Strength For The Journey

I haven't written specifically about grief for a while. It tends to come and to go, sometimes like a small nagging reminder, sometimes like a huge flood of pain. Truth be told it never goes away. We learn, day-after-day, to live with it. In that process we rebuild a new life.

Granted, it's never quite the same, because we evolve along with our grief. As we change, so does our grief. They say the first year you are mostly numb. As you get further down the road, you wish you could go back to the numb. In the middle of the numb you just do the best you can with whatever brain power you have to work with. Then they tell you the second year is harder than the first. So much for any hope of a reprieve. I'm well into the third year and find it's taking some hard jabs at me.

I still struggle with the stigma of being a survivor of suicide loss. I still try to wrap my head around the reality of it. I still lay in bed and wonder how can this be, how did this happen, what could have been done differently. I still find myself both visible because of it and invisible because of it. People sometimes don't hesitate to tell me of other suicidal tragedies, and sometimes I don't have the strength to carry that additional pain. 

I also know, that having chosen to speak of the journey, people expect a certain strength from me, a dedication to the process, a life mission of sorts. It's there,  some days I can carry the load and articulate it. Other times the tears force me to hunker down, to feel and release the pain. Both the strong days and the grieving days serve a purpose. 

This I know. We all grieve losses at some point in life. They come in a million ways, shapes and forms. Some come early in life, some mid-way through, some late in life. They come in the shapes of illnesses, pandemics, divorces, job losses, and other tragedies of the heart. When they do, know you are not alone. Know the tears are part of the healing no matter how wretched they feel. Know that it's okay to not be okay. Know that asking for help is a good thing, a smart thing, an important thing. 

Then remember we only have to do this one day at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time. There is grace in taking it bit-by-bit, moment-by-moment. Growth, like grieving and healing, is a slow process. So cry when you need to, surrender to the process, have faith in the outcome. We'll get through this, trust me on this. 

Holy Thursday, Holy Each And Every Day

If only we remembered to find the Holy in every Thursday, not just on Holy Thursday. There is a lot more holy going on than we take notice of, give honor to, give thanks for.

There is holy in the joy of an new baby. There is holy in the mundane chores that keep our household going. There is holy in the grief that changes our life and the person we are. There is holy in those who serve the sick, who minister to the faithful, who teach our children, who repair our cars, who sack our groceries. There is holy in the farmer who tends the fields, and the garbage man who takes our trash and the chef who feeds the hungry. Holy surrounds us. 

I know, right now, holy can feel far away. We're challenged, struggling, and lonely for the life we used to know. People we love are staying away in the name of safety, people are sick and dying. People have lost jobs. We're shaky at best, we're afraid.

And...we are holy. We have the capacity to give of ourselves even in the midst of these losses. Everything feels impossible and we long for what used to be our reality. Here is the deal, every loss holds the opportunity for growth. Growth of the holy, growth of strength, growth of our hearts. What is growth you might ask? It is when our shells crack, light is let in, and let out. The cracking part hurts, oh so much. It's hard, sometimes lonely, often overwhelming and always holy. 

Whatever is cracking your heart now, know that light and love will somehow accompany it. Even if it is not evident at this moment. It will come. So if you need to cry in the process, cry. If you need to rest before you go on, rest. If you need to wail, then wail. All of this is holy. All of this. 

Sometimes I Wish...

Sometimes I just wish I could go back. Back to life before grief, back to life before being a widow. Back to life before moving, back to life before pandemics shook the world. I'd like to go back and have more days with my dogs Mickey, Mr. Hanky, and Hobbs. I'd like to go back to when my kids were little and held my hand while crossing the street. Back to when the hard choices were what to have for bed time snacks and which book to read them. Because some days it just all feels so hard. I feel like I've given up everything, and yet, I know it's not true. I have gone through a lot, lost a lot, made lots of changes. With that comes feelings which are intense and overwhelming. Luckily they are also fluid and transitional.

This is a hard time in life. Uncharted, with no clear end in sight. And...I am, we are shaken by it, emotional because of it. So naturally, I look back some. Because I know what that looks like. Even when it is full of longing, full of pain. It's hard to know, at this time in life, what to look forward to. The struggle is real, and we have to accept that it is. 

It's okay to be exceptionally weepy. I, known for being a world class weeper, find myself in tears daily. It's okay, it's just where I am in life. I find myself worrying more. Do I need to? No, I know there is a larger plan in motion. I know I will be blessed beyond measure. Yet, in this time, I worry because I am human. This season in our lives is full of human moments.

You may find you can't sleep, or can't eat. Or can't stop eating. You comb the news for information, and are appalled when you find it. Or you stay away from all the news because it is just too overwhelming. You may pray unceasingly, or struggle in finding comfort in prayer. 

I look back because, compared to now, those were simpler times. We need some simple in these complex days. We need faith more than ever, we need hope in both tiny doses and in large increments. We need to trust that this is temporary.

So I tend the grief, of both the past and the present like I would nurture a small child. With tender arms to hold her, with acceptance that whatever she feels is valid and needs some light to heal it. With a gentle hug, and an I love you no matter what. A soft blanket of love to curl up in and a reminder it won't always feel this way. Be kind to yourself, we're going through a hard time. It's okay to not be okay...and this too shall pass.

Messy Is Okay, I'm Okay, This Won't Last Forever

How are you feeling these days? Scared, exhausted, uncertain, a bit lost? Okay, perhaps a whole lot lost. Are you feeling out of control, or afraid of the future? Do you feel alone? Is it an alone, alone? As in no one cares? Or is it an okay alone? There are many kinds, you know.

I'll admit to feeling all of the above. The worries of the world feel ginormous right now. Rightly so. So the question is this, how and where do we find some comfort in the chaos?

Jump in with the answers, because I do not know for sure. My guess is, though, that we/I/you/me may find some comfort in the very small things that grace our lives. If we dig deep enough we can find the blessings, the grace, the poignant moments that bring tears to our eyes and confirm the best life has to offer. 

It may be be the gentle snoring of an old dog taking up most the space on the sofa. Snoring never sounded so good before. It may be that life has slowed us down to the point we are eating meals every day with our family. It may be that flowers seem to take on new beauty because everything else seems so dark in comparison. It may be the giggles of children playing. It may be leaving care packages on the porch of a friend. It may be asking every day what are the wins of your day, what are the worries. Then sharing them, because sharing increases the blessings and divides the burdens. 

It may be digging deeper into your faith, knowing, and remembering that God is holding you. It may be releasing the need to have it all together and embracing that life is messy, we are messy and that is completely okay. 

Maybe this is the key, messy is okay, I'm okay, God is holding me, this won't last forever. I, for one, forget that this (what ever this you are dealing with) is not forever. And...in the mean time, I am here for you. Because, life is made up of a multitude of things, messy things, brilliant things, sacred things, even scary things, that create the whole. When looking at the whole is overwhelming, look for the little things. There is grace in narrowing our focus. So I remind myself, again and again...messy is okay, I'm okay, God is holding me, this won't last forever. Trust me, it won't.

You are not alone.

Turmoil, uncertainty, fear, stress. Faith, patience, trust, blessings. 

What I've learned from the last 2 1/2 years of adjusting to life after trauma is this. Do the next right thing. It's not going to be easy some of the time. Other times it will be easier than you think.

You are not alone. Ever. If you are it's a personal choice. Personally, I'd say choose being connected. Even in this time of great disconnect for health reasons. Choose to reach out, choose to ask how someone is doing. Find the small wins, own the struggles, and share them both. 

I do not have all the answers, but I do have faith. I've cried way more than I've laughed recently, but I believe in laughter. I know it's part of who I am, and it will return as surely as flowers in the spring. 

I've made huge changes in my life recently. Dang, they have been hard. All of life is temporary I've learned. Temporarily fabulous, temporarily hard, temporarily funny, temporarily heartbreaking, temporarily heart warming. It is a mix of them all, each day offering a different view. Some views last longer than others. Find the grace in all of them. 

Count the blessings. Now, I'm not known for my mathematical ability, but my blessings far exceed my ability to count them. I'm not saying that because I suck at counting. I'm saying it because it's true.

It's the little things, really it is. Trust me on this one. We get lost in the big picture, frightened by it. Overwhelmed by it. Take a deep breath and embrace the little things. We'll get through this. Yes, we'll come out different. We'll have losses, but we'll have huge growth spurts too. Slow down. Find your faith, know you are loved. Know you are not alone. 

This Is For You

This is for you...the you barely getting by. The you, wondering when the tide will turn. The you, wondering where you lost your joy and when you will find it. The you who wonders if you will always feel battered and broken.

This is also for you, who got the good news you were waiting for. The you, who achieved that goal. The you, who found your way through the darkness into the light. The you, who was blessed beyond measure.

This is for the you in the middle of new adventures full of light and love. This is for the you in the middle of new adventures that feel tumultuous at best, and horrifying at worst. This is for the you celebrating milestones and living the dream. This is for the you that is finding joy in the moment.

This is for the you that is grieving. For those rebuilding the very foundation of their life, piece by piece. Praying that each of those pieces finally bring some peace.

This is for the very young you, and the very old you. The you that is learning, the you struggling to learn. This is for the you who is waiting. Patiently, or not so patiently in times of great uncertainty. This is for the you who is lonely, and trying to find some bit of contentment in that time alone.

This is for the you who laughs. The you who cries. The you who does both in succession.

This is for the you who's roots of faith run deep, and the you who is just setting down those roots. This is for the belief it takes in either of those situations.

This is for the you who is a mixed up, confused, combination of all the above. We are all the messed up, and the messenger, depending on the day or the situation.

All of this is you (and me), the awesome and the imperfect, the broken, the healing. It is both the gift and the grace. This is for you.

Hard Things, Great Grace

You learn way more from the hard things. I can't tell you how much I want to add that sentence. To refine it, to define it, to expand upon it, heck even to soften that reality. But truthfully...those eight words say it all.

Here is what I've learned. Loving deeply is what we are called to do. Loving deeply hurts some of the time. Life, and love, will bring times of loss. Loss changes the essence of us. Perhaps not a bad thing. But it's definitely an excruciating process. I wouldn't wish the tragic loss I've experienced on anyone. And...I will admit to envying those whose loss came in other ways.

A dear friend of mine told me recently that I suck at asking for help. I was not offended. I looked at myself, and said "self she'd be right". Asking for help taps into our vulnerability. Who wants to feel vulnerable? That's one of those feelings that makes us all squirm. So I've been pondering why I struggle with asking for help. Nothing feels safe after a tragic loss, so asking for anything feels like risky business. I/we try to stay the course, to not rock the boat, to get by, to make due. We want to keep things in "control" even when we know nothing is in control. Can you sense the irony there? Isolation, which I find to be one of the hardest things to deal with as a survivor of suicide loss, is not at all what the good Lord, and our friends want for us. They want us to lean in to their strength. They want to be there for us. They can be, if we let them.

Letting them in is the hard part. First there is that whole control/no control issue. Then we often don't know what we need. It is hard to let someone in to what we ourselves can't define or understand. Some are quick to judge, so we know we need to keep our distance. Stigma keeps others away. Some walk our path and challenge us to keep moving forward. Some even tell us what we suck at, in the most loving possible way. Some remind us (daily!) that we can do hard things. We can, we do, and we learn the most from them. Therein lies the grace.