A Better Answer--Part 12, The Power of Knowing When It is Beyond You

In this series, I've spent a lot of time talking about the importance of being there, listening, standing strong, being patient, walking through the hard places even when there was nothing you could do to make them better. I've tried to offer ways to be part of the healing by believing in the process and trusting time and God will heal things.

However, sometimes things go wrong. Healing doesn't progress. Faith craters. And the mind and spirit become too exhausted to fight on.

Sometimes a person cannot see through or past the pain to the other side

Sometimes a person simply wants out.

Sometimes suicide because a very strong possibility.

I wish I had an absolute "look for these signs" list to offer, but I don't. A few things I've seen among people who have walked this precipice specifically after someone's death include:
--wishing they were with that person
--talking about how empty this life is
--expressing a lack of hope or reason to continue
--telling people goodbye, creating closure with the living
--"shrinking their lives" by not engaging in relationships or social outings

The problem with these warning signs, in my opinion, is they are also natural responses or comments to make while going through the grief process. It can be really hard to know what is going on inside someone's brain.

So I ask.

I have asked more than one friend, "Are you considering suicide or hurting yourself?"

For most, it seems knowing someone is observing that closely and cares that much is enough to encourage them to stay in the game. However, getting through rough patches can take some time. Don't be afraid to ask more than once.

I have one friend I asked on a pretty regular basis for a time, "Are you suicidal? Is it even crossing your mind? How can I help you get through right now?"

Sometimes I won't even bring up the word suicide. Sometimes I'll ask, "On a scale of 1-10, what kind of hell is today?"

Some people might find that wording offensive, but if you are in that mess, it is like breathing for someone to recognize how hard it is. Whatever they tell me, I ask, "How can I help? What do you need me to say or do to help through right now?"

The truth is, I am powerless about tomorrow or the next day or next week, but RIGHT NOW, I'm here, and I can be a presence right now.

Sometimes, though, my presence doesn't help. Sometimes it is honestly beyond me.

In those situations, I've called in reinforcements. I've called in friends, church members, pastors, and police. I've sent the police to someone's house to bang on the door and check their mental/emotional state. I've invaded Facebook friend lists to find someone close enough to the person that he could go by the person's house. When I think someone might truly be suicidal, nothing is sacred. I will invade whatever I have to invade to give that person time to think clearly.

If you really believe someone is suicidal, the situation is bigger than you. You need to call in someone else who can help. You can find counseling. You can call the police. You can go to the church. You can do an intervention with several people, hopefully jar the person into realizing their is still love here for them to live in if they will fight through the pain. Sometimes they really need to see that they are not alone in the pain.

Asking doesn't have to be a big drama either. A simple way of asking is:
"I know you've really been struggling, and I know you've gone through some hard stuff. I know you are sad, and I've noticed some things that concern me. I'm wondering, are you considering hurting yourself or maybe even considering suicide?"

Or skip the roses and get to the point. "I care about you, and I'm concerned. Are you considering suicide?"

And I know. Everybody is afraid they'll offend the person or make them mad. I have never lost a friend because I've asked them if they were suicidal, but if I did, I think I could live with that a lot easier than living with losing a friend because I didn't ask.

If they say they are not, still watch them closely. If they say they are, it is time to encourage them to go to counseling or call a suicide hotline for more help.

 

The national suicide hotline is 1-800-SUICIDE

or you can call your police or hospital for more information.

Grief is such an odd thing with such extreme emotions with the highs and lows that go with them. Sometimes it can be hard to tell if what you are seeing is a normal part of the process or a person slipping out of control. If you have the slightest concern it might be the latter, ask. Invade. Call in reinforcements. Call whoever you have to.

Sometimes the only way to help is realizing you can't...but finding the person who can.

A Better Answer--What I Wanted

This series began with a question from someone who read my post Battle-made Courage.

She asked:

"In your latest post you mentioned your friends who responded to your emails in a somewhat harsh or maybe an unsympathetic way.  I'm curious and also want to be sensitive in these situations and would like to ask what would have been a better response for you at that time?"

I've offered pages of thoughts and suggestions, and hopefully, in them, people have found understanding of grief and equipping for addressing the pain and needs of those who grieve.
 
However, this writer asked specifically, "What would have been a better response for you at that time?"
 
To help you understand the answer, let me give you an insight into what precipitated the text.
 
I had gone through 7 1/2 months of mind-jarring losses. During those months, I spent countless sleepless hours with children who were grieving and could not sleep. I dealt with a mom who needed to be told daily what the doctor had said about the cancer, and each time I told her, it was the first time she had heard she was terminal...and she sobbed and grieved...every...single...time. My family was in denial. Then my stepdad blamed me for killing my mom when she died and decided to punish me in a variety of mental and financial ways. I cannot even put the whole separation and divorce thing into words, and there were people I had called my closest friends...who decided they weren't.

The week prior to that text I had finished my emergency response training, and every night I closed my eyes and saw my husband die in my arms...over and over and over again. Multiple times a night I was the one who pulled him out of his car and pushed air into his lungs through his blue lips.  I was the one who pounded his chest with compressions trying to get his heart to restart. And every single time...he died...with his head in my lap...anyway.

Throughout those months, I had tried to be brave and courageous. I had tried to be the kind of person my Marine friend would be proud to go into battle with. But that day, there was no bravery. There was no courage, and I had been battled beyond my ability to battle anymore.

And these "friends" demanded more. They made it clear what I had given was not good enough. That I wasn't strong enough. That I was a disappointment.

I deleted them from my phone list, Facebook connections, and email. I was already buckling under the weight of what I had. I could not carry their expectations, too, so I deleted them.

I tell you all that so you have a glimpse of the weight of grief and the responsibility of rebuilding lives when there is a giant gaping hole, or in our case, multiple gaping holes.

What I was really trying to communicate with the text, "I don't want to get out of bed," is how utterly exhausted I was on every level. Mentally, emotionally, and physically I was beyond fumes. Sheer will only goes so far, and mine was gone.
What did I want the response to be?

I wish someone had taken a moment to take care of me.

I wish someone had shown up at my door and said, "I'm here. Let me clean your house. Let me take the kids. Let me fix you meals. Let me...let me take care of you."

I wish someone had shown up with coffee or shown up to take me to coffee.

I wish someone had brought a stupid movie, made margaritas, and laughed hard for a few hours. Any clue how good it would have felt to simply laugh?

I wish someone had just brought sweet tea and a box of kleenex, sat on the deck with me, and said, "Tell me everything. This isn't normal for you. Tell me everything." And when I was done, she would have hugged me and whispered in my ear, "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry," while I just sobbed.

I wish, for one day, someone would have given me a day where no one needed me to have an answer, no one needed me to be strong, no one needed me to take a deep breath and do the hard thing anyway.

I wish, for one day, someone would have been my answer and would have been strong for me.

I wish someone would have taken a moment to realize even the strongest warrior grows weary. If the battle rages long enough, even the most courageous can reach a point of simply wanting to quit. The cuts and the blows and trying to figure out a way through the battlefield only to be assaulted even more brutally than before takes its toll. At some point every warrior needs to step off the field or into a foxhole and find some rest while someone covers her.

I wish someone had been willing to cover me.

A Better Answer--Part 11, The Power of Patience

She was probably already on her way to the coffee shop. I should have left five minutes earlier. Instead, I punched in a text.

"I am sorry. I can't have coffee tonight."

I could barely read the letters on the phone screen through the tears as I touched "Send".

In one bedroom my daughter was screaming about her dad's selfishness and venting the pain and anger of a teenager whose dad had left...and then had the audacity to die.

In another bedroom my son hid behind his door and cried.

And I sat in my bedroom floor with hot tears slipping down my face because yet again grief had won and my plans for anything that resembled a normal life collapsed in front of me.

My phone screen lit up. I opened her message.

"It's fine. Another time. Hope y'all are okay."

No! It was NOT fine. We were NOT okay.

This was crazy. This was...prison. And I had no way out. All I could do was sit and wait for the raging to ease, wipe their tears, and help the kids process their feelings and thoughts, and this was...life for now.

I have no idea how many times I cancelled plans because grief slammed hearts hard or life-holes ached badly. I have no idea how many phone calls I ignored because sometimes there are no words...or energy. Sometimes the battle through the pain is simply so exhausting conversation is impossible.

Many times I wondered if we would ever make plans...and keep them.

I was sure people were writing our names in pencil with big question marks...with backup plans in place in case we backed out...because we mostly likely would.

Every time I had to cancel, my heart broke. I wanted anything that looked like normal, and every time I had to cancel something from what used to be normal only reminded me how un-normal we really were...and how we still had so far to go.

Sometimes I just told people I wasn't able to do something because it was less risky than having to cancel and deal with the mental and emotional backlash.

One of the most appreciated gifts my friends gave me during that was patience. No one ever complained about my having to cancel. No one ever mentioned the effects on them or their families. No one ever told me what an inconvenience it was. No one ever even attempted to joke about it. Everyone was kind, compassionate, and patient.

I think it would have been crushing for them to tell me I had let them down in anyway. But they never did.

They simply said, "It's okay."

And even though my heart was screaming it wasn't okay at all, it was also whispering gratitude for the kindness of patience from people we love because their patience told us how much they love us.

A Better Answer--Part 10, The Power of Time

A friend of mine broke her wrist. A small break. Didn't need a cast, just one of those wrist braces. A month later, she had almost all function back.

Another friend of mine was in a car wreck. The airbag hit her wrist the wrong way, and her wrist shattered. It took surgery and a couple of months to heal. When she went to see the doctor, he would x-ray, see how it was progressing, make sure there were indicators of healing there. She went from one kind of cast to another finally to a brace and eventually nothing. Her ability to use her wrist and hand went from nothing to pinching with fingertips to gripping with fingers to full functionality. A lot of strength had to be regained. It seemed like the healing would never be complete, but eventually it was. Now her wrist is fine, but wow, did it take time to reach "fine".

From the outside, the injuries look the same. However, they were very different breaks. While the small break took only six weeks for full recovery, no one would expect that of the second break. There were just too many things involved in the healing process.

Emotional healing works the same way.

Sadly too many people think healing is controlled by calendar pages, not personal pain. They think recovering from divorce, a death, or a given loss works in a pre-packaged time frame.

If only.

The truth is the second year can be harder than the first. Circumstances play a roll as well. This year a friend of mine had her fourth year divorced. It was her worst for reasons few can understand. The first year my mom was gone was drowned by the marital collapse and death of my husband. It wasn't until I had found my way through the loss of marriage and my children's dad that the reality hit--my mom was gone. That was a breath-snatching Christmas.

I know a precious lady whose marriage split up after 15 years. Her sweetheart since high school, only man she had ever dated, ever kissed, ever believed loved her walked out of their home and into the bed of a woman nearly fifteen years younger than she or her husband are. I couldn't imagine what that was like, and a mutual friend and I were discussing it one day because we were concerned, and the mutual friend said, "I'll be glad when she is done with the first year. She'll be fine then."

I couldn't believe the naivete'. Really? You think she will step over that calendar one-year mark and everything will be fine?

"Well, she'll have gone through all the holidays and lived. Then it is time for her to move on and get over it."

Seriously?!

Yes. Seriously.



Two and a half years.

That is how long it has been since everything began for us.

When the path we were on became obvious, I made a list. It was my "Other Side" list. It was my criteria for what "the other side" looked like. I would know we had made it through once I saw these things active in our lives.

About a month ago I realized we are living that list. We are on "the other side".

In the last 2 1/2 years we've endured incredible pain, cried more than we thought was humanly possible, questioned, screamed in rage, put up walls to protect us from people with bad intentions...and people with good intentions who hurt unintentionally...laughed a lot, found new hobbies...rebuilt our lives.

Rebuilding has taken time.

Working through the pain of the loss...
Working through the anger...
Finding new hobbies...
Finding new joy...

It is a process, not a switch we get to hit.

One of the best gifts we've received from friends we've kept close to us is the gift of time. In fact, their patience is one of the reasons we've kept them close.

They had no time frame for when we should be past the anger or when birthdays shouldn't hurt. They didn't have the expectation that "the first year is the hardest but the second year will be so much easier." They were simply in, for as long as it took, until our feet were on solid ground again and life didn't hurt so much.

They understood healing isn't about the amount of time that has passed. It is about the progress that is made.

Healing is not about getting through the first year or beyond the milestone anniversary. It is not about ticks of time or flipping of calendar pages.

Healing is about reaching a place that is better than what it used to be.

Healing is progressing from where one is to a place where life hurts less and hope leads more.

And that takes time.

A Better Answer--Part 9, The Power of Invasion

As much as I would have loved to have someone offer to mow my yard, fix different things, help in different ways, what I cherish beyond all words are the few people who had the courage to invade when I told them they didn't have to.

Asking for help because I don't have the physical ability or knowledge to use a tool or fix something is one thing. Needing help because my mind or emotions have turned against me...not acceptable.

To have someone who notices when I'm too quiet on FB, haven't texted in a few days, am not picking up my phone, or particular things I say about working in the flowerbeds, turning in paperwork at the court house (where I had to file the divorce petition), or writing thank you notes for those who sent flowers to the funeral...those things are priceless.

As nice as it would be for people to tell us exactly what they need and let us do it, they don't. People don't want others to see their insanity. They don't want people to see them at their worst. So they push through to the best of their ability or shut down when they simply can't go on, and people are too afraid to make them mad or make them cry that they say and do nothing because they are waiting for that "any time you need me" clause to be activated. Except, no one is going to activate it.

So how do you let the person know you are serious about your willingness to be there...even when it is insane?

You invade.

Seriously. Show up at their door with coffee, a movie, dinner, a blender to make margaritas.

I hated evenings after 8:00 pm. The house is quiet. The lack of companionship was a nightmare. I would have loved for someone to show up with a game or a movie and said, "I'm just here to be here." I'm not saying people need to do that every night, but being alone night after night after a day of being the only parent/counselor/teacher/disciplinarian/social-planner/budget-meeter/order-keeper is mentally and emotionally battering. Someone with coffee and a movie who is willing to just be there with you...gold.

Show up with McDonald's for the kids, a box of kleenex, and a few hours to sit and listen.

Fix a picnic and say, "Let's get out of the house awhile."

JUST BE THERE.

Your job isn't to get them out of their rut or to make them see life isn't so bad. If you do that, they aren't going to want you. I wouldn't want you. That is about you, your opinions, and your comfort zones.

This is about them.

Your whole purpose is to be there...with them...where they are.

Sometimes they don't know how to ask you to be there. Sometimes they don't know what they really even need. They just know they need something...someone...because the demands are too many...the load is too large.

Be courageous.
Be what they need.
Do what they need you to do.
Invade.

A Better Answer--Part 8, The Power of Personal Presence 2

In my last post I shared some of the ways people have been a comfort by simply being themselves and being here. However, each of us has our own empty spots, the spots where a presence would feel good.

I can't list all the possibilities, but if you take a little time, ask a few questions, you can figure some things out. If you ask about favorite memories or traditions or what they did every spring or fall, you may be surprised at how much you can find out. People like to tell stories. They like to remember. They like that people want to hear.

It is a heart-lifting surprise when someone gives you room to remember instead of telling you to forget.

Maybe it is a trip to see fall leaves every year.
Maybe it is putting in the flowers or a trip to the beach or opening day of movies.
Maybe it is putting up lights for Christmas or tailgating at a football game or visiting a flea market.
Maybe it is watching fireworks or attending musicals or just a special day.

What do you say once you know? Say something honest.

"I know you and (the person you love) did (this thing). I was wondering, would you like some company? Would you like someone to do that with you? If not, would you like to do something totally different? I know it must be hard to do by yourself. I'll do it with you, or we can do something else. Just tell me what you need."

Or, just show up.

I have no idea how many times I wish someone had just shown up at my door and said, "I'm taking you to (coffee, dinner, the theatre, the botanical gardens...anywhere but here."

I have found two obstacles when it came to asking for help.

1. Being in pain is exhausting. Simply trying to get the kids and myself through the day...especially on days when I really needed someone to step in and help me breathe...just doing what had to be done took all my energy. I couldn't think of what I needed or how anyone could help. Even when people asked what I needed, I had no answer.

2. I had asked for help, for company, for simple presence, and the responses had hurt. I was already drained. I refused to risk inflicting more mental or emotional pain on myself.

I thank God for those I never had to ask.

My husband had moved out. My mom was dying of cancer. My kids were trying to find their way through the rage and pain. I was tired on every level.
I wrote a simple text.
"I can't put two thoughts together."
A few minutes later my phone rang.
John asked me a few questions, told me to get pen and paper, and gave me the plan to get me through the weekend. I had to think about nothing. It was a Godsend.

Valentine's Day is hard. Rob died around 12:30 am on February 15th. We associate it with Valentine's. The emotional tsunami that hit last year felt suffocating. My kids were in unbelievable pain. I was trying to get through the day as a woman who had not been single in nearly 24 years....as a wife who was still trying to figure out what had gone wrong with her marriage...and as a person whose friend had died.

I hurt. Dear Lord in heaven, how I hurt.

And that day people texted and emailed. Told me they were praying. Confessed they had no idea how hard it must be but they were standing with me in their hearts, thoughts, and prayers.

And then there were the flowers and the DVD.

My friend Kristi had been praying for a month about how to love me on Valentine's Day, and the Lord had answered.

She gave me a beautiful bouquet and the Courageous DVD. I have never loved cut flowers so much. I watched Courageous and cried. It was more than a movie. It was an answer to prayer. I had asked the Lord how I'm supposed to be a mom and a dad, and He showed me all He wanted was for me to be courageous, to fight the good fight, to be a good example. If I could instill His character, the kids would come through okay. He is the answer. I simply had to live courageously in Him.

Kristi had no idea about my prayer or my heart...or how hard it can be to be a mom and dad. She only knew her friend was facing Valentine's alone, and she wanted to help. So she prayed and asked the Counselor, the peace Prince...the One who is with me constantly...and she put love into action.


Birthdays are hard, whether it be having a birthday without someone...or finding the way through the birthday of the one lost. When our friend Lonnie died, multiple friends graced his wife with her favorite flowers on her birthday, just like he did. Sure she cried, but it was a good cry.

Anniversaries are hard. I've spent the last two anniversaries doing vulnteer work. It kept me busy all day, and I was so exhausted when I got home I showered and fell asleep.

Some events are hard. Watching WonderGirl be Willie Wonka, the character her dad had always wanted to be, tested my ability to keep breathing. Thank the Lord we were surrounded by a few dozen friends who held my hand, offered a shoulder, and gave a standing ovation for WonderGirl's courage.

The way to be present varies from person to person because the empty places, the hurting spots, vary with each relationship and with each life. It doesn't take a huge presence to make a huge difference, though. Some courage to invade space, a bit of time, and the willingness to see beyond the platitudes hurting people so often dole out will speak love greater than you can imagine.

You may never know how much your presence is needed in a day, how much strength it gives, or how deeply appreciated it is because honestly, for love like that, there are no real words...only heart deep gratitude.

Presence like that isn't the easiest thing to do...but it is a powerful thing to do.

A Better Answer--Part 7, The Power of Personal Presence 1

It was a horrible day. The kind of day you wish you could do over, take things back, handle everything differently.

My son was angry and screaming.
I was angry and screaming.
He slammed doors.
I slammed doors.
My daughter just tried to stay out of the way of the rage and flying verbal knives.

It was a horrible day.

And in the midst of all the horrible, Mary Kate was coming over to help me paint my son's room. A student of mine a handful of years ago. Now a young woman. Instead of a student, she was now a friend...but how far into horrible will friends go?

How much horrible does one want their friends to see?

So I called.

It's bad.

"I'm okay with bad."

Don't come.

"I'm ten minutes away."

Don't come.

"I will paint in a room by myself."

Don't come.

"You don't even have to speak to me."

Don't come.

"I'm not scared."

When I turned off my phone, she had agreed to turn around and go home.

I knelt on the floor and sobbed so hard I ached.

I don't know how long I sat there. I can't tell you what went through my mind. All I know is when I picked my phone and asked, "Where are you?", she answered, "Two minutes away sitting in the parking lot wondering how angry you'll be when I just show up at your door anyway."

"It's really bad."

"I'm not afraid of really bad."

"It's pretty insane."

"Insanity doesn't scare me."

"If insanity doesn't scare you, I need you."

"I'm on my way."

I sobbed. Talked. Maybe some of it made sense. Probably didn't.

She listened.

She sat on the paint spotted drop cloth and listened. I don't remember her saying a word. I just remember she was there.

She was also there when I spent a damp morning walking through the rain dripping grass pulling up ragweed that had taken over my yard.

The week before I had worked in the yard, cleared some flowerbeds...cried the whole time. My husband and I had done the yardwork together. It was my first year to do it alone, and oh what I would have given for someone to just sit in a lawn chair near me, sip sweet tea, and talk. I didn't expect anyone to get on their knees or sacrifice their backs. I just wanted a presence.

It is amazing the comfort a simple presence can offer when all the heart can see is the empty.

And she chose to be present.

She wandered the yard in boots, pajamas, and a jacket with me while we filled three large outside trashcans with milkweed. We talked some. I don't know what about. I remember what I kept thinking.

I kept thinking of kneeling in my front yard over a flowerbed the week before with tears dripping off my chin and telling God how nice a companion would be...and how He gave me one. It was love defined lived out in my backyard.

.     .     .     .     .

 

It took months for me to be able to think of writing thank you notes, and when I finally decided I was ready, I pulled out the notes, suddenly couldn't breathe, and walked away from the notes. I mentioned this to some friends, and four of them offered to come and sit with me while I wrote the notes, offered to make me sweet tea, address envelopes, write the notes for me if I needed. What did I need? They were in.

I didn't want people to see me trying to sort through the emotions and thoughts of a marriage gone wrong, a husband who didn't want to be here, and a life gone away. I couldn't explain how I could go from anger to sobbing in seconds, and I didn't trust people to understand. I was wrong. I should have let them come. I should have trusted their strength more. I should have...allowed them to comfort me with their presence.

The next day I wrote the thank you notes by myself...and cried the whole time. Even though I didn't allow my friends to be there, their love and support gave me courage for the task...and knowing they would be there was love.

.     .     .     .     .

It was WonderBoy's birthday, and I was trying to be courageous, but sometimes courageous needs a friend to stand strong.

I sent a text to my friend John.

"I know birthdays will get easier. I know a time will come when we get through the day without memories, without fighting tears. It isn't today."
He wrote back. "I can't imagine. Focus on getting through today. Tomorrow will be easier."

A few texts and a bit of time later, and WonderBoy was ready to head out for dinner and lasertag.

I texted: "Deep breath. I can rock this."

John responded: "Yes, you can."

And I did.

.     .     .     .     .

Yes, this is crazy...I'm not afraid of crazy.

I can't imagine how hard this is...but I'm still believing in you.

I can't fix hell...but I'll walk through it with you.


Wherever you are, whatever you are in...
...I'm not afraid of the pain....
...I'm not afraid of the crazy...
...I'm not afraid of the hard days...
...I'm there. I'm in with you.

That is love.

That is powerful.

The Missing Answer--When a Baby is Aborted

Last night I sat at church in a candlelight service looking for the light, looking for the Father's heart, seeking Him in the darkness...my darkness...the world's darkness..the darkness where He wanted to be found...the darkness where people need to find Him.

Almost before I had finished asking, "Lord, give me your heart," I heard the words, "The Missing Answer--When a Baby is Aborted." My heart ached, and I knew it is because His heart aches. I felt sadness and compassion of such magnitude it was almost as though I would disappear into it, and I thought I understood.

Then I heard Him whisper through His heavy-heartedness, "It isn't for the babies. It is for the mommas."

I saw an ocean of mommas with hearts filled with pain...and arms empty...and they had no way to grieve.

I heard Him say, "And they can tell no one."

Because people think they are getting what they deserve. People think they should feel bad, they should realize the heinous thing they've done, they should suffer for the wrong they've committed...they should know it was their fault.

The world thinks these mommas have forfeited their rights to ache as mommas because they were frightened, confused, and mistaken about the options laid before them, or maybe they felt they had no option at all. They made a choice most of us don't understand because we've never been there.

I've never been there either, but I understand making mistakes I wish I could undo. I understand the shame I felt, the shame that kept me from telling, from feeling like I had a right to feel anything other than horrible. I understand feeling like I not only deserved to feel wretched but by all that was right, should feel wretched. I understand hating myself and what I'd done. I understand feeling wholly undeserving of compassion and having no hope of forgiveness. I understand grief and guilt that suffocates and drowns.

I also understand my God looks at the person not the choice, heals the pain not judges the person, and loves where a person is and not where other thinks she should have been.

I understand that my God's heart is to heal the brokenhearted, set captives free, proclaim release for prisoners in darkness, forgive sins, and restore lives. I understand my Bible says with God the old is done and a new life is available, and I understand the Bible says those promises are for everyone, not "everyone except women who have had abortions."

And I understand these mommas watch due dates slip by that rip at their hearts but they have to pretend all is fine because how do you tell? Who do you tell?
I understand these mommas put on brave faces when children yell, "Mommy," and they aren't the one being called.
I understand watching loving hugs rips hearts to pieces.
I understand wondering...wishing...what if...

As I sat in that candlelight service celebrating a baby who came to be a light in the darkness, I asked the Lord for His heart for these mommas, and this is what I heard:

You have the right to grieve.
You have the right to be brokenhearted.
You have the right to mourn a due date, a birthday, and a large belly.
You have the right to hurt with a first word, every time a child calls someone else, "Mommy," when someone gets a hug you won't ever feel.
You have the right to ache to the very core of who you are.
You have the right to cry, to wonder what would have been.
You are a mom, and you have the right to grieve and mourn as a mom whose baby has been lost because yours was.
You have not forfeited your right to hurt as a mom who aches for her child. You are a mom. You have the right to grieve as one.
I give you that right.
I'm grieving with you...for you...I know how you hurt.
I'm with you.
I know.
And you don't have to be afraid of me.
I'm right here.
I don't hate you. I don't judge.
I love you. I forgive you. I want you to forgive you, too.
Let's talk about this baby together.
Let's walk through this to find your peace.
I don't want you to stay here.
You've hurt bad enough, long enough.
It's time to heal. Give me the pain. Give me your heart.
I can handle it.
I'm all in. We can get through this.
I know who you are. I know your heart.
I'm asking you to trust mine.

If you know someone who has had an abortion, instead of thinking about the act, think about the person living with the ramifications. Instead of being angry a life was lost, open your heart to seek the life still here to save. Listen, and if you can think of nothing else to say, say, "I love you."

Instead of imprisoning them to what they've done, seek God's wisdom to set them free to who He desires them to be. He doesn't desire them to live in pain and self-hatred for the rest of their lives. That isn't how our God works. His heart for them is love, peace, joy, and forgiveness...from Him and themselves.

Live His heart.

And if you are one of these precious mommas (or daddies)...

If you need to talk,
if you need to pray,
if you need to tell me about the baby you hold in your heart,
if you need to know more about the God who wants to hold you,
please visit my profile. You can find my email there.

I'm not a counselor. I'm just a woman...who has hurt horribly...and who knows a God who loves madly. He is all I have, but He is all you need.

With deep heart love and compassion,
Jerri

The Missing Answer--When a Baby is Lost

Donna brought up a hard topic in her comment this morning. A friend has lost a baby, and...wow...what do you say to that?

I think there is no pat answer, but I will share what insight I have.

I have a friend who has lost two babies with a son between them. We have talked throughout the years of healing, and I will share what she has said I did well.

First, I cried with her. She called me, told me about the loss, and we cried together.

I think I muttered, "I'm just stunned. I'm so sorry," a dozen times or more. They had tried so long to get pregnant and were so excited...I just cried.

Second, I also sent her a card on her due dates. I know that might odd, but I've learned moms do not forget their due dates, and those days are very hard for a lot moms. Often they feel like they are alone because no one remembers, and by then, they are supposed to be "past it", so they try not to say anything. Society is really cruel with what we expect folks to sweep under the rug. I chose to jerk the rug up.

 I wanted her to know I remembered these precious lives that had been part of her. Most folks either forget those dates or try to let them slip by unnoticed. I wrote in the cards if they were the wrong thing I was sorry, but I wanted her to know I remembered these precious gifts. For probably 2 or 3 years after that, I would call or email and say, "I know this would have been a birthday. How are you?" It was so non-glorious. I had NOTHING. BUT, she said the fact I remembered was precious, and I remembered the names they gave the babies.

She thanked me who knows how many times. She said it felt good to know her babies were remembered...that SHE was remembered.

Along those lines, I also checked in at Christmas, especially the first Christmas because this was their first child, and they had been trying for a couple of years to get pregnant. That year they lost their son but two nephews were born well and healthy. Can you imagine how hard Christmas was? I confess I couldn't. BUT, I wanted her to know I knew she must be hurting.

Something I did for another friend was take her to lunch or coffee or something...and coincidentally, our plans always fell at the same times as baby showers for other friends of hers. She knew I understood if she wanted to go to those showers, but she always chose time with me...after all, we already had plans, she wanted to keep her word, and she knew I was really looking forward to that time. A few times, our plans conflicted with first birthday parties. Oddest thing how that happened. It was like they planned those things just to make it so she couldn't go.

I think the key is to let the person know you realize they have lost someone, someone very real.

I hate that garbage about, "Well, at least you never held that baby and learned to love it." I loved my babies from the second I saw those two pink lines. When I was 9 weeks pregnant with my son, I started spotting and cramping. A beating heart has never looked so beautiful as his did on that monitor that day in the ER. Losing a baby is heart-shredding stuff. There is no "at least", and the whole, "God needed that baby more than you..." If I were on a jury and a parent were being tried for violence comitted by him or her against someone thoughtless enough to say that, I would send that parent home without so much as a reprimand. In fact, I might pat the parent on the back and thank her for educating the masses on the result spewing obviously thoughtless comments. Just saying.

I think in some ways losing a baby during pregnancy can be harder because folks don't realize how hard it is. I've never experienced it, but from conversations I've had, the feeling no one understands or gets that YOUR CHILD HAS DIED is horrificly painful.

I think a good guiding principle is to remember that baby was a person, and those who lost that baby lost a valuable life. Treating that life as valuable, demonstrating to those grieving that you know this is a life-shaped hole in their hearts, showing the lost baby is precious and those dealing with the loss are precious...that is where our compassion and comforting abilities has to pour from. That is honestly all we have to give.

And as always, I'm a big proponent of asking what the person needs.

Instead of just saying, "Call me if you need me," you make the call. Say something like, "You were on my mind today, and I am concerned about you. I don't know what I can do, but I know this is incredibly hard and painful, and is there anything I can offer you? Do you just need to talk? You need to cry? You need me to make dinner? Want me to take your other kids so you can just have some rest?"

Honestly, this person may not be able to think of a way you can help because thinking is not a strength when one is grieving. Do a bit of thinking for this person. Toss out some ideas. Give the person a chance to pick something instead of having to expend the energy to create an answer.

And if you aren't close enough for physical presence, ask the same questions via phone or computer. "How are you? I'm praying for you. You've been on my mind. The holidays are coming up. I am concerned about you. I know these can be hard, and some folks feel they just have to push through as happy as possible. Are you alright? Need to talk?"

Sometimes I just say, "I can understand feeling like something is missing...a friend of mine dealt with a lot of anger during the holidays the year she lost her son...I think Mother's Day would be hard..." I'm amazed at how making an effort to empathize opens doors for conversation and offering comfort.

I've also asked frankly, "How do you need me to be on this road with you? I want to be here, and I don't know how. Tell me what I need to be for you."

Speaking from experience, it is crazy amazing how powerful it is when someone tries to step into the pain instead of trying to make you get over it. It is wildly comforting when someone walks right into where you are instead of expecting you to pull it together and get to them.

I think the greatest thing anyone can do is acknoweldge the loss and the pain. A gift from God has been lost. Yes, that baby is in His hands, but a momma and daddy have empty arms. Empty arms hurt. The size of the baby doesn't matter. The loss is still heart-size.

Parents need to know someone else knows that, too.

When You Don't Know What to Say...Declassified Navy Information Works

Yesterday my wonderful friend Sharilyn Klahn moved from this piece of eternity to the next. She had hoped to be Home by Christmas, and the Lord was so kind to give her this gift.

I won't lie, and I won't wax poetic. The honest fact is I know things  that hurt her here are no longer hurting her. I know the cancer isn't ravaging her body, and I know she can smile for the first time in months. She had so missed her smile since the cancer had paralyzed her face, and her smile was so beautiful. I know all that.

I also know I keep looking at her blog...wishing to see a new entry. I know I saw a rock in a stream yesterday, and it looked like a heart. I almost texted her a picture. I know the package of goodies that she always sends at Christmas isn't coming this year, and I have never craved peanut brittle like I do now. Not just ANY peanut brittle either. SHARILYN'S peanut brittle.

Around 10:00 last night, I called my friend Scott and told him Sharilyn was gone. He told me he didn't know what to say. Trying not to sound like I was crying really hard, I said, "Just talk to me about anything. Tell me about your day...your plans for the weekend..."

And he did.

Then the conversation wandered....

...to his time in the military and declassified Navy stuff...and how he checks online to find out what is public so he knows what he can talk about. :-)

...then we talked about funny funeral moments--sing alongs, surf music, and songs neither of us like.

...how certain key people in his life make some navy shooters look bad.

...weddings...and how weird wedding planners can be...and how candles not being lit should be a sign to simply turn around and walk back out.

...and....

...and I'm smiling again thinking about it, thinking about the fact he had no idea what to say...and neither did I really...but by picking up the phone after 10:00 and talking even when he had to be up early...by just talking and being there...he said tons...

...And it was what I needed to hear.

A Better Answer--Part 7, The Power of Accepting Another Reality

I spent three days mostly in tears.

I made the mistake of telling someone who promptly said, "Jerri, you need to get on meds and go to a counselor. Three days of crying is not normal."

I agree. In HER world where her husband who is wonderful comes home from work, her mom lives close enough to drop by for dinner, she is successful in her career, and she thinks she has control of time it would be extremely abnormal for her to cry for three days. Anyone who has a life like hers and cries a lot would be concerning.

However, I wasn't living her life.

I was living a life that included children grieving their dad with the anger, sadness, and insomnia that includes, a family that had disintegrated, the attempt to figure out what was real in 19 years of marriage, being alone ALL THE TIME, working through an estate, and a whole slew of other things. AND I was trying to do it by myself because I was infinitely tired of the suggestion of counseling and drugs to make me happy enough for public acceptance.

In MY world, grief and all that it entails was normal. Crying on any given day over any given thing was normal. However, it did not fit into HER world, and she didn't take time to understand mine.

She never asked what made me sad. She never asked how she could help. She never offered to listen. Instead, she demanded I do whatever it took to fit back into her world and her comfort zone.

What she did not seem to realize is I had no way to fit into her comfort zone because I no longer lived in her world.

Imagine if life as you knew it were gone forever. Imagine if your routine, the key people in your life, the way you lived, the security you had, even the idea you actually controlled what would happen tomorrow or later today were gone. Imagine if your reality...was a vague memory covered in the dust of major devestation.

Imagine this with me:
...no more Lego building with Daddy
...no more father/daughter dances or dates
...the texts/emails/calls never coming again
...imagine the inside jokes...that only belong to you now
...dinner coming and the empty chair that won't be filled when Daddy gets home from his business trip
...no more date nights
...8:00 o'clock coming EVERY SINGLE NIGHT...and you watch your favorite shows...alone

Need I go on?

Insert your own imaginations. Whether it be a spouse, a child, a parent, a sibling, a best friend...the person(s) who makes your lifescape what it is.

Imagine taking that person out of the lifescape, what is left untouched?

Anything?

Now imagine people expecting you to act as though nothing has really changed.

Welcome to reality.

Do you think you would be happy? Do you think you could face each day with a smile? Do you really think you could walk in a closet where your spouse's clothes used to hang or down the hall where your child's laughter used to come through the door...and be "normal"?

Or do you think you might be angry? You might be confused? You might have questions? You might just want to go to bed and not get up? That particular songs, clothing, or days would send you tumbling into the reality that nothing can ever be "normal" again?

How do you think you would feel if someone told you not to feel that way?

How do you think you would feel if someone told you not to cry, to get over it, move on, or focus on what you have? How do you think you would feel if someone suggested the children that are still living should make you feel less loss about the one who has died? How would you feel if someone quoted scripture about not having a right to be angry, not having the right to ask questions, not having a right to be sad?

What if you had the flu and someone told you the Bible says to be joyful in all trials because trials produce all those good things, therefore, you should be joyful you have the flu? Or what if you are to give thanks in all things, so you should give thanks for being worthy to have the flu? What if someone told you to not whine about the aches or fever or vomiting that makes every muscle in your body hurt? What if they told you to get out of bed and act like all was fine because really, this is so inconvenient for everyone else? Would you think they really understood what it meant to have the flu? Would it cross your mind that if you sneezed their direction, a small case of the flu might help them understand YOUR reality?

Or would you want them to understand your misery, understand the pain, understand that in the midst of aching all over physically and mentally you feel like it is never going to get better? Would you want them to understand that you hate that this has happened to you and you might be angry or confused by how intense the suffering is?

Would you possibly just want someone to understand?

Would you want someoen to ask how you are? What you need? How they could help?

Would you want them to reply without judgment of the accuracy of your feelings, thoughts, or desires? Would you want them to simply accept your answer without tleling you how correct or appropriate for the situation it was or how you compared to other who have had a cold?

Would you want them to simply accept you as you were for that moment knowing if given time and the right care you will heal?

Here is the reality check:
Flu reality is in a whole other league from normal, everyday annoyances reality.
Loss and grief reality is a whole other world.

It is wholly unrealistic to expect people living in those worlds to act as though they were in yours.

If you want to have a relationship or want to support them,

 you have to accept them where they are, as they are.

The goal is not to help them find their way back to your reality because they can't.

It will never happen.

The goal is to help them through the grief so they can build life in theirs.

A Better Answer--Part 5, The Power of Credibility

It was WonderGirl's first time back at youth since her dad had died, and the sermon that night just happened to be about honoring fathers and their being the unquestionable head of the house. For WonderGirl, this was a double whammy. First of all, she no longer had a living father, and second, he had chosen to walk out on his family so he could "be happy". The topic of fathers was not a good one for her, and the idea of honoring a father who abandoned his family...yeah, not really.

When the pastor asked the young people to raise their hands for comments or questions, WonderGirl's hand went up. When he pointed to her, she said she thought honor was earned, and some fathers didn't earn it. The pastor told her he didn't care what the father had done. He should be honored and given authority over the house.

WonderGirl cared.

When she got to the car, she was just about beside herself. She was livid, and and she was hurt. By the time the door closed beside her, she was in tears. She unleashed the entire 30 minute drive home. I listened.

When we got home, she went to her room to work things out with God, and I posted on social media an explanation of what had occurred and asked for prayer.

One of the women took that opportunity to tell me I was coddling my daughter and allowing her to walk in anger, that I was allowing her--even encouraging her--to wallow in anger, and we needed to get over it.

As tactfully and calmly as possible, I informed this person that I didn't know how she could make a statement based on blips on a social media page, that there is a whole story she didn't know. She replied that she didn't know what was happening the rest of the time. She was only going by what she saw online, and based on that, she had given her opinion.

My point exactly.

She didn't know what was going on the rest of the time. She never called. She never emailed personally. She never texted. She never messaged. She made no effort to contact us or be part of our lives in anyway beyond the blips of the media page, but that was enough for her to make judgments--and they were judgments--about our hearts, our feelings, our thoughts, and our healing.

I deleted her from my list of friends online. Then I deleted her from my phone and my email.

And I didn't miss her .

Earlier this week I was talking to a friend about the family, and she was asking me about different aspects of life. Specifically, she asked me about the possibility of my dating or having a relationship, and we talked. It is a personal topic, and she knows it, but I also know her heart. I know it because she has walked the hard road with us. She has listened and loved through the ugliest. She has handled honesty I wouldn't put on anyone else. She has proven herself with phone calls, cards, texts, and coffee. She knows the story because she has walked it with me.

When she shared her thoughts on my lack of dating and lack of relationship, it wasn't someone tossing out a personal opinion based on her own filter. It was my heart friend looking closely at my children and me and being concerned for us.

And I listened.

And today as my mind has rolled her words over and over and sorted through thoughts and feelings that popped up while I went through boxess of family pictures and keepsakes, she is the one I texted.

When it comes to helping people on a personal level, there had better be a relationship.

If there isn't, the person will see the "concerned advice giver" as a judgmental busybody who is invading space where they are not welcome. They will not receive the person or advice as a blessing. Instead, they will reject the person and their words with a curse because the person is not speaking to them or their lives. They are simply giving their filtered opinion based on something having nothing to do with the hurting person.

Trust has not been established. Obviously there is no respect.

Honestly, it comes across as arrogance, and arrogance is never helpful.

A few months ago I served as a victim for an emergency response drill. While we were waiting for the drill to start, a female victim and I struck up conversation. While talking, the fact Rob had died came out, and she asked if I were dating anyone. No--and before I could say anything else, she informed me I shouldn't date anyone till the kids were grown, and they didn't need to lose another parent, and I owe my kids--

My palm shot out in a clear, "Stop right there," fashion.

"Excuse me, but you don't know me. You don't know my family. You obviously have no clue what you are talking about."

"Well, I just think--"

"I don't care what you think. I have no reason to care what you think. And you have no reason to think you have a right to dictate to me how to live or how to care for my kids."

You don't know.
You don't know my family.
You don't know how we live.
You don't know our story.
You don't care enough to learn it.
That means you don't care about us,
so why in the world should I care about your thoughts, feelings, or advice?

 If the best you have to offer is opinions from the cheap seats, keep your opinions to yourself. Be helpful by not being hurtful.

If you really want to help on a personal level, you have to get on the level of the person. Invest in the person. Write the texts. Send the cards. Clean the house. Buy the coffee. Listen.

Instead of saying you care, SHOW you care. Otherwise, they won't care at all.

A Better Answer--Part 4, The Power of Practical Presence

Chief Bill Waybourn of Dalworthington Gardens Public Safety Department has a great grasp on grief and healing. In all honesty, he probably has the most solid understanding of grieving of anyone I've met, including counselors.

In one of our meetings, he and I discussed the reality that most folks don't know how to interact with people who have experienced a big loss. We talked about some things people said that were hurtful, some you've-got-to-be-kidding "counsel" folks gave, and just how much damage well-meaning people could do. And he asked me, "What if someone simply said, 'I love you. I'm praying for you'?"

I answered a bit more bluntly than I intended. I said, "I don't care, and I don't want to hear it. You want me to believe you actually care? Get off your Christian butt and show me. If all you can do is tell me you care, you don't really care that much, and your words mean nothing."

He nodded. "So how do you show someone you really do care?"

Excellent question.

Helping people falls into two realms: the mental/emotional realm and the physical or practical realm.

When people think of the mental/emotional realm, they usually think about Part 3's post: encouraging others through words whether they be verbal or written, and as I said, those are precious offerings of help and kindness.

The practical realm is what typically comes to mind when people think of helping a window or a single mom...and hopefully a widower or single dad. This realm includes handyman stuff like mowing the yard, trimming trees, fixing a broken pipe, or helping with computer issues among other things.

A lot of folks simply ask: "What can I do?" And they are sincere. However, it is hard to answer that. Honestly, we don't want to bother people. We feel so utterly needy, and we don't want to wear anyone out because who knows but we'll need something later, and we don't want to use up all our free help tokens on things we can handle.

Let me tell you something most people won't confess: There are things we have the knowledge to do and we even have the tools to do or know how to rent and use the tools to do them. The ability is there. However, after someone dies, we are simply so exhausted due to the constant need to breathe, the requirement of getting out of bed, trying to remember to eat, drats!, have to feed the kids too, and simply continuing to live that we can't think about fixing that leaky pipe or even calling a plumber. Easier to let it leak. We can't put enough thoughts together to get a ladder and a saw, climb on the roof, and cut away the limbs and then have to bundle them! Good heavens! Do you have any idea what kind of focus that takes when you aren't able to sleep, aren't eating well, and are simply trying to get through the day while convincing yourself there will come a day when it won't be this hard?!

The honest fact is sometimes we need someone to take care of us.

We need someone to step in and say, "Let me think this through for you. Let me go to the hardware store. Let me find the phone numbers. Let me set up your computer. Let me...take something off your plate so you can have a break."

I had no idea how exhausting it was to go on living after a spouse died until I was the one left living. Anyone who took anything so I didn't have to deal with it...or deal with it alone...was an angel of God in my eyes.

The list of possible ways to help is infinite, but let me share some things that blessed me deep.

Friends came over and trimmed the trees from my roof, fixed the drywall in the kids' bathroom, and spent time just listening to me talk.

Two different friends have helped me with computers. One researched Wonder Girl's computer, went with me to buy it, and then set it up for her. While we weren't home, he snuck in (with a key) and had it waiting for her when she got home from her birthday lunch. Another friend has worked on our computers, helped copy things over, taught me some basic things that I had never had to do before, and did troubleshooting over the phone to keep me from taking computers to the shop for help.

Friends of ours recently brought us dinner at the hospital while Wonder Girl sat in the ER waiting for the declaration of appendicitus over stomach virus. Another brought me my computer and charger as well as my phone charger, and he drove over again the next afternoon in rush hour traffic because WonderGirl could not get into my tall vehicle after surgery, but she could get in and out of his car just fine.

My cousin took the kids Christmas shopping for me last year.

Someone else replaced my handles in my shower to stop the annoying leak.

We received two full weeks of meals, and on the fourteenth day, the coordinator, brought a freezer full of meals for us to keep for when we needed them.

One of the biggest "small things" we received were gift cards. These still leave me...stunned?...overwhelmed?...so humbled. We received over $600 in restaurant gift cards. Easily half of that from people we didn't know. Some of the cards came in our mail with notes simply saying, "You are in my prayers." No name. No return address. Just dripping love and concern from people who had heard our story and wanted to do something...anything...to help. And no words will ever convey just how much their kindness did help.

I am sure if I held this post up a couple of days, I would think of even more people, and I mean no disrespect to anyone I did not include. On the contrary, I still thank God in Heaven for every one of those people and how they blessed us.

It is easy to tell someone you love them, that you are praying for them, that you trust God to take care of them. It is a wholly different thing to be God in the flesh...to be the answer to a prayer.

A Better Answer--Part 3, The Power of a Kind Word

In A Better Answer--Part 1, The Power of Embracing Pain, I addressed a friend's question on how to help people who are hurting, who have suffered great loss, or who have endured trauma. I presented the simple truth: you will never be able to help someone through their pain unless you are willing to get right into the pain with them. To get through the healing, you have to start in the pain.

In A Better Answer--Part 2, The Power of a Wordless Presence, I said sometimes it is impossible to find something to say to someone who is hurting because there simply is nothing to say. It is then that one loves by simply listening.

But as I said in part 2, if all we are is silent, we send a message loud and clear, and it isn't what we really want to say. Silence echoes with abandonment, which is the exact opposite of what we are trying to communicate.

So what do we say? How do we find words when we know there aren't any?

Well, I can tell you some things that helped us.

I know it may seem impersonal, but emails, cards, and texts were God-sends. Even now, I remain amazed at the perfect timing, the perfect words, the perfect...perfectness of these precious messages.

Some people sent verses. Some people simply said they loved us. Some were honest and said, "I don't know what to say, but you are on my mind daily, and I keep you in my prayers."

Even when I was most angry and fighting it out with God, those words were gold. I kept every one of those cards. I would print out the emails and put them in my journal to read and reread and read again.

They are priceless.

Sometimes I read a verse or that someone was praying for us, and I didn't like it because God and I were working through things, but I knew one day I would read them and thank God. I knew the anger and fighting were part of the journey and eventually, we'd be--I would be--fine.

Some people wrote me memories of Rob, and I treasure those. I cried when I received them, but I've read them since. Cried some. Laughed a lot. Thanked God profusely.

And I keep thinking what courage it took to write those words, to write any words.

You know, it is perfectly valid to simply say, "I don't know what to say."

People would say that, and I would say, "I know. Me either." And I didn't. I knew these people were in shock. I knew they had lost a friend. I knew they were hurting too either with us or for us, and I had no idea what to tell them either.

People would say they were sorry, and I knew they were.

I've read the words, "I want to say something, but I have no idea what to say. Just know you're in my heart." Perfect.

Now, let's say you can't hide behind a computer or a phone. Then what?

First of all, I know you are afraid of saying the wrong thing. You are afraid of making someone angry or making them cry or...sticking your foot in your mouth huge.

I will tell you what I told a friend of mine who was finding her way through loss. I said:

"I'm going to say the wrong thing.
I'm going to make jokes when I shouldn't.
I'm going to be depressing when you need me to be funny.
I'm going to say the right thing, and you are going to cry anyway, and sometimes I'm going to cry with you.
I may simply sit and stare at you, not because I think you are crazy but because I think my words are useless.
I'm going to do something right one day, and it'll be wrong the next day, and you will scream at me and rage at me and wonder why you bother trying to talk to me.
Then suddenly your anger will be spent, you'll apologize...or not.
There will be times you thank God for me, and times when you tell Him what a lousy friend I am.
There will be times I miss the clue that you need me here. There are times I'll show up, and you'll wish I would really go away.
In all of it, I'm still with you."

And THAT is what you need to say, in whatever words you find. You need to say that you know this is the rollercoaster from hell, but you are in anyway.

I don't know what those words are. I can't give you exact answers to every situation. What I would tell you is don't react to the words. Respond to the heart.

Words are just words.

The heart is the fragile treasure.

I know. This did not give the definitive answers we would all like. As I've said, I've walked through some hard stuff, and I have learned a horrible unfair truth: Just because I understand pain doesn't mean I always know how to alleviate it, but I know how to stand there. I know how to apologize for missing it even when I had the best of intentions, and I know how to laugh at jokes that seem morbid to anyone who has not walked this road. I know how to hand kleenexes, listen to stories, keep my eyes dry in their presence and sob to God on their behalf in my bedroom. I know the courage it takes to ride the rollercoaster no matter what it looks like in any given moment on any given day...because even though the rollercoaster changes with breathtaking speed, only a coward walks out on a friend who is raging in their pain.

If they are courageous to get through, I'm courageous enough to walk through with them.

And the whole time I'm in it with them, I'm seeking and praying for words and ways to tell them one simple thing:
I know you are in your own personal hell, but I love you, and as hard as this is, I'm still in.

In the Middle of the Holidays

I've spent the day writing posts about grief and how to help others who are hurting, but I'm wondering, how are you?

How are you doing this holiday season?

Was Thanksgiving okay? Did you make it through alright?

I'm being serious. I know Thanksgiving can be...whew. Those empty chairs or broken traditions or the wrong person making the dressing. They can be...almost too much.

Shoot. Sometimes they can be too much. Last year was the first year without Mom and Rob. Before that, my family came here, and we had to add chairs to the table, and it was loud, and...I couldn't stand the thought of having no one here last year, so we didn't. The kids and I volunteered to serve dinner to folks who had no place to go.

Sometimes the past echoes too loud for the present to be bearable. When that happens, it's okay to say, "I can't do this." It is okay to change the tradition to do something new. To find a place to breathe.

In case no one has told you...
Don't be afraid to find your own place to breathe.

And what about those of you who have a few holidays under your belt? How is for you this year? Is it better? Harder?

The first holidays without Mom stung, but there was so much other trauma going on that my emotional and mental processes didn't really get clicking about Mom not being there until the second year. I was shocked at the difficulty of last year. Wow. I missed my mom.

And it was harder in some ways because it was the SECOND holidays, and we all know the worst ones are the first ones, right? After that, it should be SO much easier.

If only.

Sometimes the numb is still there the first year and the second year slams you like a tsunami.

I found it shocking, which was hard, but it was harder because I didn't want to say anything to anybody because I'd already heard enough of the "you should be over it" stuff. I didn't need more of that, so I mostly stayed quiet. Not sure that was the best answer, though.

How about you? Has that happened to you? Is it happening to you? If so, who are you missing? Want to tell me about them? About the pain? About the missing?

What about right now? Today? How are you?

Are you looking ahead a few weeks and trying to figure out how to get through that day that you are just sure is going to bury you? Or wondering how to get through better than last year? Or maybe you are like us and are actually very excited about the holidays this year. Feels good, doesn't it?

And for those who are wondering if you'll ever get to a place that actually feels exciting or happy or joyous again, if you keep walking through the grief, you will. It may not be next year, and it may not be the second year, but you will get there. I wondered if we'd get there because it felt like we'd never get out of the shadow of pain, but I can tell you we are joyful, and we are excited, and we really do anticipate good things. I know it sounds cliche', but time does help.

Or are you just trying to figure out how to get shopping done for the ones still here but aren't staying? And for some of you, the loss is so recent...the gifts have already been bought...and you can't take them back and you can't keep them and...Dear God in Heaven, what do you do? I don't know, but I cry for you, and I pray for you, and I ask Him to give you strength for today, for tomorrow, for this holiday and the ones to come.

You know, people might tell you that you need to do this or that, keep this or that tradition, whatever. They are afraid you're going to get stuck in misery and never celebrate again, but I think sometimes a year off is okay. I think sometiems it gives you a chance to focus your energies on healing. Sometimes it is good to let others take over and cover you. Sometimes it is good to just let the day go by without anything. Only you know what you are up to. Don't be guilted into anything, and don't feel like a failure if you just decide you can't do this.

 

Sometimes healing is enough to do.

The big deal is making it through this.

Sometimes, just getting through the holidays may feel bigger than you. When that happens, step out of something or step into something you need that feeds you in some other way.

For us, we stepped out of the family dinner at home and stepped into helping someone else. It was a good diversion. Friends invited us to join them, but really, we just needed to be us that day, and we were. If you need to just be you, give yourself permission to do that.

Really, the big deal is to get through okay. There is no right way or wrong way--okay, lots of booze or gratuitous sex is not a right way to handle things. But hopefully, you get understand what I'm trying to say.

Be kind to yourself.
Give yourself room to heal.
Give yourself room to grief.

It's okay to cry.
It's okay to be angry.
It's okay to hold those homemade ornaments and cry so hard your body aches.
It's okay to stay in bed a day or two. I know people will tell you not to do that, but I've talked to a lot of folks who have found a day or two in bed didn't end the world. There is something about just giving yourself a day to let the hurt work through, to let the missing wash out, to be empty...and not need to be anything else. It really is okay. Just don't stay there. :-)

And I give you my word, it does get easier. It isn't perfect, but it is easier, and I know you can get there. I know this year may seem like it'll bury you, but I believe you can make it. I'm praying for you. Don't give up. Keep going. Even if still going means going to bed for a day. :-)

In the meantime, I'm really wondering--how are you doing?

**If you would like me to pray for you by name, leave a comment with your name in it. If you don't want it published, just let me know, "Jer, I'd like the prayer, but I'd like it private." Or if you don't want to give me your name, that is fine, too. Just drop a line saying, "Pray for me." I will. The road this time of year can be mighty hard when you are walking it alone. I'm with you in Him. Blessings.

A Better Answer--Part 2, The Power of Wordless Presence

In my last post A Better Answer--Part 1, The Power of Embracing Pain, I stated to help someone you have to be willing to accept pain and not be afraid of it or the parts of life that cause it. Most people, though, want to know specifically what to say because words are the silliest things. We mean to say one thing, and it sounds good in our head, but when it comes out, it comes out totally not what we meant, and we hurt people, so it's easier to just be quiet, but that says something else we don't want to say, and...Jerri, can you give some kind of help here?

I think so.

The first thing I would tell you is sometimes you can't think of what to say because there is nothing to say.

It is my experience what trips people up is the desire or need to "help", but the way you want to help may simply not be possible.

We don't like people to hurt. We don't like people unhappy. We don't like people to be angry. We don't like "negative" emotions. We want to fix them. We want to get the hurting person to a non-hurting place.

That is our definition of "help":
Getting the hurting person to a non-hurting place.

As noble as that sounds, you're not going to do it. You just aren't.

What you can do is step into the hurting place with the person.

How do you do that with your words?

Honestly, sometimes you do it by just being quiet,
by realizing nothing you say is going to help,
so you just listen.

Believe it or not, people who do not talk about trauma get stuck in it. A certain amount of talking and processing is required for healing to happen. One of the best gifts you can give a person is to let him or her talk. Let them tell the story over and over. I had a lot of people tell me not to think about it. Do you have any idea how utterly stupid that suggestion is? I watched my mom take her last breath. I stared at my husband's dead body on an ER table, and I'm not supposed to think about those things? Others can't get soap opera story lines or the crazy high electric bill out of their mind, and that is normal, but thinking about the deaths of two key people in my life is not?

Let the person talk about memories. Let them talk about what happened. Let them talk about plans they had and don't know how to face now.

Multiple people told me I needed a counselor and antidepressants.

First of all, I was not depressed. I was grieving. HUGE difference.

Second of all, if I had a friend who would listen and let me work through the emotions and mental jumble, I wouldn't need a counselor. Sadly, most people don't know how to be that kind of friend. Understand, I say that as someone who has gone through some intense trauma and still struggle to know how to help hurting friends. So mostly, I just try to tell them I love them and am listening.

And when I am listening, I don't flinch at whatever they say. In fact, I may toss some things in they wanted to say but were trying to being politically correct about.

Rage doesn't shock me. Four-letter words don't shock me.

One of my very good friends who walked shoulder to shoulder with the kids and me through this is a pastor. I've known him over 20 years, and one day I vented. I think I may have used every four-letter word I know and made up new new combinations to boot. You know that man never said a word about my language. He told me he could not imagine the pain I am, could not imagine trying to pick up the pieces, could not imagine the pain of friends turned traitors, could not imagine how hard it is to be a single parent watching her children grieve for their dad. He told me he had no clue what to say to help, but he was still there.

And you know what I did? I kept talking to him and his wife. When life was the worst--when I was MY worst--I knew I could be real with them.

They gave me the gift of ignoring my word choices...

and hearing my heart.

When someone is hurting, the last thing they need is the pressure of a dog and pony show for people who know how to be religious but haven't the foggiest clue to how to be loving.

There is a reason people quit talking. It's because they learn people don't want to hear what they have to say. Whether it be brutal honesty or just telling about that last day together once more, they learn people don't want to hear it, so they don't say it. That is where they get stuck. That is where the healing slows...or stops. That is where they try desperately to be "normal" for everyone...where they look for drugs of whatever form to make them acceptable because being real only keeps them alone. And it is easier to medicate and be "acceptable" with people than it is to be real and work through the grief alone.

If you want really help, listen. Even when it is so real you don't know what to do with it. Unless you believe the person is going to hurt herself or others, just listen.

Listen to the heart of someone who is trying to figure out a new way of living. There is no "getting back to normal". Normal included a person who isn't coming home. Normal is gone. This person is trying to figure out how to live differently. They are figuring out a different number of people at the dinner table, a new schedule, what to do with the favorite sweater of someone they love. And it's hard.

For me, I found I really had a hard time with Sunday evenings. It took some time and a few emails to friends before I realized what it was. For years, every Sunday night I watched my favorite TV show, drank a glass of chocolate milk, munched on almonds, and ironed my husband's clothes. Then I no longer needed to iron clothes. I hated Sunday evenings for a long time.

And, just so you know, people are going to cry. One of the greatest gifts you can give someone is to sit on the other end of the phone and listen while they sob beyond the ability to even talk. You may think you aren't helping, but you are. Trust me. Sitting on your bedroom floor sobbing alone in the dark is mental and emotional hell. I thank God for the people who simply held the phone to their ear and listened to me cry and talk unintelligibly.

I've also been on the listening side. I've been on the other side of the table as one of my heart deep friends asked me, "Why? What is God doing?" and put her head on the table and shook with sobs. Everything in me wanted to say something...anything...to help...except I've been the one with my head down. I've been the one whose tears made a puddle on the table...and on the floor...and I knew. There was nothing I could say that could touch her pain. There were no words. So I sat right where I was...listening...knowing part of living in this world is pain unspeakable...and the only antecdote is someone loving in the pain.

Sometimes we have no words because there are no words. But sometimes just being there, listening, not trying to fix anything but loving right where that person hurts says everything they need to hear.