Category Archives: grief

A Time to Embrace

The irony of the chapter we were studying from Heidi Goehmann’s devotion Casting Stones was not lost on the six of us as we sat down at our computers, each in our own corner of the world.  Not only were we not able to embrace our fellow missionary wife when she was in the thick of unforeseen circumstances and struggles, but we also met on a day when the world was shutting down due to a pandemic sweeping across the globe.  

This is not a time to embrace.  This is a time of cancellations and closures.  This is a time when people in different countries are being forced to stay indoors and required to self-quarantine.  Sporting events, concerts, and schools are all being cancelled. Basic necessities like soap and toilet paper are nowhere to be found.  This is a time like many of us have never seen before.  

A time not to shake hands, not hug, not get within six feet of one another.  But as we dug into Heidi’s study and God’s Word – YES, if ever there was a time to embrace, it is now.  

When fear and anxieties run high,

When isolation is necessary,

When our neighbor is ill,

When our friend is without work,

When the children of our community do not have lunch,

When the sojourner is unable to return home,

When the foreigner is shunned,

When every corner of the earth seems vulnerable to disease,

When the unknown is overwhelming,

the world needs an embrace.

Our neighbor needs to know we are still here.  Those isolated need to know they are loved, and the anxious need to know that God is the Almighty.  

In our study, we went over 2 Kings 8:4-37.  When Elisha visited the Shunammite woman. He promised her she would embrace a son.  She protested, “Do not lie to your servant.”  

She was scared.  Scared to admit what her heart desired.  Scared to get her hopes up.  

I, too, have been scared to admit what my heart desired.  Wanting a baby after experiencing a loss is a fragile hope that is faintly whispered because the chance of another heart-shattering loss would be too much.  A pregnancy after a stillbirth was a constant battle on my knees not to let fear overtake me. “Dear Lord, do not lie to me.” “Do not let me get my hopes up if I will not embrace a baby after birth.”  “I am fragile, Lord.” I saw myself in the verse of the Shunammite woman.

Her son was born, he grew, and he died – in her arms.  And, oh, the emotion the Shunammite woman must have felt.  But when reading this passage, what jumped out at me was her response.  She told her husband she was going to the man of God. When asked why, she replied, “All is well.”  “All is well” translates to “shalom” or “peace.” She was saying it’s fine, or do not worry about it.

Her dismissive response caught me by surprise and drew me in.  It is what I can intimately relate to so well. It is fine.  I am fine.

I often hold my emotions close.  Understanding when to be vulnerable and honest in this world has been tricky for me. Especially with the hustle and bustle of busy lives.  When are my emotions an inconvenience to those around me? Who has time to help me grieve? Who can sit with me in the darkness? So to protect myself before really even evaluating my own emotions, I often respond, “I am fine.”  

The Shunammite woman did this twice.  First with her husband and then with Elisha’s servant, she uttered, “All is well.” It wasn’t until she saw Elisha that she “caught hold of his feet.”  She held it together until she felt safe to fall into him, to collapse from the weight of the grief. Elisha tells us she was in “bitter distress.” She was confused and angry.  She told him not to get her hopes up, and she reminded him of that. 

I’ve been in need of an embrace of that magnitude.  I walked around dismissing concerns until I felt safe enough to collapse into an embrace. This is the embrace our world will need.  This is the embrace our neighbor will need. This is the embrace we, the church, can offer. When the restrictions lift, when it is safe to be together again, when we walk outside our homes and assess the damage around us, we must  keep our eyes open. Who will need us to be their neighbor? 

Some of our neighbors will be in desperate need of an embrace and will need to collapse into the arms of someone who cares.  Be ready to embrace those who have gone without pay and do not know how they will continue to make ends meet. Some of our neighbors will have lost loved ones and may not have had the chance to say goodbye.  Some of our neighbors will be physically and mentally exhausted from attending to and caring for the sick. Some of our neighbors will be in need of human contact, a friend, someone to talk to after weeks spent in isolation.  Some of our neighbors will be facing burdens and holding pain they won’t be able to verbally express. Embrace your neighbor. Let them collapse into your arms. Remind them that they are not alone. Remind them that they are loved.  Embrace them. 

And until then…

Care for one another the best you can under these unprecedented circumstances.  Reach out with phone calls, letters, and emails.  

In the last twenty-four hours, I have seen friends and family across Facebook in many different corners of the world offer to buy meals for children who will no longer receive a school lunch, offer to pick up groceries for those who are the most vulnerable and do not feel comfortable to leave their house, provide resources to those stuck with little ones inside for days on end, and so many more beautiful acts of kindness.  

This is a time to love your neighbor. Love as Christ has loved us.  We may not be physically able to embrace during this time of distance, but know that you are loved.  You are not alone during this time of uncertainty. Your anxieties and fears are not silly, and I pray for you the “peace that surpasses all understanding” (Philippians 4:7). Take heart, dearest friend, our Lord has “overcome the world” (John 16:33). He has us in the palm of His hand.  He is our comfort. He is our shield.  He is our healer. You are precious to Him. 

You are loved.  

“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


The Missionary Left Behind

This missionary world is made up of very different, usually odd (I can say that because I am one of them), individuals and families who have been brought together by the Lord to serve His people in different parts of the world. These brothers and sisters aren’t always the friends I would have chosen for myself, and sometimes personality conflicts exist. But nevertheless we are all thrown together, and we call it family. We become a family because this group of people we serve with understands our life in a way that no friend or family member back home ever could. They are family because they have been through the similar struggles and triumphs of leaving loved ones, adjusting to culture, and experiencing trauma we can’t always write home about. So this group of odd individuals–odd because normal people don’t give up everything and live outside their comfort zone to tell the world about Jesus–is now our family, our missionary family.

This new family we have acquired is like every other family. Some members struggle to get along. Others love to be together. Some cause drama, and some keep to themselves. It is a large, messy family. Some of our family live close by and will be there when we need them to bring meals, take us to the doctor, babysit, and help in times of crisis. Some family members live half a world away, and we see them once or maybe twice a year. We love catching up with them, and our time together always goes too fast. Phone calls, messages, and video chats hold us over until the next time we get to be together. This is a family. This is our missionary family. 

But this missionary family is not like every other family. It is fluid. It existed before us, and it will exist after us. We are everything to these brothers and sisters–until we are not. There will come a day when our favorite sister or brother will leave the field. They will not be missionaries forever, and in reality, neither will we. We may be a part of this family for a year, three years, ten years, or more than twenty. We have seen family members come and go. And during the time they are our family, we will drop everything to help them out, to support them, to love them, and to care for them. They need us to survive, and we need them just as much. And then they will be gone. And our family dynamics will change once again. 

We live in this fluid family as our greatest weaknesses are exposed through culture shock and language learning. This family sees us at our very worst. They care for us when we are too sick to get out of bed. They sit by our hospital bed and help us translate devastating test results. They see us at our lowest moments and love us all the same.  And yet, we don’t always let them in.  

It is hard to build trust and transparency in this family.  We are all well aware that this family isn’t forever, and our hearts are already fractured from saying so many goodbyes in our home country. Is it possible to get close to new family members if we know more goodbyes are coming?  So we do what we can to protect ourselves. We don’t always let them in and probably not when we really should. We don’t let them in because we know the day is coming when another missionary will announce the decision to return home.

It only took about six months after we entered this family to come to this realization. The culture shock was wearing off, and we had said our first goodbye to a missionary family member. We felt the thoughts of sadness but noticed other missionaries experiencing emotions far more complicated and laced with anger. How could they be angry? If God has called every missionary to the mission field, then by that same reasoning, can’t He call them away? Shouldn’t we rejoice equally with each call from our Father?  

Years later, we get it. We are now the missionaries with the complicated emotions laced with anger.  The mission field has bruised us. We have been beaten down. Our hands and our hearts have callouses from the work we have been sent to do. The labor is tough. We have had more failures than triumphs, and we are tired. Oh, how we are tired! We know it’s coming. It happens about every six months. We don’t look forward to it. But we know it is coming because that has been the pattern since we entered this family: another goodbye is just around the corner.  

We spend all year working, toiling a ground that is hard and unforgiving. We go through challenges that are unimaginable and feel insurmountable. Our family loves us and cares for us the best they can, but it often feels as if it isn’t enough. And just the same, we love and care for our mission family that is made up of so many different people, each struggling with enormous challenges, each being spiritually attacked in different ways, each facing their own fears and weaknesses, each being beaten down by the logistical challenges of living in a foreign country, each dealing with health concerns big or small. We care for them as best we can, but we know it is often not enough. The mission family has a lot of members to care for each other but at the same time a lot of members need care. The scale is often tipped too far in the unfavorable direction. 

So we get it. We understand when it comes. We are no longer naïve and wearing rose-colored glasses in this missionary life. Our hearts grieve, and our feelings aren’t always supportive. But they are real, and they are honest. We aren’t always as supportive as we should be because it hurts to lose a family member. We go through this process each time. Sometimes some stages are stronger than others. But we still feel them.  

Here is what I have come to know as the ten stages of grief when losing a missionary:  

1.    Sadness – I like this family member. We had great times together. We were there for each other through struggles and hard times. We laughed together. We cried together. We made memories. Missionary life will be different without them.

2.    Happiness – I know this is something they want. Life has been hard and unfair. They have been beaten down. They haven’t had the help and care they needed. They could use rest. They need to feel safe again. They need to be closer to their family. They have been presented with an opportunity that will give them all these things, and I want them to be happy.  

3.    Jealousy – It’s not us, and we are tired, too. I, too, want rest and recovery and to feel safe. I am struggling. My family is struggling. Our struggles seem just as big if not bigger. Why hasn’t God brought us a new path? Why can’t we live closer to our family and friends? I want help. I want to live closer to the things that are familiar. I want to be able to breathe again.  

4.    Guilt – for the jealousy. I shouldn’t feel jealous. I should trust God’s plan for us. I should trust His timing for our family. I should know that He has a reason for keeping us where we are right now. 

5.    Pride – It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my family. We are still here. We weren’t the next ones to leave. Oh, how there were days when I thought it would be us. I haven’t given up yet. I didn’t throw in the towel. We survived another six months, and we weren’t the next one to say goodbye to the family. We didn’t call it quits. Way to go us!  (Guilt with this one too – because I shouldn’t rejoice or pat ourselves on the back when someone else leaves.)

6.    Frustration – The needs of these missionaries didn’t get met. They were struggling. Life was hard. Couldn’t there have been something done to give them more help and support? Couldn’t there have been something done to keep them on the field longer?

7.    Judgment — Why couldn’t they have tried harder to stick it out? Don’t they know how much work there is left to do? Couldn’t they have made it longer? Don’t they know how others have survived in worse conditions?  (I can’t believe how ugly my thoughts can be at times!)

8.    Anger – There is still work to do. The work left undone, and the extra work that is involved in helping move a family home will be placed on the already heavy loads of the remaining missionaries. They can’t take on more work. They are already buckling under the loads they are currently carrying. We all are.  

9.    Defeat – It will take about two years to replace them–at least! I will have to get to know new family members. Maybe I won’t get along with them. The work will not continue, or others will carry the workload for two years until replacements can be found.  Will they be able to do that? Will it be too much for them?

10.  Hopelessness – The system is broken, and the cycle doesn’t seem to end.  It takes two years to bring a missionary to the field, two years for a missionary to learn language, culture, and become effective, and on average, a missionary leaves one year after that. There has to be a better way. There must be something that can be done.  The problem is so far beyond one person. So far beyond us. It all feels hopeless. 

What was it? What was the real reason they left? Would they ever be able to tell anyone? What could have been done to keep them longer? This has been a question I have wondered since we got here. I have tried so hard to search for this answer.  I want so badly to fix this cycle because it will be us someday. I am often surprised it hasn’t been us yet. I don’t want to leave before God is done using us here. If God calls missionaries to the field, doesn’t He also call them back home when He is ready? Why am I so quick to assume that those who have left are leaving early or before God is calling them home? Is it because the harvest is plentiful and the workers are few?  And no one feels that more than the missionary left behind, living half a world away from their comfort zone.

I don’t know the reason. But I imagine it is always very complicated. I imagine each missionary may even have trouble putting into words what could have made them stay longer. It may be vastly different for each missionary. So how do we, the church, keep missionaries on the field longer? Should we no longer expect missionaries to stay on the field as long as they did in previous generations? Do we embrace this as the new normal for a missionary term of service? And if that is true, then how do we replace missionaries faster?  

I don’t know what it is like to leave the mission field. I don’t know if we will be consumed with feelings of guilt and shame or feelings of relief and thankfulness. I don’t know if it feels like completing a job well done or feels like I just couldn’t take another step. I don’t know what it is like to leave the mission field, but one day I will. One day it will be us. We will be the ones leaving the family, the family that we love and care for so deeply, and they will be the ones left feeling abandoned, empathetic, devastated, and overwhelmed.  I hope we leave because God has set a new path before our family that He wants us to take and not because life became too hard and we could no longer continue.   

I don’t know what it is like to leave the field. But someday I will. It may be in a week, a year, or maybe ten years. 

I imagine leaving the mission field will be like crawling into my own bed after a long tiring day–exhausted, bruised, beaten down, in need of rest and recovery. It will be like crawling into a space that is safe and familiar, but then at the same time, we will be different. We will be changed. And our bed probably won’t fit quite as we remember.  

There are no profound conclusions here. Just questions, thoughts, and jumbled emotions. Mission work is messy. There are more problems than answers and more challenges than triumphs.  

This work and this life belong to God and are in His mighty and capable hands. My prayer is that the Lord will continue to be with those He has called to the mission field and that He will give them the grit to survive the impossible trials, surmount the insurmountable circumstances, and conquer the unconquerable challenges. I pray that our family members find a friend on the days where isolation grips their soul, they find comfort when their heart has been devastated, they find strength when their cup has been emptied, and they find hope when there doesn’t seem to be a way to journey onward. And, I plead with God to give our brothers and sisters all laboring in foreign countries the stamina that they will need to get up day after day, to continue on despite criticism from others, to fight the good fight, to run the race even while feeling weary and heavy-laden. 

My prayer is that missionaries do not give up but only leave when God has truly called them home to do His work elsewhere. And that the rest of us left behind would rejoice with them as they continue on their new journey.  

Pregnancy After Loss: How You Can Show Support

 

Dear Family and Friends,

I know you love and care for me, and these past several months may not have been easy for you to show me love.  I am a new person and walking a difficult journey.  Since losing my baby, I am broken.  I am still navigating how to live in this world.  I know this means showing me support is not easy for you.  There are times I need to be alone, and there are times I need a friend, and I am not good at understanding my own needs–let alone expressing them to you.  

Now that I am expecting another baby, my mind, emotions, and journey have grown even more complicated.  Because you love my family and me, I know you want to be there for us. So this letter is my attempt to show you how to best support me in this pregnancy after loss.

I am still grieving.  Another baby on the way does not replace or wipe out the baby I had to say goodbye to.  I am still very much grieving and trying to process my grief.  I miss my baby.  I will always miss my baby.  I could have a hundred more babies, and I will still always miss my baby who lives in heaven.  A new baby does not take that pain away.  A new baby does not wipe away my grief.  Blake and I recently began a grief class with some of our fellow missionaries.  This has been good for us.  This has made us examine a lot of our habits, emotions, and responses.  While this has been good, it has also been hard.  I have learned a lot.  I have learned that many times the second year of grief is harder than the first.  I also learned that it is helpful to write family and friends a grief letter to explain how they can support me in my grief.  That is what this is.  This is my homework from grief class.  

My emotions are complicated.  I am excited to have another baby, but I am also terrified.  I never experience one emotion at a time.  They are usually all tangled together.  So when I feel the joy of my new baby kicking, I also feel heartache.  When I look at my growing belly, it makes me smile, but I want to hide it all in the same moment. It is so complicated inside my head I don’t even know how to explain the why of it.  When there is eager anticipation, there is also fear.  Nothing is simple inside my head.  So when you ask how I am doing, you are likely to get an unclear answer.  Truth is, I usually don’t even know myself.  It is simply complicated.

Trust is gone.  I have lost trust in the process of pregnancy.  I have lost trust in my body to successfully carry a baby to term. I have lost trust in my ability to interpret how I am feeling.  Every little aspect of this pregnancy causes me to doubt and to question.  Every twinge, every moment of calm, every slight discomfort brings fear.  My most recent experience with pregnancy ended in loss.  That is what I know.  That is what I know I can expect.  I don’t know how I am doing.  All I know is that today I am pregnant, and tomorrow is not promised.

There will always be an IF.  Life on earth with this baby is a maybe.  Pregnancy does not always lead to a living baby.  So when I talk about the future, I will often use the word “if.”  That is my reality.  Maybe it is morbid or negative, but it is reality.  I need the freedom to be able to acknowledge the IF in my conversations.  There is a saying in Spanish:  “si Dios quiere,”  basically translating to “if God wants.”  That is how I feel about pretty much all plans in my life right now.  The simple “can the girls come over to play” or the bigger “what day do you return to the states?”  I can give you an answer or a plan, but I will add “si Dios quiere.”

Plans.  On my bad days making plans sends me over the deep end, and on my good days making plans gives me an increased anxiety.  This could be because our life changes so drastically with a delivery and a baby.  We fly back to the states to have the baby, IF we make it that far.  Any plans back in the states then are a maybe.  This may be because the day we learned Ella’s heart stopped beating we were supposed to board an airplane.  Buying plane tickets, booking reservations, even just making plans for dinner in the future gives me anxiety, and sometimes I just can’t.  Even if I want to make plans with you, it may just be too hard.  So if you want to make plans in the future, it would really help me out if your proposed plans started with “if you are able,” or “if you are up to it…”

Appointments.  Doctors’ appointments and ultrasounds are no longer exciting.  They are life-changing.  They are where you go to hear bad news.  Days leading up to these appointments are difficult.  The days of these appointments are often unbearable.  I need extra patience and grace on these days because I am usually anxious and irritable.  I can’t help it–I am anticipating the worst.  ALWAYS.  Sometimes I would like someone to go with me.  Sometimes I would like to be alone.  Please don’t get upset if I do not want you there.  This needs to be about me.  I need to take care of myself on these days.  I need to do what I think will make that day easiest for me.  

I need to dream. I know that.  I need to picture the happy.  I need to dream of a delivery room with a crying baby.  I do this privately and usually look up birth pictures on Pinterest.  Know that I do allow myself in the safety behind closed doors to dream of a different, happy ending.  An ending that does not bring heartache and funerals and grieving.  This is a different baby and a different pregnancy and has the potential for a different ending.  I know that, and I remind myself of that.  But please know that it is too hard to acknowledge this out loud.  

Safe zone.  There is no safe zone for me.  Statistics are not comforting.  Only one percent of babies are lost in the second trimester.  When you are part of the one percent, no odds feel very comforting. No time feels safe.  I will battle fear (and I battle fear hard, on my knees many, many times a day) at all stages of this pregnancy.  Statistics and milestones are not comforting.  No time feels safe.  EVER.

Shopping.  I love shopping.  In many ways shopping is my therapy.  But not now.  I do not want to buy maternity clothes.  I do not want to buy baby items.  Please do not give me anything.  If you would like to buy baby items please give them to me after there is a crying baby in my arms.  I know the pain of staring at them in my closet months after I had said goodbye to my baby.  I know the agony of packing up unused baby items and maternity clothes that were never worn.  So if you see me in clothes that are way too small because I can’t bear to buy anything that will actually fit, just smile and pretend like I am not embarrassing you. I am just trying to survive.  Please don’t try to convince me I need anything before the delivery.  I have worked it out, and I don’t.  We have a plan once the baby is here, and we will be fine if we do not purchase anything ahead of time.  

Plan A and Plan B.  There are always two roads in my head.  From this moment on, I will always have a plan if all is ok and a plan if all is not.  Maybe this is because either way life will change drastically for us, and then flights may be canceled.  We are living with one foot in one country and one foot in another.  Whatever the reason, having two plans is comforting.   Less than two years ago, my life changed in an instant, and I had to readjust all my plans when I could barely breathe.  The only way I know how to survive going forward is to have two plans in place—plans that are ever-changing and evolving as the weeks go by.  

Delivery.  IF we make it to a delivery and we are expecting a healthy baby, that experience is still scary.  There are no guarantees.  I am not sure what I will need on that day.  This road of grief has been difficult for the four of us.  A hospital room where a baby is not crying is what we know.  We need to heal.  We need to heal together.  That might mean we ask you for space after our new baby is born.  We may need time, just the five of us, to welcome our new baby and grieve the fact we didn’t get that same joyous experience with Ella.  I don’t know what that day will look like, but I appreciate your understanding and patience as we navigate our emotions to come during the delivery.  Thank you ahead of time for the space and time we will need from you before we can celebrate with you.  

Ella.  Please don’t forget her in the excitement of a new baby.  We are a family of six.  I have four children.  This is important to me.  Ella was a life created by God and given to our family.  She is, forever and always, a part of our family even if she is not here with us. When you mention her by name, or tell me you miss her, or ask me about her, my heart is warmed more than I will ever be able to say. I want you to know that. I know it is often awkward for you to bring her up, and I appreciate it even more that you still do.  I have never ever wished someone didn’t bring up Ella in a conversation.  I have only ever been thankful to hear you speak about her.  So even with the excitement of this new baby, please still say her name.  


What can you do?  Check on me.  Send me notes, emails, texts, and let me know you are thinking of me. I may not reply.  Please don’t hold that against me. Sometimes I just can’t, but keep checking in.  I appreciate it so much even if I don’t reply.  If you want to give me support,  send me a Bible verse or Starbucks card.  Letting me know you love me and are there for me without words is sometimes easiest for me.  Check on Blake.  This journey is difficult for him, too, and he spends too much energy worrying about me.  This causes me to worry about him.  It  is a vicious cycle.  So I ask you, for my comfort, support him while he is supporting me.  Take the girls.  Play with them.  Let them have fun.  Some days all my energy goes toward taking care of their needs, and I don’t have a lot left over for fun.  They need fun.  They need carefree.  Their hearts are scared, too.  Death is a reality in all our minds.  They need moments to escape the worry and just be children. Lastly, pray for us.  Pray for all the needs we have that we can’t even begin to tell you about.


Thank you for your love and support of my family during this journey.  Thank you for understanding how complicated our emotions are as we wait for this baby to arrive while still grieving the baby we will never get to hold again.  We love you all so much even when we don’t know how to tell you.

love always,

lizz

When to Talk to Your Children about the Bad Stuff

       Yesterday my heart broke into pieces.  Yesterday a city I once called home experienced the worst shooting in American history.  Yesterday I watched Facebook for hours upon hours waiting to see my Pacific time zone friends check in that they were safe and unharmed by the chaos during a concert.  When you have lived in a city that experiences such a horrific act, you are bound to know someone, if not many, who were directly affected by the mass shooting.

       I saw one of my friends post on Instagram the questions so many of us moms and parents face on a daily basis.  Do I tell my kids?  How much do I tell my kids?  How do I shatter their innocence with the evil that exists in our world?  How do I burden their heart with the pain that so many are experiencing?  There are no right answers, and for each child and every family the right answers may be different.  But I don’t have those questions anymore.

       Yesterday a mom had to tell her little ones their dad was in the hospital.  Yesterday a dad had to tell his littles that their mom had died.  Yesterday parents had to tell their children their big sister had been shot.  Yesterday students lost a teacher.  Parents have a choice to talk or not talk about the bad stuff until it is unavoidable.  And for so many yesterday, it was unavoidable.  The pain, heartache, and tears were all unavoidable.

        When we found out our baby Ella no longer had a heartbeat at 24 weeks, the conversation of death was unavoidable.  As a mom, I am so thankful that was not our first conversation of death.  We had merely hours to prepare our girls for what was to come.  We had merely hours to talk about death, heaven, sin, reasons why, and wipe away tears before we left them with grandparents to head to the hospital.  Those were also hours when we as parents were experiencing a whirlwind of emotions ourselves.  I can only imagine how much harder those hours would have been if that was the first conversation our family had had about death.

       Death is a part of life.  It is a painful part of life and a topic we adults usually prefer to avoid.   But it is still a part of life.  Evil exists in this world.  Sin is all around us, and sometimes it comes out in unimaginable, horrific forms.

        A few weeks following the death of Ella we got together with some friends.  They had just experienced the unexpected death of a family member.  There we were.  Two moms sipping coffee while our children played.  Both so fragile.  Both so broken by recent events in our own lives.  Both so unsure of how to parent through this phase of life neither of us expected to be in.

        Then it happened.  Our two oldest began a conversation.  We were in the middle of clearing and rinsing dishes when we heard my seven-year-old and her six-year-old begin a conversation about death.  Our two children matter of factly discussed the recent events of their lives.  They talked about burning bodies and spreading ashes.  They talked about the decaying process after a person dies.  They talked about heaven, heartbeats, and brain waves.  They repeated conversations we had with them in the prior weeks.  They repeated our answers to the many questions they had for us during funerals and mortuary visits.

        We listened to their innocent voices discussing topics we never intended to bring into their lives at this age.  We were two broken moms clinging to each other’s arms, holding each other up.  Each of us wondered if we had answered their questions correctly.  Had we shared too much?  Did we not share enough?  Did we guide them well?  Did we teach them how to process the last few weeks?  Did we prepare them to discuss this correctly with friends and strangers?

        Eventually their conversation moved to another topic, and our grip on each other lightened as we both began to exhale.  Our fragile mama hearts were still ok.  Our children discussed death and all the information their little brains had soaked up in the past few weeks.  They didn’t say anything offensive, hurtful, incorrect, or negative.  Most of their conversation was purely factual and very casual.  In so many ways they spoke about death so much better than we do as adults.  We looked at each other, and without saying a word, we both knew what the other was thinking.  We had done ok.  We taught them well.  We answered their questions correctly.  We had brought them to this moment when they could talk to their friends about death.  In our most difficult parenting moments, we had done ok.

        Following the death of their baby sister, I learned a lot about my two girls.  They understand hard truths better than I used to give them credit for.  They have experienced pain.  As their mom, I wish I could have shielded them from that pain.  They have seen me cry, break down, and fail.  They have seen me grieve.  There are so many times in the last year and a half I was sure that I was failing them, but I look back now and see how they have grown and what they have gained.  They experienced pain, but they have gained compassion.  They understand death, but they also see the beauty in heaven.  Their innocence will never be the same.  But they have gained wisdom.  So often they have the ability to talk about their feelings, death, and the bad stuff so much better than we do as adults.

        Parenting is hard.  Momming is hard.  Did I guide them through the hard stuff perfectly? No.  But I did the best I could.  And they are ok.  They are stronger.  They are more prepared for the hard stuff.  And with each hard conversation, we get the opportunity to talk about the good.  Because with all the bad stuff, there is always good.  There is always hope.  There is sin, yet there is forgiveness.  There is death, yet there is heaven.  There are people who cause pain, yet there are people who help.  There is Satan, yet there is Jesus.

        This mom business is no joke.  There are so many situations we face without a clear path.  Do you share the bad stuff?  Do you shelter your children?  Is there a right answer?  I still don’t know.  But I do know that we should expect the bad stuff. That truth is written for us in Scripture.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

        The trouble is coming.  It is coming for us.  It is coming for our children.  And when the bad stuff knocks down your door, when you no longer have the choice to shelter your children from it because it has shattered your world, I pray that God gives you the words to guide them through the bad stuff.  I pray that when you face the trouble, you are able to navigate the many questions that will arise.  I pray that you can take heart.  I pray that you will have peace in Christ.  I pray that with the peace of Christ, you will know how to help your littles face the bad stuff. 

        Dear moms in Las Vegas and around the world who have suffered from the shooting on October 1 and to the many parents who do not have a choice to shelter your children,

I am praying for you.  I am praying for the many difficult questions you will have to answer in the coming days and weeks.  I pray that you have the strength to show your children how to live and love through pain and uncertainty.  I pray that you can find the good to point to amidst the very bad you are currently facing.  I pray for you as you help your children grieve when you are grieving yourself.  I pray for you as you send your children out into the scary world that they are no longer sheltered from when they go to school, to friends’ houses, and to classes.  I pray for your heart as it aches with fear.  I pray for you during this unimaginable time.   Take heart, dear mamas. He has told us in this world you will have trouble, and it has knocked down your door, but our Savior has overcome this world!

 

He Came to Give Us Hope

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.”  Romans 15:13

I wanted to write about Christmas.  I wanted to write about struggling through this season.  I wanted to write about hope at Christmastime.  I wanted to confess what I used to think hope was and what I believe it to be no.  So I went to a verse about being filled with hope.  I went to Romans.  I went to Romans 15:13.  It’s filled with hope, and as a bonus, we get joy and peace, too.   A good verse, right?  So I did what I usually do when I read my Bible and I try to dig deeper.  I want to understand more.

While digging deeper, I came across a study note that sent me to Romans 5:2-5.

“Through him we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God. More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

I’m going to strip down my pride with you and be completely honest.  That passage made me want to throw my Bible against the wall (…I didn’t).  That passage makes me want to scream and cry and stop digging.  Why?  Because… I am suffering.  I am facing trials, and honestly, so much of the days it feels like they are winning.  So not only is Paul telling me that my suffering will produce hope, but he adds that we should rejoice in our sufferings.  Really?  I think that may just be asking a bit too much.  My heart can’t rejoice for much of anything let alone the very reason it is shattered to pieces.


Maybe I am not there yet.  Paul’s list does seem to have an order to follow: suffering – endurance – character- hope.  Maybe I am still in the suffering phase which hasn’t produced endurance yet.  And as I sit with my Bible before me, I have two options.  I can close it and push aside the struggle, the pain, the questions.  I can ignore it and drown it out with any other means I can.  That, my friends, is the easier choice and many times that is what I choose.  My second option is harder – so much harder.  It means I face the pain, uncertainty, and questions.  It means I keep His Word open before me and keep digging.  

I press on.


Hope.  The very word I have been struggling with this season.  Suffering produces hope.  What is hope? In the spirit of complete and total honesty, my mental picture of hope used to be something like this:

Someone so confident in heaven that after a loss of a loved one, they rejoice and are thankful for the time spent with their loved one but they are “ok” and happy because their loved one is in heaven.  They continue on with their life here on earth knowing they will see their loved one again in heaven.

I cringed writing that just now – every word.  Oh I am sorry.  I am sorry for the judgments I unknowingly held against fellow brothers and sisters as they grieved.  I didn’t know.  I didn’t get it.  I didn’t get the pain.  I didn’t understand.  Please forgive me.

Here I am in the midst of my grief, trying to grasp the concept of
hope and what I used to arrogantly believe. Where does that leave me now?  There are two possibilities:

1. My mental picture was correct and I do not have hope because I am not that person I described

    or

2. My mental picture was way off.

I am leaning toward the second possibility.

 

This is my current definition of hope:

Someone so confident in heaven.

 

That is it.

There are no conditions.

 

There are no right ways to live that out.  That definition is true for me today.   I do believe in heaven.  I believe Gabriella is there.  I believe I will see her there some day.  That I have not questioned.  So this feeling of “hope” that I think I should have is perhaps just a lie.  Maybe “hope” isn’t a feeling at all.  Maybe hope doesn’t look like happiness.  Maybe hope is simply a belief.

My Bible defines hope as this:

“confident trust in what is not seen. Grounded in Christ’s resurrection, with patient expectation, believers hope in the promise of His return in glory.”

Maybe hope doesn’t look like anything at all.  Maybe hope is still in my heart even when I feel hopeless.  When the weight of the season’s greetings, the yuletide cheer, the merry and bright send me hiding under the covers, there is still hope.

So this Christmas if you don’t see me toasting eggnog, joining in carols, sporting ugly sweaters – if you don’t see me at all –  I might be collapsed at the foot of our cardboard nativity scene.  That may be all the Christmas I can handle.  And my friends,  maybe that is enough.  Maybe this year that is exactly what hope looks like.  Because when you strip down the elves, the wrapping paper, the gingerbread cookies, the hoopla, and the tradition, that is what Christmas is about.  That baby in a manger is what Christmas is about.

This suffering, this pain in my heart, this unbearable sorrow is the very reason God sent His Son to earth.  Immanuel – God with us.  He came to be with us.  He came to be with the lost.  He came to be with the weary.  He came to be with the brokenhearted.  Why?  To give us hope.  A confident trust in the promise of His glory. He will do this through my suffering and through my pain.

I may not be rejoicing in my suffering.  Maybe with time that will come.  It may take months. It may take years.

My study notes made a careful clarification, and it is a good thing I did not give up and throw the Bible across the room.  The endurance, the character, and the hope that comes from the suffering – that is by the work of the Holy Spirit.  That isn’t on me.  That isn’t something for me to do.  That is something God will do.  

That is good.  

If it was left up to me, I would never be able to get there.  That I know for sure – really, I can barely get out from under my covers.  By the grace of God, He will help me through this.  Why?  “because God’s love has been poured into our hearts…” (Romans 5:5).  Nothing says love like Christmas, like a baby in a manger, like a father sending his son to earth to die for our sins, to pay our debt, so we can live with hope.