Right Where I Am:
One Year, Ten Months

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A while back, I came across a project at Still Life with Circles that I thought was worthy of some serious thought.  It's basically a look at where you are right now in your grief.

Wow.  To try to nail down where I am in my grief seemed just too hard at first.  Grief is such an ever-changing process, full of things that jump up out of nowhere and knock you down again.  But as I thought it through, I realized the beauty of such a project.  Taking a snapshot of where I am now (and even in the months and years ahead) will no doubt highlight some things that might otherwise be overlooked as one day slides into the next.

Right now, I am feeling the weight of all that makes no sense falling hard on my shoulders again.  For the second time in just over two weeks, I've watched a friend bury her child.  The first is a friend I've known for decades.  Her third daughter shares Kristen's exact birthday.  The second is a friend I met not long after Kristen died.  My heart breaks for both of these women.  I wish I didn't know the ache and the longing, the sadness and the tears, the brokenness that accompanies the death of a child.  And I most certainly wish my friends didn't know, either.

And yet, here I am, now facing opportunities to live out God's Word in such a real way and so very close to home.
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. 
-2 Corinthians 1:3-4 

In all honesty, part of me wants to run away screaming.  It's just too much.  These situations bring back a flood of my own memories and emotions.  Even so, I feel stronger.  I don't feel like the wind and waves of these storms bend me to the breaking point like they once did.  I've been able to share with these mothers on a level that I've not been able to with even the closest of my friends.  That in itself breaks my heart a little more.

Just this week, I led my first GriefShare session.  God, in His mercy, led me through it because I certainly didn't feel up to the task, especially given the fact that this particular session was one that dealt with the death of a child.  It felt a little strange to be in the leader role rather than the participant role, but it somehow seemed "right."

I still get teary-eyed when I talk about Kristen.  I just miss her so very much.  No matter how many years and months pass, that will never change.  In the same way, the God who gave her to me, the God who has caught every tear, He will never change.  He is good, all the time.  All the time, He is good.


Waves from a
different storm

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Earlier this week, I attended the funeral service of a friend's infant son.  There are many things that are just not right with this world, but burying a child definitely tops my list.  I grieve with this family, even as I still grieve for my own daughter.

Like many aspects of life, grief has an ebb and flow to it.  In its early stages, it can feel like a massive storm with waves crashing all around.  It's hard to catch your breath before the next wave rolls over you.  My own storm has calmed, but now I'm feeling the ripples of another's.  It's not my storm, yet its effects reach deep into my own soul, bringing back a flood of memories and emotions.

The difference?  I feel stronger now. 

I remember a custodian at Children's Mercy sharing some words of comfort with us as we prepared to say goodbye to Kristen.  I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do recall his kind words portraying so beautifully the very heart of 2 Corinthians 1:3-4:

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.

It seems that I have an opportunity to live out the last part of that passage in a very real way, a way that goes far beyond the words of any sympathy card.  As I pray for comfort for my friend and her family, I also pray that God will minister to their shattered hearts.  If I am an ongoing part of that process, I can think of no better way to honor both my daughter, Kristen, and the gracious Lord who gave her to me.

The pain of losing a child is one like I have never known in my life.  Even so, it's been an avenue for knowing God in a way that I might never have known Him otherwise.  Understandably, I know that is not what is on my friend's mind right now, but I pray that, in time, she will come to find that to be true in her own life as well.