHARE with anyone you know who is going through a loss. I truly believe SOMEONE needs to read this message.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    XOXO,
     
    Julie
    

    PREVIOUS ENTRIES →
    ← NEWER ENTRIES