By the time most of us are fairly young I think we've realized that we crave belonging. We belong in our mother's arms. We belong in our family. We belong with our siblings. We belong in our church. We belong in many places, and it helps us to find security and meaning when things are all too often muddled.
When we marry, we finally breathe a sigh of deep relief that we have found a permanent place of belonging. An avowed home for our hearts. A place where we can be weak and broken and scared and happy and on and on and on and on.
But what happens when that belonging is ripped from our grasping hands? What happens when the person with whom you believed you would always belong becomes worse than a stranger? When he becomes the opposite of a safe place? Where do you rest your head? Who do you confide in? Who will stick with you through all of the trauma and ugliness and messiness and grief?
Suddenly you find yourself living in the in-between.
Let me define the in-between for you.
You aren't a part of a couple anymore, but you don't really fit in with your single friends either.
You aren't really a "true" single parent- you sometimes have help- but you aren't really part of a team anymore either.
You aren't really able to get out with friends anymore, but you're dying from loneliness and isolation and space. Just space all around you.
You're never alone, but you're always alone.
You just don't fit anywhere you used to so neatly fit before.
Square peg, suddenly trying to jam herself into a round whole.
I'd like you to take a minute here, and I'd like you to imagine what life would feel like if one morning you woke up in your normal state of belonging, and went to bed that same night suddenly adrift and unsure that you belong anywhere anymore. You don't know who you can confide in because, dear God it's all so heavy. People want to listen at first, and you dump it all out like the niagra falls of emotional trauma and confusion. Then they start to erode.
You're still their friend, and you know they still love you, but you're too much. You are the in-between. You're the bad dream. Your life encompasses the fear shoved roughly into the tiniest mental drawer and locked away. You are a constant, heavy reminder of what could be. At first there are calls and texts and friends showing up to ease the burden of newly-single-parenthood as you fall quickly and mercilessly apart. You know these sweet friends simply can't suddenly become that all-important heart where you used to belong, but you try desperately to find some semblance of what you had because
you
are
crumbling.
But you're also too much. You know you are too much as the hurt spills out of you day in and day out, and you see the burden on the faces of the people you love, and that love you. You see the weight you've become. You used to be the lifter of weights. You used to be the funny, vibrant, shining fun. And soon even your heart feels like it's stuck squarely in the in-between. In between the first stabs of trauma, in between the sweet release of healing. You're the bouncing back and forth bringer of melancholy, and you know it. And you try to let that fall off of you and be happy again like everyone hopes for you, but you can't sustain the effort. Not yet.
Oh, God. It is the loneliest place I've ever drifted through. I feel like I am who I was, but not. I am a new woman, but not. I am strong, but not.
I'm contradiction given face and breath and life.
I don't pray that God would take me up out of this place. I know He won't answer me the way I would like Him to because there's a lot of shaping that still has to happen in my heart. This is a defining life event, and I know it. Someday it will give birth to something healing and powerful and full of the love of God. But I pray that he brings me someone to stand in the gap of this miserable desert I'm calling the in-between. Not to take away what I'm going through. Not to make it all better, because it's simply not time yet for the better to come. There's rebirth happening here, and birth is a long and painful process. It pushes you until you think you cannot take another breath, and that maybe you will die here. But when you finally come out of the other side, having given breath to new and pure and beautiful life, you know that all the pain just made it that much more precious. So I'm not asking Him to skip me through these hard chapters, even though there are days when I'd really really like Him to.
For now, I'd just like someone to stand next to me in this no-mans-land and hold my hand. Even when it feels heavy and burdensome and unrewarding. I know it's a lot to ask. I'm rough right now. Sharp. Full of spiny edges and heavy words. But this is just the in-between. I am just an in-between. It's a brutal and confusing and sometimes beautiful place to be. It's just a difficult place to stand in, especially if you're don't really have to.
I don't really know what God is trying to teach me right now. How He is shaping my heart and bringing rebirth. I know He is, and I know it will be worth it in the end. But I do pray that it gets a little less lonely here soon. Because if I've learned one thing about myself in all of this, it's that I crave a safe place to puddle into weakness on occasion. A place where I belong enough to welcome that kind of melting.
I hope it's out there. I hope I find myself in a place where God is that melting place and that it is enough for me. But again, right now I'm in neither.
Another in-between.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Friday, June 10, 2016
The Battle Between Head and Heart
Sometimes I feel utterly divided. The chasm between my head and my heart can be so overwhelmingly wide.
I'm maybe a month away from being divorced. There's so much that goes along with that. My heart feels shame when those words leave my mouth.
"divorce"
It feels like fire on my tongue, and my heart breaks a little more every time I utter it. Shame. Anger. Fear. Deep and unyielding betrayal. Grief. Shattered trust. I feel all of these things constantly, and often together. It's completely exhausting and overwhelming. Oh heart, you are damaged, but still beating. Oh self, his darkened heart doesn't reflect on your own. His sins are his own. His adultery doesn't reflect your worth as a woman, a wife, a mother, a child of God. Simply his own weaknesses and sin. Dear heart, that shame is not yours. You did not leave. You did not give up. You were not unfaithful. You were not perfect, but you never deserved this.
My heart feels shame, but my head feels hope.
I know that sounds bizarre.
Here's the thing. I loved my husband. Deeply. I hope he loved me at one point. I'm not sure anymore. But I am sure I loved him. My head tells me that hoping he ever really loved me isn't enough.
"released" My head tells me.
Released from a man who probably never actually saw me. Never saw my heart. Never invited me to love that was strong and provided any kind of rest. Released from love that was selfish and self seeking and self serving. Head tells heart that it was good to love that man. But that it's ok to feel release. That I tried. That I can't make him loving or strong or good. That heart has a chance to feel something so much purer and more beautiful than love that is unsure and afraid of being despised and abandoned and ashamed.
My head and my heart aren't quite on the same page yet. My head, that bastion of good sense and logic… head wants to let go of him. Let go. Let go. Let go. The constant mantra in my sensible head tries to get heart to do what it isn't ready to do.
Let him go. Let it fall to the ground. Let him walk away. Do not give him any more tears. Let go. He is gone, and so is the life you prayed for when you stood facing him and said your vows. He did not mean them. Let go. You deserve a man that means them. All of them. Even the unpleasant and hard ones. Even the ones that require a silent death to self. Let him go. He's hurting you. He's gone.
Oh, stubborn and faithful heart. Broken and angry and grieving heart. Heart that cannot and will not let go of that last fragmented splinter of hope. The last splinter embedded deep within that causes ceaseless pain, but that is the last piece of what should have been. My head doesn't understand my heart. My head says that it would never take him back. That trust has been shattered so completely that it would be impossible to put back together. My head says that it knows that this treatment is so awful that nothing should entice me to reconsider him. But heart. Heart made vows. Heart values family and relationship above all else. Heart still holds onto the maybe. Even though it's harmful. Even though it drives the splinter deeper.
"Let go" everyone says.
My heart can only answer "I want to, but I don't know how yet."
I wish I could somehow lay ahold of even a fraction of the ability my soon to be ex husband has to let me go completely.
And yet I don't. Because letting go of a love that you promised to protect until your last dying breath feels like an unforgivable weakness. And I may be a lot of things, but weak is not one of them. My love is not weak. My heart is not weak. Maybe stubborn and imperfect and broken and grief-stricken. But never weak.
So I'll just keep letting my logical head keep encouraging my stubborn heart to let him go. Because both my head and my heart know this truth-
God has better than this ahead. Better than the hateful abandonment of vows and hearts and love. Better than the fickleness and selfishness of this "love." And as much as I'm ready to embrace the truth that God has better, I can't despise my heart for (however imperfectly) holding onto the most important thing. After all, that is strength I can't claim solely for my own. My heart, it is what God made it. Strong and constant and true. And I know now more than ever that those are qualities that are of vital importance in this life.
So head and heart, someday that chasm will close. Someday you won't be at odds. But I propose that right now, here in this moment, it's totally ok if you are.
I'm maybe a month away from being divorced. There's so much that goes along with that. My heart feels shame when those words leave my mouth.
"divorce"
It feels like fire on my tongue, and my heart breaks a little more every time I utter it. Shame. Anger. Fear. Deep and unyielding betrayal. Grief. Shattered trust. I feel all of these things constantly, and often together. It's completely exhausting and overwhelming. Oh heart, you are damaged, but still beating. Oh self, his darkened heart doesn't reflect on your own. His sins are his own. His adultery doesn't reflect your worth as a woman, a wife, a mother, a child of God. Simply his own weaknesses and sin. Dear heart, that shame is not yours. You did not leave. You did not give up. You were not unfaithful. You were not perfect, but you never deserved this.
My heart feels shame, but my head feels hope.
I know that sounds bizarre.
Here's the thing. I loved my husband. Deeply. I hope he loved me at one point. I'm not sure anymore. But I am sure I loved him. My head tells me that hoping he ever really loved me isn't enough.
"released" My head tells me.
Released from a man who probably never actually saw me. Never saw my heart. Never invited me to love that was strong and provided any kind of rest. Released from love that was selfish and self seeking and self serving. Head tells heart that it was good to love that man. But that it's ok to feel release. That I tried. That I can't make him loving or strong or good. That heart has a chance to feel something so much purer and more beautiful than love that is unsure and afraid of being despised and abandoned and ashamed.
My head and my heart aren't quite on the same page yet. My head, that bastion of good sense and logic… head wants to let go of him. Let go. Let go. Let go. The constant mantra in my sensible head tries to get heart to do what it isn't ready to do.
Let him go. Let it fall to the ground. Let him walk away. Do not give him any more tears. Let go. He is gone, and so is the life you prayed for when you stood facing him and said your vows. He did not mean them. Let go. You deserve a man that means them. All of them. Even the unpleasant and hard ones. Even the ones that require a silent death to self. Let him go. He's hurting you. He's gone.
Oh, stubborn and faithful heart. Broken and angry and grieving heart. Heart that cannot and will not let go of that last fragmented splinter of hope. The last splinter embedded deep within that causes ceaseless pain, but that is the last piece of what should have been. My head doesn't understand my heart. My head says that it would never take him back. That trust has been shattered so completely that it would be impossible to put back together. My head says that it knows that this treatment is so awful that nothing should entice me to reconsider him. But heart. Heart made vows. Heart values family and relationship above all else. Heart still holds onto the maybe. Even though it's harmful. Even though it drives the splinter deeper.
"Let go" everyone says.
My heart can only answer "I want to, but I don't know how yet."
I wish I could somehow lay ahold of even a fraction of the ability my soon to be ex husband has to let me go completely.
And yet I don't. Because letting go of a love that you promised to protect until your last dying breath feels like an unforgivable weakness. And I may be a lot of things, but weak is not one of them. My love is not weak. My heart is not weak. Maybe stubborn and imperfect and broken and grief-stricken. But never weak.
So I'll just keep letting my logical head keep encouraging my stubborn heart to let him go. Because both my head and my heart know this truth-
God has better than this ahead. Better than the hateful abandonment of vows and hearts and love. Better than the fickleness and selfishness of this "love." And as much as I'm ready to embrace the truth that God has better, I can't despise my heart for (however imperfectly) holding onto the most important thing. After all, that is strength I can't claim solely for my own. My heart, it is what God made it. Strong and constant and true. And I know now more than ever that those are qualities that are of vital importance in this life.
So head and heart, someday that chasm will close. Someday you won't be at odds. But I propose that right now, here in this moment, it's totally ok if you are.
Thursday, May 19, 2016
A Prayer for My Son
It's midnight. I should be sleeping, but my heart is so troubled tonight. I keep thinking about you, son. I keep worrying about guiding you and helping you become the great man that I hope you will be. I think about the disparities you will see in your family life. I think about the influences, both good and bad, that you will have to sift through. I worry that generational sins will cling to you like stale smoke no matter how hard I pray for them to lift.
I look at you right now and all I see is a sweet little toddler who's eyes light up when I walk into a room. I see a little boy who could change the world. A little boy who's heart I will fight for to the death. Who I will pray for with the tenacity of a warrior in the throws of battle. I look at you and I see someone better than the example set for you right now. I see someone not fettered by the brokenness and insecurities of an uncertain childhood.
My mind is racing, and I'm having a hard time forming coherent thoughts. Everything rises up and out of me in the form of a prayer. Fast and jumbled and probably nonsensical. But we'll go with it, baby. We'll just embrace the chaos and I'll lift up a most earnest prayer for you.
My babe, I pray that you grow into a man after your Heavenly Father's own heart. A man overflowing in mercy and kindness and justice and strength. I pray that you are selfless and true. That righteousness flows from the over abundance of love for your Father in Heaven and permeates every single fiber of your being. I pray that you are upright and brave. That you have the courage to fight for the broken and weary and oppressed. That you see past the earthly garbage and into the hearts of others, and always stand for those who cannot stand for themselves. I pray that you forsake the inherent privileges you are born with and try to see life through the eyes of others not born with your gender, skin color, economic standing, etc etc. Jesus hung out with the sinners and tax collectors and prostitutes. He loved the unlovable. I pray you do too.
I pray that God gives me the strength to love you well. To show you what unconditional love looks like. What selfless love looks like. What love means- the real definition. Not this shallow garbage our society glorifies. That's nothing but selfishness and self-serving interest packaged in a deceiving little bow. Love is hard. It's a battle. It's a choice. It's a long suffering commitment. I feel the burden of being the one who shows you the importance of this kind of love, because you won't have the example you should- that of your father loving your mother in the way he is called to. I pray I never vilify your father because of his weaknesses, but instead show you what mercy and forgiveness look like, and the strength and freedom they bring.
My son, I pray that you never ever feel as though you have to earn my love and acceptance. I pray you never know the insatiable need to search out the approval of man. That you grow in the knowledge of your worth in your Daddy in Heaven. That He's enough for you.
I pray that I can find the right way to teach you to be responsible for your own actions, your own heart, your own sins. I pray that we can break the familial cycle of victimhood with you and your sister. That you never know the oppression of feeling like the world is out to get you, but instead thrive in the freedom of Christ, who has removed all earthly oppression.
I hope that I can teach you how to value the passions of others, even if they aren't your own. I want to teach you to encourage and seek to build up the callings and passions of those around you. That your calling doesn't trump the callings of those you love. I hope to teach you how to put others ahead of yourself. I hope to teach you to respect and value women. To love them the way your Heavenly Father loves them. Not to despise and objectify. Not to subject to your own whims and expectations without any consideration for the deep places of their hearts.
I pray that you will be a better man that those that have come before you. That you find a way to internalize only the best parts of your dad, grandpa, uncles, etc. I pray that you do not latch on to the insecurities, bitterness, and selfishness that may be modeled for you. I pray that God uses the great men in your life to show you what a Godly man looks like.
Son, I worry about you. Maybe even a little more than I worry about your sister. Because I don't know how to offset the lack of Godly example of fatherhood and manhood you will have in your life. How do I teach you to be a man? But the thing about worry is, it's really just a lack of trust. And that's something I will have to work on for the rest of my life. Because even if your earthly father is lacking- your Heavenly Father isn't. And I just know He has such great plans for you. The call on your life and your sister's life... I just know you two were made for something so pure and good.
I pray that I have the strength to lift you up and intercede for you when I feel lost and ill equipped. I pray that God gives me the patience and wisdom to teach you in the ways you should go. I pray that you break the cycles of those before you. I pray that you will love the Lord with everything you are, and that you will serve him fervently all of the days of your life.
You are my joy. And your Daddy in Heaven's joy. A gift that I will always be thankful for. I wish your life didn't start off the way it has, but wishing won't change our reality. But God can. And He has always taken care of us. And if I impart anything to you, son, I hope it's that God is good. No matter what. God is good. And He will never let you down. Not ever.
I look at you right now and all I see is a sweet little toddler who's eyes light up when I walk into a room. I see a little boy who could change the world. A little boy who's heart I will fight for to the death. Who I will pray for with the tenacity of a warrior in the throws of battle. I look at you and I see someone better than the example set for you right now. I see someone not fettered by the brokenness and insecurities of an uncertain childhood.
My mind is racing, and I'm having a hard time forming coherent thoughts. Everything rises up and out of me in the form of a prayer. Fast and jumbled and probably nonsensical. But we'll go with it, baby. We'll just embrace the chaos and I'll lift up a most earnest prayer for you.
My babe, I pray that you grow into a man after your Heavenly Father's own heart. A man overflowing in mercy and kindness and justice and strength. I pray that you are selfless and true. That righteousness flows from the over abundance of love for your Father in Heaven and permeates every single fiber of your being. I pray that you are upright and brave. That you have the courage to fight for the broken and weary and oppressed. That you see past the earthly garbage and into the hearts of others, and always stand for those who cannot stand for themselves. I pray that you forsake the inherent privileges you are born with and try to see life through the eyes of others not born with your gender, skin color, economic standing, etc etc. Jesus hung out with the sinners and tax collectors and prostitutes. He loved the unlovable. I pray you do too.
I pray that God gives me the strength to love you well. To show you what unconditional love looks like. What selfless love looks like. What love means- the real definition. Not this shallow garbage our society glorifies. That's nothing but selfishness and self-serving interest packaged in a deceiving little bow. Love is hard. It's a battle. It's a choice. It's a long suffering commitment. I feel the burden of being the one who shows you the importance of this kind of love, because you won't have the example you should- that of your father loving your mother in the way he is called to. I pray I never vilify your father because of his weaknesses, but instead show you what mercy and forgiveness look like, and the strength and freedom they bring.
My son, I pray that you never ever feel as though you have to earn my love and acceptance. I pray you never know the insatiable need to search out the approval of man. That you grow in the knowledge of your worth in your Daddy in Heaven. That He's enough for you.
I pray that I can find the right way to teach you to be responsible for your own actions, your own heart, your own sins. I pray that we can break the familial cycle of victimhood with you and your sister. That you never know the oppression of feeling like the world is out to get you, but instead thrive in the freedom of Christ, who has removed all earthly oppression.
I hope that I can teach you how to value the passions of others, even if they aren't your own. I want to teach you to encourage and seek to build up the callings and passions of those around you. That your calling doesn't trump the callings of those you love. I hope to teach you how to put others ahead of yourself. I hope to teach you to respect and value women. To love them the way your Heavenly Father loves them. Not to despise and objectify. Not to subject to your own whims and expectations without any consideration for the deep places of their hearts.
I pray that you will be a better man that those that have come before you. That you find a way to internalize only the best parts of your dad, grandpa, uncles, etc. I pray that you do not latch on to the insecurities, bitterness, and selfishness that may be modeled for you. I pray that God uses the great men in your life to show you what a Godly man looks like.
Son, I worry about you. Maybe even a little more than I worry about your sister. Because I don't know how to offset the lack of Godly example of fatherhood and manhood you will have in your life. How do I teach you to be a man? But the thing about worry is, it's really just a lack of trust. And that's something I will have to work on for the rest of my life. Because even if your earthly father is lacking- your Heavenly Father isn't. And I just know He has such great plans for you. The call on your life and your sister's life... I just know you two were made for something so pure and good.
I pray that I have the strength to lift you up and intercede for you when I feel lost and ill equipped. I pray that God gives me the patience and wisdom to teach you in the ways you should go. I pray that you break the cycles of those before you. I pray that you will love the Lord with everything you are, and that you will serve him fervently all of the days of your life.
You are my joy. And your Daddy in Heaven's joy. A gift that I will always be thankful for. I wish your life didn't start off the way it has, but wishing won't change our reality. But God can. And He has always taken care of us. And if I impart anything to you, son, I hope it's that God is good. No matter what. God is good. And He will never let you down. Not ever.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
A Mother's Day Love Letter to Single Moms
Hey Single Mama.
This year is the first Mother's Day where I have joined your ranks. It's been a hard day, and I've been doing a lot of thinking.
I used to say that I could never be a single mom. That I wasn't strong enough. That I didn't know how you all do it. I'd say it to my husband, holding his hand, telling him that I was so glad I'd always have him there to do life and parenthood with me. I had no idea that my future would have me single parenting right along with you.
Here's what I have to say now. And I'll probably have something different to say next year when the dust has settled a bit more and I've found my footing.
I still don't know how you do it. I don't know how I do it most days.
I'm sorry that you have to. I'm sorry that I have to. This is not a job for one. It's just not. But we do it because what other option is there? Who else will do what we do?
So here's a love letter to you, to me, to the mom scared shitless because her husband just walked out on her last week. To the moms we will welcome into our ranks with our own broken hearts and open arms, the ranks we don't want to see grow. The ranks of the tired, the lonely, the brave, and the blessed. The silent army of moms who do it all for everyone and fall into bed at night exhausted, but knowing their shift doesn't end when the sun goes down. The sweat soaked and tear streaked warriors who press on even when they feel like their world has shattered and they have nothing left to give. This is for us. For you.
I know you, tired mama.
You are me.
You are the stranger-sister juggling two people's worth of burdens in the Target parking lot with a baby that is tired and crabby and always on your hip.
You are the mom who shuts herself into the bathroom for ten minutes when everything becomes more than you can handle after days and days of aloneness and silently cries so her kids don't have to see her tears.
You are the proud mom who cheers with all her might as her daughter graduates her first year of preschool.
You are the midnight doctor that comforts a feverish toddler, praying quietly for their relief.
You are the woman who never ever ever thought that her husband would leave.
Or pass away.
Or simply cease to exist as you knew him.
You are the chef who has made three meals before she realizes she's forgotten to feed herself. Again.
You are the woman who will not give up hope that this is not all there is.
You are the dreamer, the one who looks into the future and sees a million beautiful possibilities.
You are the Survivor that has found a way to make it through obstacles you never knew existed before you had to do it all yourself.
You are the fervent prayer warrior that prays and prays and prays for better things for her children. A better life. A whole family. A whole heart.
You are the Hero her kids can depend on, day in and day out.
You are the safe place. The constant. The rest for her children in the midst of a cruel world.
You are the endless burner of midnight oil who wakes again, and again, and again to soothe babies after nightmares, and teething, and fevered unrest.
You are the beautiful woman who feels unseen. Unknown. Unprotected.
You are the woman who knows that her worth is in God alone. Not in a man. Not in her kids. Not in her career. Not in her struggles. Not in her victories.
You are a mom. The most selfless calling there is.
And tonight, if this day has been as hard for you as it's been for me, you may be having a hard time remembering all of the things that make you so truly amazing. Maybe you find yourself feeling guilty that this day has caught you so off guard in the way it's brought you so flipping low instead of joyful because you're a mom and you love your kids.
I need to tell you, because I need to tell myself, that's ok. You don't have to feel guilty. You bear a heavy burden. It's an amazing one, I bet you'd never give it up, I know I wouldn't, but it's still so big. Maybe next year you won't feel crushed under the weight of what you wish Mother's Day was for you, but isn't. Maybe you won't feel so jealous of friends who don't have to do it alone, and who's spouses shower them with affection and appreciation. But it's ok if you still do. We'll get there, you and I. It's a hard day. A great day, but a hard day.
So maybe I've never met you. Maybe we are great friends. Maybe no one knows yet that this was your first Mother's Day alone. But I do know this, beautiful mama… you are so much stronger and more beautiful than you know. And even when you feel invisible, there are people like year-ago-me who look at you in awe, and wonder how you do what you do. How you are everything to everyone and still manage to hold your head up and take on the world. People see. I see. Your Heavenly Father sees.
This is my prayer for us, single moms… that tonight, and every night, when you lie in your bed alone or surrounded by your babies, that you feel undeniably, heart-swellingly loved and cherished and doted on by your Daddy in Heaven. Because He sees everything. All of our struggles. All of our tears. All of our sacrifices and struggles. He will never leave us. Never die. Never change. Never disappoint. And I pray that we can quiet the voices inside ourselves that rage and mourn and worry and fear long enough to hear Him say "I see you. Your every breath. Your every tear. Your every laugh. Your every fear. I see you trying to give your kids a better life. I see you trying to serve me with a heart that is undivided and grateful. I see you giving everything you have and then giving some more. I hear your prayers and petitions for love and healing and comfort. And I am all of those things. My beautiful daughter, I am SO PROUD of you. I am so proud. You are so loved. You are taken care of. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows."
Maybe this Mother's Day hasn't been happy for you. It really wasn't for me. I get it. But I do pray that it will be filled with comfort. With peace from our Father. With hope for the future. With love from your children. You are loved, warrior mama. You are so perfectly and beautifully loved by the truest and most perfect Love.
Happy Mother's Day.
This year is the first Mother's Day where I have joined your ranks. It's been a hard day, and I've been doing a lot of thinking.
I used to say that I could never be a single mom. That I wasn't strong enough. That I didn't know how you all do it. I'd say it to my husband, holding his hand, telling him that I was so glad I'd always have him there to do life and parenthood with me. I had no idea that my future would have me single parenting right along with you.
Here's what I have to say now. And I'll probably have something different to say next year when the dust has settled a bit more and I've found my footing.
I still don't know how you do it. I don't know how I do it most days.
I'm sorry that you have to. I'm sorry that I have to. This is not a job for one. It's just not. But we do it because what other option is there? Who else will do what we do?
So here's a love letter to you, to me, to the mom scared shitless because her husband just walked out on her last week. To the moms we will welcome into our ranks with our own broken hearts and open arms, the ranks we don't want to see grow. The ranks of the tired, the lonely, the brave, and the blessed. The silent army of moms who do it all for everyone and fall into bed at night exhausted, but knowing their shift doesn't end when the sun goes down. The sweat soaked and tear streaked warriors who press on even when they feel like their world has shattered and they have nothing left to give. This is for us. For you.
I know you, tired mama.
You are me.
You are the stranger-sister juggling two people's worth of burdens in the Target parking lot with a baby that is tired and crabby and always on your hip.
You are the mom who shuts herself into the bathroom for ten minutes when everything becomes more than you can handle after days and days of aloneness and silently cries so her kids don't have to see her tears.
You are the proud mom who cheers with all her might as her daughter graduates her first year of preschool.
You are the midnight doctor that comforts a feverish toddler, praying quietly for their relief.
You are the woman who never ever ever thought that her husband would leave.
Or pass away.
Or simply cease to exist as you knew him.
You are the chef who has made three meals before she realizes she's forgotten to feed herself. Again.
You are the woman who will not give up hope that this is not all there is.
You are the dreamer, the one who looks into the future and sees a million beautiful possibilities.
You are the Survivor that has found a way to make it through obstacles you never knew existed before you had to do it all yourself.
You are the fervent prayer warrior that prays and prays and prays for better things for her children. A better life. A whole family. A whole heart.
You are the Hero her kids can depend on, day in and day out.
You are the safe place. The constant. The rest for her children in the midst of a cruel world.
You are the endless burner of midnight oil who wakes again, and again, and again to soothe babies after nightmares, and teething, and fevered unrest.
You are the beautiful woman who feels unseen. Unknown. Unprotected.
You are the woman who knows that her worth is in God alone. Not in a man. Not in her kids. Not in her career. Not in her struggles. Not in her victories.
You are a mom. The most selfless calling there is.
And tonight, if this day has been as hard for you as it's been for me, you may be having a hard time remembering all of the things that make you so truly amazing. Maybe you find yourself feeling guilty that this day has caught you so off guard in the way it's brought you so flipping low instead of joyful because you're a mom and you love your kids.
I need to tell you, because I need to tell myself, that's ok. You don't have to feel guilty. You bear a heavy burden. It's an amazing one, I bet you'd never give it up, I know I wouldn't, but it's still so big. Maybe next year you won't feel crushed under the weight of what you wish Mother's Day was for you, but isn't. Maybe you won't feel so jealous of friends who don't have to do it alone, and who's spouses shower them with affection and appreciation. But it's ok if you still do. We'll get there, you and I. It's a hard day. A great day, but a hard day.
So maybe I've never met you. Maybe we are great friends. Maybe no one knows yet that this was your first Mother's Day alone. But I do know this, beautiful mama… you are so much stronger and more beautiful than you know. And even when you feel invisible, there are people like year-ago-me who look at you in awe, and wonder how you do what you do. How you are everything to everyone and still manage to hold your head up and take on the world. People see. I see. Your Heavenly Father sees.
This is my prayer for us, single moms… that tonight, and every night, when you lie in your bed alone or surrounded by your babies, that you feel undeniably, heart-swellingly loved and cherished and doted on by your Daddy in Heaven. Because He sees everything. All of our struggles. All of our tears. All of our sacrifices and struggles. He will never leave us. Never die. Never change. Never disappoint. And I pray that we can quiet the voices inside ourselves that rage and mourn and worry and fear long enough to hear Him say "I see you. Your every breath. Your every tear. Your every laugh. Your every fear. I see you trying to give your kids a better life. I see you trying to serve me with a heart that is undivided and grateful. I see you giving everything you have and then giving some more. I hear your prayers and petitions for love and healing and comfort. And I am all of those things. My beautiful daughter, I am SO PROUD of you. I am so proud. You are so loved. You are taken care of. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows."
Maybe this Mother's Day hasn't been happy for you. It really wasn't for me. I get it. But I do pray that it will be filled with comfort. With peace from our Father. With hope for the future. With love from your children. You are loved, warrior mama. You are so perfectly and beautifully loved by the truest and most perfect Love.
Happy Mother's Day.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Dear Sweet Daughter of Mine
My dear little girl,
We've had a rough go of it this past year. Lots of change, lots of hurt, lots of scary stuff that you probably can't really understand. I try so hard to explain it to you in a way that makes it less scary, but still leaves you with the big picture. I worry that I am failing. I worry that I am not saying enough, or that I am saying too much.
My sweet one, I wish there was a way that I could shield your heart from all of these gross, hateful, heartbreaking adult changes that our family is going through right now. You are so smart and so intuitive and empathetic. I worry that your heart is absorbing so much more than I can see. I worry about the sadness you are feeling. I worry that you are going to grow up with scars that you should never ever have had to bear. I worry that I won't be able to protect you from the feelings of loss and abandonment. That I won't be enough for you in the day to day, especially while I am still grieving too.
Being your mommy has been the most amazing, life changing event. I promise that I am trying my best, even when I fail miserably. I promise to always say sorry when I am in the wrong. To hold you when you cry. To remind you daily of your worth. To show you what unconditional love looks like so you never ever have to grow up with the scars that come with never having experienced it. I have seen what that does to a person, and I will never let that happen to you, my love. You are strong, and brave, and kind. I'll remind you when you feel unsure.
I promise that I will try so hard to help you grow up and see that you deserve better than the way that mommy was treated. Because if I ever had to watch you go through what I am going through right now it would kill me. My sweet one, you deserve better. I will fight for you. I will fight for your heart. I will try daily to put God first and make sure that you know that your Heavenly Father is only good. That he will never ever leave you. He will never ever forsake you. He keeps his Word, and He is for you. That's what you deserve. That's what love really looks like.
Sometimes I worry. I worry when you are acting out that I've done something wrong, said the wrong things, not comforted you enough in the last nine scary months. I worry that the damage you have already suffered is deep and raw and will alter your life's path. I'm your mom. I worry about everything. But then you go and do the most amazing things. I hear you in the other room, worshipping your sweet heart out, and walk in to see you with your eyes closed, your face and hands lifted to the One who is Worthy, and I feel peace and hope that at least I'm doing the most important thing right. I have hope that I'm modeling that you can always trust your Heavenly Father. That He is always worthy of your love, even in the midst of really trying and heartbreaking times. Because if you have that, sweet one, you can make it through anything.
It grieves my heart that you have been robbed of the innocence of your childhood. That you have had the simplicity of a child's trust stolen from you. It makes my mama heart hurt, and it makes my mama heart angry. I never questioned any of the things you will question now when I was growing up, and it breaks me that this is your broken reality.
But I promise you this, my little girl, God can redeem. God will redeem. That's what He does. He takes heartbreaking brokenness and unrecognizable ashes and builds something so very beautiful. I believe that is what He will do in our lives, yours, mine, and your brother's. I wait every day to see how it will unfold. How He will redeem.
So I may worry, because that's what moms do, but in the deep of my heart I have faith that He will provide. He will redeem. He will protect you and your heart. He will help you choose more wisely than your mother did when you are ready to fall in love and start your own family. He will keep your heart safe and healthy. I can't promise that you'll never experience heartbreak. In fact, unfortunately I can promise you that you will. But I can also promise that your Daddy in Heaven is bigger than any heartbreak. Including the one you are feeling now.
You are so loved, my sweet, silly baby. And your Heavenly Father and I will make sure you always know it. No matter what.
We've had a rough go of it this past year. Lots of change, lots of hurt, lots of scary stuff that you probably can't really understand. I try so hard to explain it to you in a way that makes it less scary, but still leaves you with the big picture. I worry that I am failing. I worry that I am not saying enough, or that I am saying too much.
My sweet one, I wish there was a way that I could shield your heart from all of these gross, hateful, heartbreaking adult changes that our family is going through right now. You are so smart and so intuitive and empathetic. I worry that your heart is absorbing so much more than I can see. I worry about the sadness you are feeling. I worry that you are going to grow up with scars that you should never ever have had to bear. I worry that I won't be able to protect you from the feelings of loss and abandonment. That I won't be enough for you in the day to day, especially while I am still grieving too.
Being your mommy has been the most amazing, life changing event. I promise that I am trying my best, even when I fail miserably. I promise to always say sorry when I am in the wrong. To hold you when you cry. To remind you daily of your worth. To show you what unconditional love looks like so you never ever have to grow up with the scars that come with never having experienced it. I have seen what that does to a person, and I will never let that happen to you, my love. You are strong, and brave, and kind. I'll remind you when you feel unsure.
I promise that I will try so hard to help you grow up and see that you deserve better than the way that mommy was treated. Because if I ever had to watch you go through what I am going through right now it would kill me. My sweet one, you deserve better. I will fight for you. I will fight for your heart. I will try daily to put God first and make sure that you know that your Heavenly Father is only good. That he will never ever leave you. He will never ever forsake you. He keeps his Word, and He is for you. That's what you deserve. That's what love really looks like.
Sometimes I worry. I worry when you are acting out that I've done something wrong, said the wrong things, not comforted you enough in the last nine scary months. I worry that the damage you have already suffered is deep and raw and will alter your life's path. I'm your mom. I worry about everything. But then you go and do the most amazing things. I hear you in the other room, worshipping your sweet heart out, and walk in to see you with your eyes closed, your face and hands lifted to the One who is Worthy, and I feel peace and hope that at least I'm doing the most important thing right. I have hope that I'm modeling that you can always trust your Heavenly Father. That He is always worthy of your love, even in the midst of really trying and heartbreaking times. Because if you have that, sweet one, you can make it through anything.
It grieves my heart that you have been robbed of the innocence of your childhood. That you have had the simplicity of a child's trust stolen from you. It makes my mama heart hurt, and it makes my mama heart angry. I never questioned any of the things you will question now when I was growing up, and it breaks me that this is your broken reality.
But I promise you this, my little girl, God can redeem. God will redeem. That's what He does. He takes heartbreaking brokenness and unrecognizable ashes and builds something so very beautiful. I believe that is what He will do in our lives, yours, mine, and your brother's. I wait every day to see how it will unfold. How He will redeem.
So I may worry, because that's what moms do, but in the deep of my heart I have faith that He will provide. He will redeem. He will protect you and your heart. He will help you choose more wisely than your mother did when you are ready to fall in love and start your own family. He will keep your heart safe and healthy. I can't promise that you'll never experience heartbreak. In fact, unfortunately I can promise you that you will. But I can also promise that your Daddy in Heaven is bigger than any heartbreak. Including the one you are feeling now.
You are so loved, my sweet, silly baby. And your Heavenly Father and I will make sure you always know it. No matter what.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Finding Hope in the Sunrise
Hope is a funny thing.
Generally speaking, I'm essentially what you would classify as an optimist. I see hope even in the blackest situation. I feel within my core that there is always a way. That Love will win. That Good will triumph. That Truth will always come to light.
I know that this is part of my character because it is something innate that God has placed within me. He has given us an eternal Hope. A Hope that always wins. But sometimes I place my hope in idols, and idols always disappoint.
It's hard to admit that something that was/is good has become an idol. Maybe it's your job, your family, your money, or, in my case, your spouse. To place something above God, whether willfully, or out of complacency, fear, laziness, I don't know… different days, different reasons. To place your hopes and your trust in something that God has made instead of the Maker is unfortunately not hard to do.
Ever the optimist, ever the hopeful and naive one, I've felt hope even after the first divorce papers were filed. Hope that he would change his mind. Hope that he would love me. Hope that he would fight for me. Hope that he'd finally see me, like really truly see me, and see that I was worth whatever it took. And the voices of people around me telling me that there is still hope- that marriages have been saved from the brink many times- to not give up. To hold onto hope. The voices fueled my optimism. My misguided hope.
But hope in what, exactly? Or more precisely, hope in Whom? Hope in my husband who has given not a single shred of effort to save our marriage in the last six months? Hope in a man who is bound and determined to never look back? I find myself hoping in him sometimes, even now. "Somewhere, maybe down really deep, he's still in there. He's just scared. Or proud. Or ashamed. He won't actually do this. He won't actually rip himself from me and leave me alone in the world. He wouldn't do that." But that hope is wrong. That hope is a lie. And an idol. And it's completely misplaced.
Yes. Marriages have come back from the brink. But not because the wayward spouse wills themselves to repent. Not because the abandoned spouse made the right arguments, spouted the right logic. Marriages have come back from the dead because of the ONLY one we can truly put our hopes in.
The Resurrected King. The defeater of death. The God of rebirth and life.
I'm trying to find my way back to hoping only in Him. The one who died for me and rose again. The one who laid down his life for me while I denied him, scourged him, mocked him, and rejected him. The one who loved me despite my sin, my darkness, my brokenness, my shame, and my shortcomings.
That Hope could breathe life back into my dying marriage. Absolutely. Just like He has done many times for others. He could work a miracle and breathe life into something that has ceased to live. I can't discount that possibility. I can't deny Him the space to move and work and have His way. He's a good God who loves marriage. Who heals families, and brings restoration. He can do anything. I absolutely can say that I still have hope. In the God who could do all of those things.
Even if He doesn't.
See, what I'm learning is that you can't put your hope in man, or chariots, or horses, or marriages, or anything else of this world. Minds are broken. Hearts are feeble. Men are weak and selfish. If you put your trust in those things, you are sure to be disappointed. Because even if God is calling and prompting, and leading someone towards something, they can still say "no" and turn the other way. They can walk away in disobedience and rebellion. They can choose sin.
But God. God never chooses sin. Never chooses selfishness. Never chooses bitterness. Never chooses unforgiveness. Never chooses spite. Never chooses death.
No matter what my husband chooses, or what your child chooses, or what your parent chooses, or your girlfriend chooses- there is hope. A hope that transcends all of this earthly suffering. Hear me here- I'm not saying that Hope means we won't suffer. I mean, Jesus promises us that we will suffer. I'm saying that there's a light at the end of even the darkest tunnels. Even if you're so in the thick of it that you just can't see anything but pitch black. Trust me. Trust HIM. There is light. There is hope. There is life.
I find that often times when I go through intense trials that my hope feels more real. In times when it feels like everything is falling apart and there is no logical reason to have hope- and I'm all about the logic of feelings and reasons and things- that hope swells up in me unfettered. That I'm expectant. I find myself waiting for the dawn because I know that after the fiercest storms come the most spectacular sunrises.
Beauty from ashes.
Hope from hopelessness.
This is the most battered I've ever been. This is the fiercest storm I've ever clung to life through. It's bleak, and black, and awful. The night is raging all around me and I can't see anything.
So I just know- deep in the core of my heart- that whatever the dawn brings is going to be breathtaking. Because that is this hope I have in my God. Because "Light dawns in the darkness for the upright; He is gracious, merciful, and righteous" (psalm 112:4)
So I'm trying to cling to hope in the Lord. Even if he doesn't restore what is broken and dying. Because He won't force anyone into anything. Even if He knows it would be better in the long run. And I'm trying not to put my hope in a man or a marriage, because it's brought nothing but heartbreak and intense pain. And even if my marriage truly dies, out of the ashes I know that God will fashion something stunning. Out of the darkness, the most beautiful morning will eventually dawn.
Hope is not lost.
Hope is never lost. He reigns eternal.
Generally speaking, I'm essentially what you would classify as an optimist. I see hope even in the blackest situation. I feel within my core that there is always a way. That Love will win. That Good will triumph. That Truth will always come to light.
I know that this is part of my character because it is something innate that God has placed within me. He has given us an eternal Hope. A Hope that always wins. But sometimes I place my hope in idols, and idols always disappoint.
It's hard to admit that something that was/is good has become an idol. Maybe it's your job, your family, your money, or, in my case, your spouse. To place something above God, whether willfully, or out of complacency, fear, laziness, I don't know… different days, different reasons. To place your hopes and your trust in something that God has made instead of the Maker is unfortunately not hard to do.
Ever the optimist, ever the hopeful and naive one, I've felt hope even after the first divorce papers were filed. Hope that he would change his mind. Hope that he would love me. Hope that he would fight for me. Hope that he'd finally see me, like really truly see me, and see that I was worth whatever it took. And the voices of people around me telling me that there is still hope- that marriages have been saved from the brink many times- to not give up. To hold onto hope. The voices fueled my optimism. My misguided hope.
But hope in what, exactly? Or more precisely, hope in Whom? Hope in my husband who has given not a single shred of effort to save our marriage in the last six months? Hope in a man who is bound and determined to never look back? I find myself hoping in him sometimes, even now. "Somewhere, maybe down really deep, he's still in there. He's just scared. Or proud. Or ashamed. He won't actually do this. He won't actually rip himself from me and leave me alone in the world. He wouldn't do that." But that hope is wrong. That hope is a lie. And an idol. And it's completely misplaced.
Yes. Marriages have come back from the brink. But not because the wayward spouse wills themselves to repent. Not because the abandoned spouse made the right arguments, spouted the right logic. Marriages have come back from the dead because of the ONLY one we can truly put our hopes in.
The Resurrected King. The defeater of death. The God of rebirth and life.
I'm trying to find my way back to hoping only in Him. The one who died for me and rose again. The one who laid down his life for me while I denied him, scourged him, mocked him, and rejected him. The one who loved me despite my sin, my darkness, my brokenness, my shame, and my shortcomings.
That Hope could breathe life back into my dying marriage. Absolutely. Just like He has done many times for others. He could work a miracle and breathe life into something that has ceased to live. I can't discount that possibility. I can't deny Him the space to move and work and have His way. He's a good God who loves marriage. Who heals families, and brings restoration. He can do anything. I absolutely can say that I still have hope. In the God who could do all of those things.
Even if He doesn't.
See, what I'm learning is that you can't put your hope in man, or chariots, or horses, or marriages, or anything else of this world. Minds are broken. Hearts are feeble. Men are weak and selfish. If you put your trust in those things, you are sure to be disappointed. Because even if God is calling and prompting, and leading someone towards something, they can still say "no" and turn the other way. They can walk away in disobedience and rebellion. They can choose sin.
But God. God never chooses sin. Never chooses selfishness. Never chooses bitterness. Never chooses unforgiveness. Never chooses spite. Never chooses death.
No matter what my husband chooses, or what your child chooses, or what your parent chooses, or your girlfriend chooses- there is hope. A hope that transcends all of this earthly suffering. Hear me here- I'm not saying that Hope means we won't suffer. I mean, Jesus promises us that we will suffer. I'm saying that there's a light at the end of even the darkest tunnels. Even if you're so in the thick of it that you just can't see anything but pitch black. Trust me. Trust HIM. There is light. There is hope. There is life.
I find that often times when I go through intense trials that my hope feels more real. In times when it feels like everything is falling apart and there is no logical reason to have hope- and I'm all about the logic of feelings and reasons and things- that hope swells up in me unfettered. That I'm expectant. I find myself waiting for the dawn because I know that after the fiercest storms come the most spectacular sunrises.
Beauty from ashes.
Hope from hopelessness.
This is the most battered I've ever been. This is the fiercest storm I've ever clung to life through. It's bleak, and black, and awful. The night is raging all around me and I can't see anything.
So I just know- deep in the core of my heart- that whatever the dawn brings is going to be breathtaking. Because that is this hope I have in my God. Because "Light dawns in the darkness for the upright; He is gracious, merciful, and righteous" (psalm 112:4)
So I'm trying to cling to hope in the Lord. Even if he doesn't restore what is broken and dying. Because He won't force anyone into anything. Even if He knows it would be better in the long run. And I'm trying not to put my hope in a man or a marriage, because it's brought nothing but heartbreak and intense pain. And even if my marriage truly dies, out of the ashes I know that God will fashion something stunning. Out of the darkness, the most beautiful morning will eventually dawn.
Hope is not lost.
Hope is never lost. He reigns eternal.
Friday, March 25, 2016
What One Grieving Friend Wants You to Know
Ok. Another dark and gloomy post. Sort of. Halfway. We'll see soon, I guess. I never really know what is going to make it's way out of these fingers once they hit the keyboard. So on we go.
Grief is lonely. It's one of those intensely personal, intensely overwhelming things that seems at times like it has no end. And often it doesn't. In the last five years I have experienced several different forms of loss and grief.
Almost a year and a half ago I lost a baby. That loss has shaped me profoundly. We named him/her Avery. Lost at almost 11 weeks on New Years Day, I was completely and utterly shattered. To love someone that you've never met, and then to lose them before your eyes are ever able to behold their beauty… it's unfathomable. The physical and emotional toll was heavy, and painful, and dark.
And I thought I was alone.
Until I wrote a blog post about losing my sweet Avery, and the comments started pouring in. I think by the time they finally died down there were about 100 comments. The vast majority from friends that had also lost babies. The vast majority of those were losses I never even knew about. Suffered and mourned in silence. And I started to feel a new sense of loss. I had a new reason to grieve. Because when we lose someone we love, especially if it could be construed that we had a hand in it, there is shame there that we don't want to feel.
Now, hear me, that shame is a lie. That shame is the devil trying to isolate you. To get you to stay silent. To let yourself feel the weight of that burden alone. Because here's the thing- when we speak out about our grief and our losses, sometimes it frees others to do the same. Sometimes it opens the door for someone who has been desperate for support to reach out for it and share their burdens. Because grief is an extraordinarily heavy load to bear. And as Christians, we are called to share in the suffering of others, taking some of the weight if we can, provide love, compassion, and support. So losing my baby and opening up about it made me painfully aware of how difficult it is for people to ask for help, support, and for others to mourn with them. Ironically, in doing so myself, I found it freed a few others to do the same.
Today I am experiencing a new kind of loss, and an incredibly dark form of grief. Sharing the loss of my baby was hard. It felt like a risk. Sharing the loss of my marriage has been awful. The shame I feel from being left by my husband, of his complete and utter refusal to love me when it was hard, to fight for me and our marriage, and to love me unconditionally like he vowed to the day we became one… the shame of that is crushing. The shame of being left, the embarrassment, the feeling of worthlessness on top of the blackest grief I've ever felt is almost too much to bear.
If you've read any of this blog you'll probably see that I don't have much of a filter. I'm a sharer. I believe that when we go through stuff, it's ok to talk about it. Maybe someone else is going through something similar and they just need to hear that they aren't alone at the exact moment when they are thinking about ending it all. Maybe someone needs to hear what another person is going through to find the strength to deal with abuse, or adultery, or addiction. Who knows? That's the point- I don't know. But I do know that writing helps me process and heal, so maybe it will speak to someone else one day. That being said, sharing this part of my life has been incredibly difficult.
I feel like I'm a failure. I'm grieving the loss of my best friend and the man I thought was the love of my life, I'm grieving the loss of stability for my children, I'm grieving the beautiful dreams I had when I said yes to his marriage proposal, I'm grieving the brokenness my kids will come to see as normal…
It's an endless sea of grief.
Part of the reason I have had a hard time putting things into words is because of the emotional abuse I've realized I've been being conditioned with over the past few years. The complete and total negation of my feelings, struggles, and fears. The belittling of my heart. The accusations of lying about the circumstances. The constant gas-lighting and blame shifting for everything from his affair, to how he was incapable of seeing my depression for what it was instead of taking it as a personal assault. When you are being told by the person you used to trust most that you are "pathetic" for needing the support of your friends and community around you, and God forbid, help as you try to begin to navigate the incredibly isolating and exhausting reality of your new situation, it can be hard not to internalize and accept that accusation. That condemnation. And when that is not an out-of-the-ordinary comment or type of comment, it becomes very easy to want to stay silent. But silent I will not stay.
So on to my point. What your grieving friend (aka me, but parts of this probably apply to the other grieving friends around you) wants you to know.
Loss is so freaking messy. I know there are people out there that handle loss with incredible grace and dignity. I'm finding that I'm not really one of them. I know that makes me hard to be around. I know that those raw and difficult emotions are uncomfortable. I know you don't know what to say. I know you want to make it better, to diminish the pain, to make sense of the loss.
But you can't. It doesn't make sense. Loss so rarely does. And it's ok if you don't know what to say. Frankly, sometimes the most comforting things friends have said to me in the past six months are not things that I'd typically classify as comforting.
Go ahead and tell me that you're sorry. I'm sorry too. Go ahead and tell me that it really freaking sucks, and you don't understand it. I don't either. And it helps to hear that I'm not the only one, because some days I feel like I'm losing my mind. That reality has somehow shifted into this warped nightmare that I can't wake up from. It's ok to tell me that you don't know what to say. It's ok to sit in silence next to me when words just aren't enough. Tell me anything, really. As long as you're not trying to "fix" it, or me.
Grieving people can be hard to be around because we don't always have the extra capacity to make the first move, make light conversation, or smile like we used to. We know we're hard to be around. I've never in all of my life felt like a burden the way I do right now in the midst of my pain and grief. I have one really amazing friend who listens to everything. And I mean everything. She's heard so much and listened for so long, and it pains me to put any more of the weight of my grief on her. I've told her so many times that I hate that this is all I have to talk about these days. That this is who I am right now. And I know it's affecting her. But she listens. And she checks up on me if there's radio silence for too long. And she isn't offended by my flakiness and absent mindedness.
And I think that's what I'd like you to know. When people ask what they can do to help, it seems hard to find an answer. Because help is in the intangibles. Help is calling once or twice a week to make sure a grieving friend isn't isolating themselves and crying themselves to sleep too many nights a week. Help is sitting silently next to a heartbroken friend and holding their hand because words just aren't enough. It's still inviting them over to events that used to be "couples" type activities even if you're worried it will make them feel awkward. It probably won't. They'll just be thankful that you are thinking about them and that they won't have to be alone with their grief for that hour or two. Help looks like random coffee-drop offs and play dates in the morning so your friend can take a hot shower without worrying that one of their children will somehow end up with a concussion. Help looks like being unafraid to offer to lay hands on your friend and pray for their heart, their circumstances, and their faith.
Basically, I'm asking you not to forget your grieving friends. Because there's a pretty good chance that we are already struggling with feelings of worthlessness, feelings of isolation, and feelings of insecurity. I know that I'm not the bubbly, outgoing woman I once was. I'll find her again, I know I will. But I think I will find her that much sooner with the help of the love of people who can see through the volatility, darkness, and discomfort of grief.
Then some day, God forbid, we will stand by you in your hour of loss. Shouldering your pain in the way that you shouldered ours. Weeping with you out of a heart that was softened by kind words and lovingly-spoken truth.
Grief is messy, and ugly, and raw. But the person grieving isn't. Even when we come off a bit ugly. A bit harsh. A bit raw. That's the grief speaking. The loneliness. The loss. We are just people longing for comfort, and one day, God willing, we will become expert comforters. Burden lifters. Shiners of light. One day you may even hear us say that the grief was worth it. That it made our hearts bigger, more open, more giving. One day you may hear us say that the grief that once was so dark has helped us become more like Christ.
And maybe that's what I want you to know. That this grief won't define me. But how I use it for good when it was born out of something meant for evil, now that just may.
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too."
-2 Corinthians 1:3-5
Grief is lonely. It's one of those intensely personal, intensely overwhelming things that seems at times like it has no end. And often it doesn't. In the last five years I have experienced several different forms of loss and grief.
Almost a year and a half ago I lost a baby. That loss has shaped me profoundly. We named him/her Avery. Lost at almost 11 weeks on New Years Day, I was completely and utterly shattered. To love someone that you've never met, and then to lose them before your eyes are ever able to behold their beauty… it's unfathomable. The physical and emotional toll was heavy, and painful, and dark.
And I thought I was alone.
Until I wrote a blog post about losing my sweet Avery, and the comments started pouring in. I think by the time they finally died down there were about 100 comments. The vast majority from friends that had also lost babies. The vast majority of those were losses I never even knew about. Suffered and mourned in silence. And I started to feel a new sense of loss. I had a new reason to grieve. Because when we lose someone we love, especially if it could be construed that we had a hand in it, there is shame there that we don't want to feel.
Now, hear me, that shame is a lie. That shame is the devil trying to isolate you. To get you to stay silent. To let yourself feel the weight of that burden alone. Because here's the thing- when we speak out about our grief and our losses, sometimes it frees others to do the same. Sometimes it opens the door for someone who has been desperate for support to reach out for it and share their burdens. Because grief is an extraordinarily heavy load to bear. And as Christians, we are called to share in the suffering of others, taking some of the weight if we can, provide love, compassion, and support. So losing my baby and opening up about it made me painfully aware of how difficult it is for people to ask for help, support, and for others to mourn with them. Ironically, in doing so myself, I found it freed a few others to do the same.
Today I am experiencing a new kind of loss, and an incredibly dark form of grief. Sharing the loss of my baby was hard. It felt like a risk. Sharing the loss of my marriage has been awful. The shame I feel from being left by my husband, of his complete and utter refusal to love me when it was hard, to fight for me and our marriage, and to love me unconditionally like he vowed to the day we became one… the shame of that is crushing. The shame of being left, the embarrassment, the feeling of worthlessness on top of the blackest grief I've ever felt is almost too much to bear.
If you've read any of this blog you'll probably see that I don't have much of a filter. I'm a sharer. I believe that when we go through stuff, it's ok to talk about it. Maybe someone else is going through something similar and they just need to hear that they aren't alone at the exact moment when they are thinking about ending it all. Maybe someone needs to hear what another person is going through to find the strength to deal with abuse, or adultery, or addiction. Who knows? That's the point- I don't know. But I do know that writing helps me process and heal, so maybe it will speak to someone else one day. That being said, sharing this part of my life has been incredibly difficult.
I feel like I'm a failure. I'm grieving the loss of my best friend and the man I thought was the love of my life, I'm grieving the loss of stability for my children, I'm grieving the beautiful dreams I had when I said yes to his marriage proposal, I'm grieving the brokenness my kids will come to see as normal…
It's an endless sea of grief.
Part of the reason I have had a hard time putting things into words is because of the emotional abuse I've realized I've been being conditioned with over the past few years. The complete and total negation of my feelings, struggles, and fears. The belittling of my heart. The accusations of lying about the circumstances. The constant gas-lighting and blame shifting for everything from his affair, to how he was incapable of seeing my depression for what it was instead of taking it as a personal assault. When you are being told by the person you used to trust most that you are "pathetic" for needing the support of your friends and community around you, and God forbid, help as you try to begin to navigate the incredibly isolating and exhausting reality of your new situation, it can be hard not to internalize and accept that accusation. That condemnation. And when that is not an out-of-the-ordinary comment or type of comment, it becomes very easy to want to stay silent. But silent I will not stay.
So on to my point. What your grieving friend (aka me, but parts of this probably apply to the other grieving friends around you) wants you to know.
Loss is so freaking messy. I know there are people out there that handle loss with incredible grace and dignity. I'm finding that I'm not really one of them. I know that makes me hard to be around. I know that those raw and difficult emotions are uncomfortable. I know you don't know what to say. I know you want to make it better, to diminish the pain, to make sense of the loss.
But you can't. It doesn't make sense. Loss so rarely does. And it's ok if you don't know what to say. Frankly, sometimes the most comforting things friends have said to me in the past six months are not things that I'd typically classify as comforting.
Go ahead and tell me that you're sorry. I'm sorry too. Go ahead and tell me that it really freaking sucks, and you don't understand it. I don't either. And it helps to hear that I'm not the only one, because some days I feel like I'm losing my mind. That reality has somehow shifted into this warped nightmare that I can't wake up from. It's ok to tell me that you don't know what to say. It's ok to sit in silence next to me when words just aren't enough. Tell me anything, really. As long as you're not trying to "fix" it, or me.
Grieving people can be hard to be around because we don't always have the extra capacity to make the first move, make light conversation, or smile like we used to. We know we're hard to be around. I've never in all of my life felt like a burden the way I do right now in the midst of my pain and grief. I have one really amazing friend who listens to everything. And I mean everything. She's heard so much and listened for so long, and it pains me to put any more of the weight of my grief on her. I've told her so many times that I hate that this is all I have to talk about these days. That this is who I am right now. And I know it's affecting her. But she listens. And she checks up on me if there's radio silence for too long. And she isn't offended by my flakiness and absent mindedness.
And I think that's what I'd like you to know. When people ask what they can do to help, it seems hard to find an answer. Because help is in the intangibles. Help is calling once or twice a week to make sure a grieving friend isn't isolating themselves and crying themselves to sleep too many nights a week. Help is sitting silently next to a heartbroken friend and holding their hand because words just aren't enough. It's still inviting them over to events that used to be "couples" type activities even if you're worried it will make them feel awkward. It probably won't. They'll just be thankful that you are thinking about them and that they won't have to be alone with their grief for that hour or two. Help looks like random coffee-drop offs and play dates in the morning so your friend can take a hot shower without worrying that one of their children will somehow end up with a concussion. Help looks like being unafraid to offer to lay hands on your friend and pray for their heart, their circumstances, and their faith.
Basically, I'm asking you not to forget your grieving friends. Because there's a pretty good chance that we are already struggling with feelings of worthlessness, feelings of isolation, and feelings of insecurity. I know that I'm not the bubbly, outgoing woman I once was. I'll find her again, I know I will. But I think I will find her that much sooner with the help of the love of people who can see through the volatility, darkness, and discomfort of grief.
Then some day, God forbid, we will stand by you in your hour of loss. Shouldering your pain in the way that you shouldered ours. Weeping with you out of a heart that was softened by kind words and lovingly-spoken truth.
Grief is messy, and ugly, and raw. But the person grieving isn't. Even when we come off a bit ugly. A bit harsh. A bit raw. That's the grief speaking. The loneliness. The loss. We are just people longing for comfort, and one day, God willing, we will become expert comforters. Burden lifters. Shiners of light. One day you may even hear us say that the grief was worth it. That it made our hearts bigger, more open, more giving. One day you may hear us say that the grief that once was so dark has helped us become more like Christ.
And maybe that's what I want you to know. That this grief won't define me. But how I use it for good when it was born out of something meant for evil, now that just may.
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too."
-2 Corinthians 1:3-5
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