Good Grief

Today I share my blog once again with Jessica ~ one of my

traveling buddies

.

My traveling buddies are friends and family who find themselves on a similar path . . . a journey with no up-grades, many road closures and a heavy burden of grief. We are members of what I call, The Bereaved Mothers Club.Membership is weighty: placing a precious child in the arms of God.

Jessica, and her husband Travis, lost

Kade

, their sweet two-month-old son to SIDS in the fall of 2007. Kade's birth and death dates are coming soon. Jessica knows she is entering a season of grief. She shares with honesty about how moving toward her pain has brought healing along her journey.

It's Good for Me ~ by Jessica

We went to the dairy together last night to take a ride on the new

mule

. (No, not an

actual

mule; it's a cross between a golf cart and four wheeler.) The girls rode in front with Travis, and Brody and I rode in the back. It was a fun little outing and the cool evening breeze was refreshing.

We always love being at the dairy as a family and I know it means a lot to Travis that we are enjoying it. He especially loves it that Macey can carry on an actual conversation about the dairy. Tonight Travis told Macey that a calf had been born and it was a girl. To which she replied, "Oh, it was a girl? Don't you mean a heifer?" Travis darted a surprised and proud look in her direction and put up his hand to offer her a high five. It was a proud moment for both of them.

As we made our way around the dairy, we came to the maternity barn to see the calves that had been born just hours earlier. In the first pen lay two heifer calves. Their mama was leaning over their lifeless bodies, lovingly licking their bodies clean. My mind started racing as Travis explained that they were stillborn.

Why did you just leave them there?

I asked. I felt annoyed and a little angry. I felt protective for the mama cow, and didn't want her to have to stand there unable to revive her babies. I didn't understand why Travis didn't hurry and take the calves out to keep the mama from knowing that they hadn't survived. My eyes began to burn.

It's good for her

, he explained in a compassionate tone.

I began to feel emotional as I tried to understand. How could that possibly be good for her? It's just plain mean. But as I thought about it more, the Lord began to remind me of some precious truths that he's revealed to me.

Kade’s season is upon us, and my heart and mind are in full processing mode. I have had a busy few months; working through my feelings and grief has been put on the back burner. They are always there but just a little tucked away. I have moments of my own, usually in the late evenings during Brody's last feeding. My mind often wanders to what life would be like if Kade were here and how although our home is full of life and busy little bodies, it can somehow manage to feel a little lonely and not quite noisy enough. My days are full and I sometimes feel unable to handle it all. But how I wish I had a 3 year old little boy running around adding to the chaos. I miss him so much I ache inside.

After our ride at the dairy, I couldn't stop thinking about those words.

It's good for her.

My mind went to all of my sweet friends, near and far, who have had to give a child back to the Lord. Some I know well and some I may not meet until glory. I thought of their experiences and how the Lord has made the process good for them.

I thought of my own experience ~ finding Kade's lifeless body; the car ride to the emergency room; the look on all of the doctors and nurses as they left the room after being unable to save Kade; the coroner driving away with his body; the loved ones who came to love and serve us; planning a funeral; picking out a casket and burial plot, and many other memories that have become fuzzy with time. That process was horrific. I remember feeling like I was in the middle of one of those nightmares where no matter how hard you try you can't wake yourself up. I've been living this nightmare for three years now, and I've learned that although the process is often brutal, it is vital.

Those days that I spent preparing to bury Kade played a huge part in my healing. I took time to celebrate his life, to honor the Lord and acknowledge that although His plans were proving to be far different than my own, I was going to follow Him. I took the time to care for Kade on this earth in any way I could. I picked out burial clothes, decorations for his service, flowers for his casket, and my mom and I even cleaned the room at the funeral home where his viewing would be. I was intentional about feeling it all, facing my heartache head on so that I could begin healing in a healthy way. I didn't want to ignore anything only to uncover it years later after it had festered and become rotten bitterness in my heart. All of that

was good for me

.

That mama cow was spending time with her babies ~ smelling them, licking them, and in her own way loving them, and in those things, finding healing. She was getting a chance to care for her babies even after they were no longer living. This process would make it possible for her to live a full life, give birth to more calves and produce quality milk. She would be able to serve her purpose on this earth more fully by going through the process. Isn't it incredible that the Lord created that process for animals too?

Amazing

.

As I near this season for the third time, I am amazed at how the Lord has been so faithful. I can hardly believe that Kade would be 3 . . . 3!

Crazy

. I feel like this is the first time that I am actually looking forward to the process. I don't feel afraid of it or unsure of how to handle it. I'm not wondering if I'll survive or be unable to function. Allowing myself to go through the process has given me the chance to fulfill God's purposes for my life. I have not been hindered by my grief, rather I have allowed the Lord to use my grief to comfort others with the comfort I have received. Although each year has been different, I have learned to be confident in the Lord's perfect plan for the process and that celebrating my precious son is joyful, painful, emotional, healing and,

it's

good for me

.

To read more of Jessica's journey, you may visit her blog,

Seeking His Face

.

A Healing Place

It’s Mother’s Day, and it has been an emotional day.

Grief is an unpredictable companion along life's journey.

We had a lovely day together as a family. The guys and the grandchildren fixed a scrumptious dinner for us, and we finished off the day with fresh strawberry shortcake.  But even as I celebrated with my daughter, Amy and her sweet family, I found myself thinking about how many

should

be sitting around our family's table. I wondered what this day would be like if Scott had not died. Especially today, I found myself longing to feel his hug one.more.time.

Yet, with this burden of grief, my heart finds comfort tonight in the imagery of Psalm 85:10.  There the psalmist speaks of a healing place where

“Mercy and Truth have met each other: Justice and Peace have kissed.”

Each element ~

truth, justice, mercy, and peace

~ brings perspective and potential for experiencing peace with loss.

For those who grieve,

Truth

is about

what

to remember and

how

to remember. Truth casts her eyes toward the past, remembers the way it was before the loss, and underscores the value of treasuring my relationship with Scott.

Justice

is about what can be done

now

to restore wholeness in my life and renew the relationship that has been forever changed by death. Justice looks at the present and recognizes the full weight of grief. I am so thankful the psalmist did not stop with Truth and Justice, but included Mercy and Peace.

For

Mercy

and

Peace

look to the

future

and help me consider ~

How can I live without Scott in my life?

How can I transform my relationship with Scott from one of presence to one of memory?

Yes,

Mercy

and

Peace

gaze toward the future and what life

can

and

will be like

as a result of this loss.

I love the way John Paul Lederach writes about this imagery in his book,

The Journey Toward Reconciliation

~

For Truth without Mercy is blinding and raw; Mercy without Truth is a cover-up and superficial. Justice without Peace falls easily into cycles of bitterness and revenge; Peace without Justice is short-lived and benefits only the privileged or the victors.

As another Mother's Day comes to a close, I recognize that along my journey of grief some days will be harder than others. Some days will scream for

Truth

and

Justice

. I am also aware that there is a healing place where the reality of my loss is embraced by

Mercy

and transformed by

Peace

.

And for that, I am ever so grateful.

Sunday's Coming

I think it was

Tony Campolo

who first coined the phrase,

It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!

Those five words truly capture the

contrasts

of this Easter season. Holy Week begins on Palm Sunday with Jesus exalted as he rides through Jerusalem only to find his body buried in a tomb on Holy Saturday.

And in between, Mary watches her son beaten and scorned, nailed to a cross.

Jesus sees his mother's grief from the cross and speaks to her loss ~

“Woman, behold, your son!" Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home.

~ John 19:26, 27

It's Friday, but Sunday's coming

!

Mary and the others who find the tomb empty and realizes the fulfillment of Scripture and the hope of resurrection.

It's Friday, but Sunday's coming

truly resonates with my soul.  As a mother who has laid her

son

in the arms of God, I have known

Friday.

  I grieve the loss of a child almost daily in my thoughts of

what.could.have.been

.

Yes, life in His Kingdom is full of contrasts.

Those who mourn are comforted.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.~ Matthew 5:4

Those who grieve have hope.

Dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died.~ 1 Thessalonians 4:13, 14

Those who die in Christ are truly alive.

For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened—not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.~ 2 Corinthians 5:4

Many of us have known

Friday

and we long for

Sunday

.

One of our local pastor's truly captured the heartache of Holy Saturday and the hope of Easter ~

Holy Saturday is really like the world we live in ~ it's the in-between day . . . We believe in the Resurrection and we know it is coming, but we patiently wait as we grieve, knowing His promise will be fulfilled. ~ Pastor Gregory Beaumont

Jesus said ~

I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.~ John 16:33

This life is full of

Fridays

but do not lose heart because

Sunday's coming!

Painting:

Jesus Taken Down From the Cross

, Michael O'Brien

Where The Rhythm Seems Lost

Thirty days hath September,

April, June and November.

All the rest have thirty-one

but February's the shortest one.

With 28 days most of the time,

until Leap year gives us twenty-nine.

I am not sure when I actually learned this short poem from my mother. I just remember knowing it most of my life. And I have used it in many ways over the years ~ to know the date to write on checks, to plan vacations, to find the 100th Day of School in my classroom, and to help my students learn the number of days in each month.

I remember thinking as a child ~ the first three lines have an arranged pattern of rhythm, a sense of completeness and  predictability of what sounds come next.

Thirty days hath September,

April, June and November.

All the rest of thirty-one.

These three lines were the easiest to memorize.  But the remaining three lines have always stumped me.  The rhythm of the poem seems to change in those last three lines. The words seem crowded.

Little did I know what a word picture this poem was to become for my life.

My February, as with the pulse of this childhood poem, is marked with syncopation rather than a predictable beat. The rhythm of its days has been modified and my focus is drawn to weaker sounds.

They are the sounds of mourning and groaning and loss.

For February, in its short twenty-eight days, marks the sudden death of my son, Scott, as well as the death of both my mother and father.

So, as each February comes around ~ like struggling to make the words of the poem conform to the rhythm of each line ~ I slow down and consider how best to experience the full weight of these losses and redeem the days to come.

I spend time in my

storehouse of memories

. I grieve

what could have been

. I give thanks that this

one

short month is

not

like the rest of the year. I rejoice in the

hope and promise

of a

blessed reunion

with my loved ones.

Happy Birthday, Scott

Tomorrow ~

November 23rd

~ is Scott’s birthday. He would be 30 years old.

To be perfectly honest, while I rest in the assurance of where he

is

, I wrestle with the reality that he

is not here

.

Tonight, my heart cries out for Scott to be present in our lives. My ears long to hear his voice. My arms ache to hug him.

I struggle to envision what he might look like, all grown up. I can only see him as he was ~ a fair-haired, freckle-faced teenager . . . with a contagious laugh and smile! I remember one of the first things our grief counselor told us in those early days after Scott’s accident ~

You will forever be the parents of sixteen year old boy.

I did not understand it then, but I know it all too well now.

I have been on this journey of grief long enough to know that I really cannot fight the emotions, or bury the sorrows. So today, I surrendered to my grief. I allowed the tears to come to the surface. What deep wisdom is contained in Jesus’ words in Matthew 5 ~

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

In anticipation of Scott’s birthday, Tony and I drove to one of our favorite local nurseries this afternoon. We thoughtfully selected new plants to add color and life to Scott’s memorial garden in our side yard.

Amy and our grandchildren ~ Kaitlyn, Kyle and Jack ~ will join us in Uncle Scott’s Garden tomorrow. We will prune back the perennials and place in the soil each new sign of life. Our work will be a labor of love as we strive to not lose heart. As we toil to bring beauty to what is seen, we long to bring into focus what is unseen, what is eternal.

In this small way we celebrate the life of our precious Scott and give thanks for the sixteen years we had with him. All the while, we cling to the hope of our blessed reunion when there will be no more sorrow, no more tears, and no more goodbyes.

Happy Birthday, Scott ~

I love you

!

Time Travel

Time travel ~ that’s what it feels like when I find myself suddenly, once again, surrounded with the pain and reality of Scott’s death.

It always amazes me how fast I can go there.

This morning I decided not to go to church. I have fought this flu bug for almost two weeks and I decided to give myself an extra day of rest. So I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat down on the couch, and turned on the TV.

A woman was speaking to a sanctuary filled with parishioners.

(I recognized the church right away; the glass windows surrounding the sanctuary were a sure giveaway.)

I really did not intend to keep listen to her, but she was very engaging and the story just kept pouring out of her. I did not hear all the details but her story was about the faith of children who prayed for a miracle. She was an administrator at a Christian elementary school and she asked all the students to pray for a young friend who was having surgery for a brain tumor. The results of the surgery were not good. She shared how she had to go back to those students to tell them that their little friend was not going to get better ~ the little girl had been placed on life support. Doctors saw no signs of life and were advising the parents to turn off the machines.

The children couldn’t understand why they should stop praying. They believed in a God of miracles and were going to pray anyway. The next day, the doctors told the little girl’s parents that they saw a small hint of life in their daughter. Then the next day, they saw more life, and so on, until the little girl made a dramatic recovery.

And in that instant, I was overcome with doubt. In a matter of seconds, I traveled back in time. I was standing next to

Scott’s bed

at the medical center. I was holding his unresponsive hand. The nurses were coming in and out to check for any changes in his condition. His chest would rise and fall with each vent from the respirator, but there were no signs of life in him.

Scott did not recover. He was declared brain dead. He became an organ donor.

As I sat there on my couch this morning, I found myself once again questioning brain death and comas and vegetative states. It is personally very difficult for me to hear of someone who was

declared brain dead

and then wakes up after who-knows-how-many-years. Perhaps what complicates this for me is that these terms (brain death, coma, vegetative state) are used interchangeably so often by the media and those sharing these stories of recovery.

So once again I found myself wrestling with our decision. I went to the computer ~

again ~

 and googled

brain death

. So many of the events of Scott’s final hours came into my mind as I fought against feelings of despair.

The statement from the neurosurgeon who first admitted Scott’s airlifted body ~ I see not life in your son.

The maxillofacial surgeon who operated on Scott for more than six hours ~ I literally just closed him up; I did all I could.

The 100+ high school students ~ many on their knees in the hallways ~ praying for a miracle.

The CT scan that was performed ~ convincing two neurosurgeons to declare Scott brain dead.

The blood flow test we demanded ~ and not one drop of dye went past Scott’s brain stem.

It is not that I don’t rejoice with the speaker this morning. I am so grateful that even one family did not have to live with the grief of losing a child!

What I want to say is that I believe in a God of miracles, too . Sometimes we do not receive the miracle we ask for. I truly wanted my son to survive. I still wish I could somehow have my son back. But that was not the miracle I received.

The miracle I received was

grace

~

deeper and wider and higher than I ever knew before.

A grace that has the strength to carry me when I am weary.

A grace that is tender enough to catch all my tears in a bottle.

A grace that draws near to my broken heart.

A grace that transforms mourning into dancing.

A grace that guarantees a time to come when there will be no more tears, no more death, no more goodbyes.

And then it happens again ~ His grace transports me with those everlasting arms and gives me the courage to face the realities of life, and brings me the hope of a blessed reunion.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.

Revelation 21:4

His Slot is Full

Tucked away in the inside cover of my Daytimer is a short article I clipped from a

Compassionate Friends

newsletter thirteen years ago. It is ~ I must admit ~ a

sorry-looking

piece of paper. The edges are crumbled and torn. But the words printed on that small scrap of paper are of great value to me.

It was not long after

Scott died

that I found the article. It was written by a grieving father who had lost his teenage son. The father was responding to an innocent question often asked of parents after the death of a child.

Will you have another child?

Many wrestle to find an answer. As I companion young moms and dads on their grief journey, some share about the confusing emotions tied to that question.

~ Will having another child appear

as if we are replacing our precious child?

~ If we have another child

won't we have new fears of losing

another

child?

~ What if having another child

causes us to forget the child we lost?

One young mom shared with me the fear that gripped her when she found out she was expecting again after the loss of her baby to

SIDS

. Babies who die of SIDS leave may unanswered questions for parents. There are few known causes and a multitude of medical conditions that create the possibility for an infant to die of SIDS. And this mom, like many others, expressed honest, heart-wrenching emotion ~ how would she ever experience peace, knowing she could lose this precious one as well?

Some parents ~ their empty arms too much to bear ~ choose to have another child right away. (Let me say, there is no

right time

to have another child - every one's grief journey is unique.) Yet, the birth of another precious baby will not take away the pain of losing a child. It may provide comfort for those who grieve. It may fill empty days with the joy of new life. But it will not take away the hole left in one's heart by the death of one's child.

And that brings me back to that scrap of paper, the article which so well explains that hole left in one's heart after the death of a child. Yet, it also teaches us about the sacredness of that hole, that

slot

, as the author calls it.

His Slot is Full

Yesterday, a young teacher, a man who had known

Olin, Kathy and me over the years,

asked if we thought of having additional children,

and if we did, would they fill Olin's slot,

that empty space in our lives.

I answered as best I could -

that those parts of us that love are never empty.

Save but for the space they physically filled,

our children live, both spiritually and in us.

While I live, Olin is as recent as the moment,

alive and laughing, forever seventeen.

There are many slots in our hearts for others,

but

his

is filled.

What I have and he took,

what he gave and I took

will never be lost.

Love is there

beyond the dust and ashes that awaits us all.

There will always be room for others,

but he has left no slot to fill.

Even amidst the pain and the sorrow,

it was never empty.

(Don Hackett, Hingham, MA)

After thirteen years of traveling my own grief road I can tell you that Scott's slot ~ the hole left in my heart by his sudden death at a young age ~ is still there, but IT.IS.FILLED! Filled with memories that feed my heart and soul on days when his absence still envelopes me.

These precious memories fill Scott's place in my heart and allow me to maintain a

relationship of memory

with my dear son. Friends who are close continue to make deposits into his slot as they retell stories and let me know they have not forgotten.

It is all part of living with grief.

Seeking God in the Night

Today I share a post written by Jessica ~ one of my

traveling buddies

.

My

traveling buddies

are ladies who find themselves on the same journey as me . . . a journey with no up-grades, many road closures and a burden of grief. We are members of what I call,

The Bereaved Mothers Club (BMC)

. I pray you will not

ever

become a member of BMC.

Membership requirements are weighty:

we have each laid a precious child in the arms of God.

I have been on this road over 13 years. Jessica entered this journey more recently ~ joining my travels about 2 years ago when her sweet son, Kade. passed away in his sleep on his two-month birthday.

This week, Jessica posted a glimpse of this journey and how this dark road can lead to transformation. I asked permission to post it here for those of you who follow my blog and look for the hope of redeeming the future. Her struggles are real. Her doubts are many. But her hope is secure. I am encouraged by her words.

Here, in Jessica's own words, is part of her journey . . .

I woke up at 3 a.m. from a nightmare that was all too real. I dreamt that we lost Tori and were struggling with the fact that we had lost another child. Obviously I was thankful to wake to find that Tori was sleeping soundly in her bed without a care in the world. While I breathed a sigh of relief, my mind went to Kade. I lost it. Poor Trav woke to me bawling like a baby, and quickly realizing I needed him, slid his arm under my back and pulled me close. We have spent many a lonely night this way. Night time is hard.

There's something about the dark that feels hopeless and overwhelming. The Lord has taught me much about the night. He speaks of the night throughout His Word and I've asked Him to give me His view of the darkness. He says that "the night shines as bright as day" and that "nothing is hidden in the dark" and "weeping comes in the night but joy comes with the dawn" which are some of my favorite passages to meditate on in the night watches. I'm still learning this concept but I have found great comfort in knowing that the Lord sees no difference between night and day and that as His child I can trust that He remains constant no matter the amount of light around me.

But last night as we lay together in the dark my faith was small. I asked Trav the hard questions that I know he desperately wishes he could answer for his wife. "How can a God who loves me give me such a precious gift only to take it back? Why would He allow something so tragic to occur in my life that I question His very existence, sovereignty and love for me? Why would He want me to doubt His love? Doesn't He want me to rest securely in it?" Trav just shook his head, unable to give me an answer that would ease the pain.

While I wrestle with these feelings, they are fleeting and are instantly squelched by truth. Even in my darkest moments, moments like last night, I hear the Lord speaking to my heart. He does love me. He sacrificed HIS son so that I could spend eternity with MY son. I can rest deeply in His love for me that is beyond measure and unchanging. I can fall down at the throne of grace knowing that He keeps each tear in His bottle and takes note of them in His book. It's in the most vulnerable of moments that my Savior is most real to me. It's when I'm doubting His love that He takes the opportunity to flood me with it. It's in those moments that His kindness and grace reaches down and pulls me out of the miry clay I'm sinking in. It's the very thing I doubt that rescues me.

Still I struggle with what to do now. One of the biggest adjustments has been learning how to walk this road that was never one I had considered. I feel like I'm being forced down this path that was never what I imagined my life to be. The truth is, it was always the road I would travel. Since I wasn't handed a map I had created my own itinerary, and forgot to include the pit stops and detours along the way Looking back over past 22 months without Kade, I have seen how the Lord has grown me up, pushed me forward and lavished His grace on me for every step. The Lord has provided some amazing fellow travelers that are making the journey much more bearable.

So what now? I'll just keep putting one foot in front of the other toward eternity, my Savior and my son.

Jessica says it well. We put one foot in front of the other as we move along this journey to that blessed reunion with our children. There isn't an

exit

off of this road. There is no closure. The reality of losing a child is always with us ~ and quite honestly, we

want

to remember, as we cling to

memories

as proof of their existence. But there is the hope of redeeming the losses of this life. There is the promise of transformation.

Hear, O LORD, and be merciful to me!

O LORD, be my helper!"

You have turned my mourning into dancing;

you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness,

that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.

O LORD my God, I will give thanks to you forever!

Psalm 30:10-12

I love you,

J ~

To read more of Jessica's postings, visit her blog

Seeking His Face

.

Seeing the Forest and the Trees

I'm sure you have heard it said that there are some who just

can't see the forest for the trees

. This idiom describes those who focus on the minutia of the present rather than the vista of possibilities. It implies that something can be gained by allowing our gaze to go beyond the present realities

(the trees)

to see what might be ahead

(the forest)

.

As one certificated in death and grief studies, I companion people who often can

only

see the trees

- the overwhelming sorrow, the enormous hole, and the indescribable loss. They are doing well to see the trees - to wake up each morning, feel the weight of grief, and make it through another day without the presence of their loved one.

To them I say -

"Let's just sit here among the trees. The forest will be there when we are ready to see it."

This week I am

with

dear friends who have many trees growing on the horizon and the forest is becoming obscured as they deal with life and death issues.

(

With

: to make a conscious decision to carry in thought and prayer the burdens of another)

I have to say - these trees are OMINOUS, as trees go.

~ Not like the giant sequoias that display strength and stability; these trees are brittle and spindly, as if their branches would snap under the slightest weight.

~ Not like the mighty oak that beckons travelers to sit under the shade of her sweeping branches; these trees offer no relief, as their twisted branches reach out and snag passersby.

~ Not like the lush trees that flourish along the banks of a river; these trees are thirsty and dry, and suck the very life out of all who travel among them.

Even in this age of technology, there is no Garmin - no simple, lightweight handheld device to navigate through this rugged terrain. There are no guarantees that the medical procedures available on the horizon will change the reality that their precious “Little Man” may not survive.

As I sit with them in the landscape of their lives - the reality that their child’s life hangs in the balance - it is impossible to tell if the moans I hear come from the winds of change blowing through the menacing branches or the hearts of those who find themselves in this place.

But it is here we sit, in the dark night of the soul, waiting until God lifts our gaze to see the forest beyond this place among the trees.

Please join me in being with this dear family engulfed by the foreboding trees of reality that they may . . .

. . . Feel God’s presence in this darkness

. . . Hear His voice among so many

. . . Recognize His leading as He clears a path for them

. . . Know His peace as they wait with hope in His eternal will

For more information and to follow their story,

please visit A Heart of Worship

Molding Memories

Today I grieve the loss of another young son, just four months of age, whom God called Home this week.

Today I call upon the God of all comfort to sustain another mom and dad as they close down the short life of their dear son.

Today I once again go to a mortuary to hold a precious little hand and a tiny foot, and press them into soft clay to mold a lasting memory of this dear son's earthly body.

The death of a child is so painful. It is a period before the end of the sentence. It is not only the loss of the present but also the loss of what might have been . . . the milestones and relationships that will never be.

As a fellow traveler on a journey of grief, a bereaved mom who has walked a little ways down the road, I can say that the future brings opportunity for transformation. But in the present, the here and now, in the rawness of this loss, the weight of this grief may at times seem too much to bear as this young couple begins to create a new normal that does not include their precious son.

Today I offer this young mom and dad a small gift as they begin their own journey of grief, as they move toward transforming their relationship with their little man . . . from a relationship of presence to a relationship of memory. They are still his parents; he is still their son. Death does not change that. But it does mean that their precious memories . . . how he looks, laughs, plays; his sweet smell, tender cries and warm hugs . . . these will forever be spoken of in the

past tense

, and will be what sustains them over the coming decades.

Author Norman Cousin wrote,

Memory is where the proof of life is stored

.

As you remember this family, whether or not you know them personally, bathe them in prayer. If you are near to them, share stories of their precious son. It is true that your comments may bring tears to their eyes, but oh, how their hearts will be filled as you make deposits into their storehouse of memories.

May they feel the everlasting arms of the Father, the God of all comfort, who knows the sorrow of the death of a son, carrying them until they once again hold

their

precious son in their arms for all of eternity.

Memories and Realities of Mother's Day

Today ~ Mother's Day, 2009 ~ I am rather emotional. Sweet memories and painful realities have me torn to know what I am really feeling. So if this post seems to meander past green pastures and arid wastelands, all in the simple curve in the road, that about sums it up. For Mother’s Day, perhaps like no other day, seems to send me on a journey.

As a child, I fashioned

priceless

gifts for my mom on Mother’s Day. You remember the treasures ~ an empty tin can painted to be a pencil holder; a colorful paper flower with each petal displaying a pledge to do chores for her; a pin made with sequins and beads. Perhaps my favorite Mother’s Day gift I gave my mom was a shiny necklace with a scene of a tropical paradise, all made from butterfly wings. I

sacrificially

purchased it with my tickets at the school carnival.

Really

. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw, and when she wore it, we both recognized the enormous value of that second-hand piece of costume jewelry.

I became a mother in 1977. Amy was due to arrive three days before Mother’s Day, and I eagerly awaited my first Mother’s Day. Sadly, she came 10 days late. I was well aware as I shuffled into church on Mother’s Day, 1977 that I would have to wait until 1978 to officially qualify to be honored on Mother’s Day.

When Amy and Scott were little I was awaken each Mother’s Day with breakfast in bed. Amid the giggles and battling elbows to be

the one

who carried the tray, I knew I was receiving the most delicious peanut butter toast any mother could ever consume. And, they presented me with their own priceless, handmade gifts, which I still treasure.

This year is different. To be honest, I am grieving. My heart breaks once again for what might have been if Scott were still alive. My soul is heavy as I carry the loss of other young moms who have placed their children in the lap of Abba Father. My eyes weep for my friends whose infant son has lived all of his two and a half months of life at Children’s Hospital.

And yet I find that it is when I am in my darkest place that I more clearly see the pain of others. On this Mother’s Day, I grieve with those whose arms are empty because their wombs are barren. I see the pain in the eyes of young women who always thought they would marry and have children of their own. I am saddened for the children who never knew the love and nurture of a caring mother.

So today, as millions of moms are honored . . . as you honor your own mother, or open handmade trinkets or expensive gifts in your own green pasture . . . look around you. There are arid wastelands where you can be a stream of refreshing love, as you become the arms of God’s grace today.

If you choose to love . . .

"If you choose to love, you choose to grief."

~

Dr. Alan Wolfelt, Center for Loss

February, the month set aside for

those who love

, brings meaning to the quote above for me.

For in my 56 years of life, I chose to love - my parents, my husband, my children, pets, and many friends and extended family. And as the quote expresses, because I chose to love, I will also experience grief when those I love are gone.

February, with its brief 28 days, holds more sorrow for me than all the other months of the year. February marks the death of my mother, the death of my father, and the death of my only son, Scott. As this shortest month of the year approaches, and I see the many signs of

LOVE

displayed in the stores, I feel the weight of grief taking up residence in my heart as I anticipate the approaching days.

I visualize what I may be doing to mark these days. I think about how much I miss each one. I remember the times we shared and the love we experienced. And, perhaps most importantly, once again, no matter how painful, I will give myself permission to

feel

the grief and

mourn

my losses.

I think the words of Jesus are most fitting for these days of February.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

Jesus is saying, blessed are those who do not deny their grief or stuff their sorrows. Blessed are those who embrace the love, who acknowledge the loss, who express what is on the inside and who mourn.

As I studied for my certification in Death and Grief Studies with Dr. Wolfelt, I learned that grief is an emotion we feel on the inside. But mourning is the outward expression of our inner grief. As Dr. Wolfelt says,

"Mourning is grief gone public."

Yes, blessed are those who mourn, for they bring their pain to the outside. Blessed are those who mourn for they allow themselves to release their grief, to make room in their heart to remember the love once shared. Blessed are those who mourn, for you will receive the comfort of others.

And, I want to say, with February coming in a few short days, that if I had to do all over again, I would . . . and I do, choose to love.

Those who would have nothing to do with thorns

must never attempt to gather flowers.

~

Anonymous

Christmas Present

This past December 2007, as Andy sat before the computer to compose their Christmas letter, tears were all he could produce. Andy and Stephanie hoped to announce the wonderful news that they were expecting their first child. But two years of infertility and a miscarriage finally wore their spirits thin. Tears were all they had . . . and who sends tears at Christmas?

Andy and Stephanie knew the Babe of Bethlehem came to earth to bring salvation, yet the joy of Christmas was dampened by their sorrow. They worshiped Him as King of Kings. But their grief was great. Their hearts were heavy.

Trusting God with their grief, Andy and Stephanie began to accept the fact that they may not produce children of their own, and they began to work with an adoption agency. There were questionnaires to complete, interviews to go through, and classes to learn about how to be adoptive parents. Then, the morning after they completed a weekend parenting seminar on adoption, Andy and Stephanie were surprised by a positive pregnancy test!

Once again, they had conceived! But like others who live with the burden of infertility, their joy was mixed with the reality that another miscarriage may occur. Again, they waited on the Lord.

Now,

Christmas Present

is here, as Andy sits before the computer this December 2008, he has magnificent news to share. The Lord has given them a precious daughter, Annaliese Joy, who came into their world on November 18th. In their Christmas letter, Andy writes, “She is beautiful like her mother and each day we both fall more madly in love with her. I can better imagine now the love the Father must have for us as His children.”

I am privileged to know Andy and Stephanie as friends. I am grateful for their willingness to be transparent in their pain and sorrow. Although they cried many tears, and their empty arms at Christmas, 2007 was a very difficult time, they never lost the perspective of a loving heavenly Father who sent his Son to earth over 2000 years ago.

In their sorrow, Andy and Stephanie turned to this Wonderful Counselor, the Prince of Peace, to carry their burden, to restore their joy, and to increase their faith. What God taught them about His promises could not have been learned except in the depths of their need. And the beauty of redemption is that it truly sets one free to restore the future, to be transformed rather than destroyed by the pain of the past.

This story of Christmas Present is not about

redeeming the future

because a precious daughter was born into their family. The birth of Annaliese does not take away the pain and grief of the life they lost through miscarriage and the sorrow of years of infertility. Andy and Stephanie began to redeem the future in the

midst

of their grief. It was there, in the dark night of the soul, that the potential existed for this young couple to be destroyed by the loss of the dream of having children of their own. But Andy and Stephanie chose daily, in the midst of their pain, to be transformed along the way. By God’s grace and mercy, they chose to rest in the everlasting arms of God, to trust Him with the losses, and in the process, their lives continue to glorify God and draw others to His Kingdom.

That, my friends, is redeeming the future.

Revelation 21:3-5 promises: And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, "Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He will dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself will be among them, and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away." And He who sits on the throne said, "Behold, I am making all things new," and He said, "Write, for these words are faithful and true."

Welcome Annaliese Joy

Precious Gift of God

Christmases Past

I keep our Christmas decorations in narrow plastic bins under our bed. We always pull the dust covered containers out from under the bed in the days following Thanksgiving as we anticipate the coming of Christmas. I remember when Amy and Scott were little - the excitement of opening those bins each year and their joy as they placed the decorations around the house and on the tree.

I vividly remember Christmas, 1995. Amy was in her first year of college at Biola in southern California. Scott was a sophomore at Immanuel High School in Reedley. As was our tradition, we went out to a local Christmas tree farm, and cut down the

perfect

tree. Scott wanted to begin decorating the tree immediately. I told him that we were going to wait for Amy to arrive home from college before we decorate the tree. I remember saying, "We will always wait until we are all together to decorate the tree." And we did.

That was December, 1995. In six short weeks, February 1996, Scott was killed in an accident. As December 1996 rolled around, my words from Christmas past rang in my ears -

"We will always wait until we are all together to decorate the tree."

I could not buy a tree for Christmas. I could not pull the bins out from under the bed. I could not feel the joy of the season.

For ten painful years we did not buy a Christmas tree. We did not decorate the house for Christmas. Although we celebrated the holiday in the homes of friends and family, exchanging gifts and sharing meals, I could not bring myself to touch the ornaments Scott had touched his last Christmas on earth. I could not decorate a tree when our family would never be

together

again this side of eternity.

I remember thinking, "How long will I go on like this?"

In a feeble attempt to conquer the pain, we decided to try a

different

Christmas tree farm, and we actually purchased a tree for Christmas in 2005 - ten years since the tree we decorated all together. We bravely brought it home, but that was as far as my courage could take me. The tree remained outside, leaning against the side of the garage.

Christmas 2006 again found us able to purchase a tree for our home. We again bravely brought it home. This time, we placed the tree in the stand, and stood it in its rightful place beside the fireplace in our family room. But, sadly, there it stood; we never decorated it. It just stood there throughout the Christmas season; its bare, empty branches a metaphor for my heart. It was Christmas, but something . . .

someone

. . . was so obviously missing.

Then last year, we purchased one of those

fake

trees, only about four feet tall, that already has lights attached to it. We set it up in its rightful place and I slid the bins out from under our bed. As I opened each bin, I was hit with waves of emotions that brought all the pain and sorrow of losing Scott right back to me. There were the ornaments celebrating his early years. There were the precious trinkets he had made in school. There was the box of

glassables

, what Scott called our breakable ornaments when he was little. I pulled out a few items for my grandchildren to hang on the tree and slid the bins back under the bed.

Well, Christmas has come again. This year we decided to have a few friends over to celebrate the season with a Christmas brunch. It sounded like a good idea until I realized that I had set myself up to

need

to decorate. How could they come to my house and have it not look bleak for Christmas? Yet, how could I face my sorrows stored in those bins under the bed?

I asked Amy if she and the grandchildren could come over to help me. I pulled the bins out from under the bed. Almost immediately upon opening the bins there were once again, shouts of glee as my grandchildren spied some of the decorations for the first time. They joyfully decorated the house and stood back to admire their work. Yes, it was painful. Yes, it was difficult. But it was then that I realized I had to let go of the tight grip I held on my old traditions and embrace new ones . . . new traditions that would have been created even if Scott was still here.

I share my experiences with Christmases Past because Christmas can be one of the saddest times for those who have experienced loss.

If you are one of those who grieves the loss of a dear one, I hope my own experience can bring you some comfort. Everyone's grief is unique and you have the right to

own

your own journey. It took me ten years to begin to feel like I could face Christmas in a familiar fashion. And then it took another three years to come to the place in my heart where I was ready to create

new

traditions to build on the old ones. This Christmas, give yourself the gift of listening to your heart. Honor the memories of Christmases Past, take care of yourself this Christmas Present, and look forward to Christmas Future.

If you know someone who is having a hard time this Christmas, be present to their need. Do not hurry them to leave their grief behind. Do not ask them to experience Christmas through your eyes. Listen to their sorrow. Respect their reasoning. Honor the memories they hold dear. In so doing, you will companion them toward experiencing peace with loss.

For the very Babe of Bethlehem came to earth as the Prince of Peace, and He will reconcile all things to himself in time, and make all things beautiful. Happy Birthday, Jesus.

November Chill

Autumn . . . I have always loved Autumn . I suppose as a child this partiality came as I celebrated my birthday in November. But as childhood gave way to adulthood, I became aware of other reasons for my love of this season.

Autumn brings orange, red and yellow leaves which adorn the trees around us as the air begins to cool. I am ready for jeans and sweaters, scarves and gloves, and cups of hot coffee on chilly days. I even look forward to “falling back” an hour as the early darkness brings the family indoors for longer evenings together.

Autumn brings Thanksgiving which has long been my favorite holiday, with the aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg and pumpkin; the expressions of gratitude and contentment; and our home filled with love for family and friends.

But now, Autumn brings a chill to my inner soul. I sense with every fiber of my being that my emotional world is entering a cold, dark season of grief. Just as the temperatures outside fall and the hours of sunlight decrease, my heart begins to make changes as autumn envelopes my heart.

I still enjoy the brilliant colors in the orchards around our valley. I love to wear my jeans and sweaters. But as the fall days continue to accumulate and usher in November, I recognize the hole in our family and in my heart. (Read Scott’s story)

You see, we celebrated Scott’s birthday in November, too. He would be twenty-nine this year on the 23rd. And then comes Thanksgiving, when Scott is again undeniably missing. He loved to help cook and prepare for our celebration. I remember the year HE made the pies!

November gives way to December and the traditions surround our celebration of Christmas. And, it seems that every store I enter, every radio station I tune in, is playing that song . . . “I’ll be home for Christmas . . .” and it rips at my heart.

In six short weeks after Christmas, we remember the day Scott went home to be with the Lord. And then . . . even in the midst of winter, my heart begins to feel a thaw, a warmth that again there will be a spring.

“Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord.” I Thessalonians 4:17

Scott's Story

The winter of 1996 will never be forgotten by two California families. One will remember with extreme joy; my family, with profound grief.

After receiving mushrooms that had been gathered in the hills near San Francisco in early February, 1996, a mother used the harvest in the family supper. Within hours of ingesting the mushrooms, she and her three children became extremely ill. Examination of the mushrooms revealed they were highly toxic. With massive doses of antibiotics, the woman and her two sons began to show improvement. But the 13-year-old daughter’s health rapidly deteriorated and her liver began to fail. She was placed on the emergency transplant list. Death was eminent.

At last, the family finally received news that a donor match was found for their daughter. That evening, the young girl underwent a transplant graft; one half of a healthy liver was attached to her failing liver. Within days, her liver regenerated, and she eventually made a complete recovery.

About two-hundred miles away, in Reedley, a small community in central California, on the morning of February 5th, my teenage son, Scott, made a grave mistake in the woodshop at his high school. An accomplished woodworker already at the young age of sixteen, he placed a wood file between a tool brace and the oak tabletop which was spinning on the face-plate of a lathe. The file jammed and the tabletop shattered. Pieces of oak became projectiles in the woodshop. One 14-inch piece of wood hit Scott directly in the face.

Our family was forced to contend with the realities of sudden death. After 30 hours on life support, Scott was declared brain dead. Our family made decisions we never could have imagined – to have our precious sixteen-year-old son became an organ donor.

On February 7th, Scott’s liver, heart, kidneys and pancreas were removed to be donated. That evening, a representative from the California Transplant and Donor Network told us some preliminary information regarding the value of of decision. Although no identifying information was given, the representative noted that Scott's liver went to a young girl in the San Francisco area, who was near death after ingesting poisonous mushrooms.

I will never forget the winter of 1996. I remember it with profound grief.

The evening of February 7th, just twenty-four hours after we said goodbye to our son, my husband and I lay awake; the late night news droned on in front our sleepless eyes. We watched as cameras focused on a helicopter landing on the roof of University Medical Center in San Francisco. Physicians stepped out with a small ice chest, and the news commentator said, “A liver match has been found for the young girl who ingested the poisonous mushrooms.” We watched with disbelief as our son’s liver was carried in that small ice chest to be transplanted into another human being.

After hours of surgery, the news carried the excitement of the girl’s father. “Our prayers have been answered.” My husband spoke the words that hung in our hearts, “And our prayers were not.”

Their family joyously celebrated the tremendous gift of life for their only daughter, only sister. Our family tearfully grieved the inconceivable loss of our only son, only brother.

In the days and weeks that followed Scott’s death, I had nowhere to turn except to my faith in God and His precious Word. It was there that I could take my tears and found that He keeps them all in a bottle (Psalm 56:8). It was there that I felt Him draw near to me as I was brokenhearted and crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18).

I continue to carry this treasure of darkness (Isaiah 45:3) and ask God to show me how I can use my loss for His glory. It is my prayer that through this blog, Redeeming the Future, I can share some of the lessons I learn as I walk this journey of grief; that I can companion others who may feel lost; and that together we can discover pathways through difficult times.

Scott William Redfern
November 23, 1979 – February 6, 1996