Grief is the price we pay for love.   Grief is an appropriate and proportionate response to the death (the end of earthly companionship) of someone we love. If grief is small, what does that say about love? It can’t be both ways.   We cannot celebrate a mother’s love and then dismiss her grief.

Most parents feel a little stressed during the holidays. For bereaved parents, the rush toward the “Season of Joy” is doubly frightening. Constant reminders that this is the “most wonderful time of the year” make our broken hearts just that much more out of place.  Who cares what you get for Christmas when the one thing your heart desires–your child, alive and whole–is unavailable… Here are some practical ways family and friends can help grieving parents during the holida

Every time I tell the story of Dominic, it helps to keep him real.  Dom was always ready to create a funny and memorable photo! It reminds my heart that he lived, that he mattered, that he matters still. And in the telling, I am giving away a little bit of him for another heart to carry.  His light is passed to another soul that can pass it to another and another.

Because child loss is so devastating and painful, it’s easy to believe the only logical reason for this agony is that it’s punishment. It took me awhile to allow the Holy Spirit to lead me into the truth that it is not. All the punishment for sin was borne by Jesus.

One of the gifts grief has given me is that I just do not have the energy to keep my mask on straight. So I’ve decided to take it off. And I find that when I do, people aren’t horrified, they are relieved. Because that means they can take theirs off too.

One of the greatest challenges I faced this side of child loss was finding a space where I could speak honestly and openly about my feelings toward God and about my faith. So many times I was shut down at the point of transparency by someone shooting off a Bible verse or hymn chorus or just a chipper, “God’s in control!” They had NO IDEA how believing that (and I do!) God is in control was both comforting and utterly devastating at the very same time.

I no longer feel betrayed.   I still don’t like this life. I would never have chosen this life.   But I will trust the One Who made me to carry me through it.

It was a long time before I wanted to believe that I received any gifts worth keeping from this life I didn’t choose. I knew I had tears, pain, agonizing sorrow, loss, heartache, dashed hopes, empty arms. If I could give those back and regain my son, I would do it in less than a heartbeat. I can’t, so I’m left here to ponder what else I’ve received from burying a child.

Feeling a little nostalgic for what WAS is perfectly normal.  Most of us humans aren’t that fond of change. But children are ours for a season, not forever.   They are given to us as gifts, not possessions. For some mamas, like me, it really IS over.

One of the most devastating questions I had to face after Dominic ran ahead to heaven was, “What difference does prayer make?”   I had prayed-diligently prayed-for every one of my children since before they were born. Even Dominic’s name, which means “belonging to God” was chosen carefully to reflect my heart’s desire that this child follow hard after Jesus. So why didn’t prayer “work”?  Why did my son die in an accident when others live?

One thing burying my child is teaching me is this:  Every single person I meet is carrying a burden I know nothing about. And most are doing the very best they can to bear that load and still do life.

We are rapidly approaching the one year mark of launching the official ministry of Heartache and Hope-a formal recognition of work I'd been doing among the bereaved and those who love them for nearly a decade and I wanted to give a brief update on how things are going.

The first time I shared this I was trying to distill years of walking the broken road of child loss into a relatively few, easy to think about, “lessons”. Since then I could add a dozen more but today I’ll only add one: Being a bereaved parent is not my IDENTITY but it impacts who I am in ways I’m still figuring out. Just as being married or being female or being from the southern United States informs how I walk in the world and interact with others so, too, does having bu

While I certainly had no real idea in the first hours or even weeks what losing a child entailed, I understood plainly that it meant I would not have Dominic to see, hold or talk to. I wouldn’t be able to hug his neck or telephone him.   He wouldn’t be sitting at my table any more. But the death of a child or other loved one has a ripple effect.  It impacts parts of life you might not expect.  As time went on, I was introduced to a whole list of losses commonly calle

“Yay You!” to every heart that chooses to persevere even when it’s hard or uncomfortable

I know Jesus is my Shepherd and I never doubt His companionship.  But if I’m honest, as much as I lean into that truth, it’s oh, so helpful to have a living, breathing human being walk with me. So when a friend reaches out and takes my trembling hand it calls courage to my heart. When we huddle together in the dark places, waiting out the storm of grief or doubt, it gives me strength to carry on. Never, never underestimate the power of presence.

I've gotten so good at stuffing an immediate emotional response I hardly ever cry anymore. Except that sometimes-random moments-the heavy lid I keep screwed down tight on all those feelings comes undone.  And I am helpless as the sorrow, missing and horror of child loss creeps up my spine, raises my heart rate and settles as a silent scream at the back of my throat.   A sob escapes.  The tears flow.

What objective criteria can be applied to every situation, every person, every death to determine whether someone is truly stuck in grief?  How do you take into account the circumstances of a death, the relationship of the bereaved to the deceased, trauma surrounding the event or any of a dozen other things that influence how long and how deeply one grieves a loss? Obviously there are certain signs that someone needs professional help. For the rest of us, “normal" grief c

For all my talk of boundaries and self-compassion, I rarely manage to keep others from invading my personal space and time I (theoretically) have reserved for my own priorities. I beat myself up for not showing up or giving up or giving in when someone calls, texts or messages. I rush to fill others' buckets without recognizing my own is empty.

Good things still happen in our lives (our bucket is being filled) but losing Dominic has put a hole in the bottom of it (the bucket never gets full anymore). It’s not that we don’t appreciate and enjoy happy moments.  We do. But we can’t plug the leak of loss that saps our strength and reduces the fullness of our joy.