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

This came up in a bereaved parents’ support group and I thought it was a great question:  “When you meet someone for the first time, do you tell them about your missing child?” It’s one of those practical life skills bereaved parents have to figure out. I remember when it dawned on me a few months after Dominic left us that I would meet people who wouldn’t know he was part of my story unless I told them. It was a devastating thought.   I had no idea how to answer.

I know you don't know. I didn't know before it was ME. But I truly believe you would love to be more aware and more equipped to help my heart and the hearts of others carrying deep and heavy grief.

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.

Even though time plus doing the work grief requires better equips us to carry this load, the absolute weight of it never changes. Our fractured hearts never quite regain their pre-loss shape and life is forever altered because as long as we have breath, we will miss our child in Heaven. So having a designated month where it's socially acceptable to share about grief in general, our child in particular and whatever wisdom we've gained through hard experience is welcome r

I keep repeating the mantra, “grace and space” to myself. I need grace-from my own heart FOR my own heart– I must cut myself the slack I would be happy to extend to others. I need grace from friends and family. You can never know all the ways I ache for the life I had before Dominic ran ahead to heaven.  You could never imagine all the daily pinpricks my soul must suffer as I walk in this world and am reminded of what I’ve lost.

We say we want real. But we really don’t. We tune in by the millions to watch “reality TV” even though we know the drama is manufactured...

I know that when a friend or family member is hurting we long to make them feel better and we convince ourselves that words are necessary. But the very best comfort is compassionate presence and perceptive practical help.

Dear mama, dear daddy, give yourself permission not to try to figure out what a parent’s heart was never meant to calculate-how to live without the earthly companionship of the child you love-and just breathe.   One day at a time. One moment at a time. One breath at a time.

The people who choose to stay and offer compassionate companionship are a vital part of healing after child loss.

I work hard to find something for which to be thankful each day. I try to get outside and breathe in the fresh air and soak up the sunshine. And when I have a rainy day-whether it is literally dripping water from the sky or simply dripping tears from my eyes-I try to do something that will help my heart hold on.

They say time is irrelevant in Heaven. Eternity is simply eternity. But for this mama's heart, time is very, very real. Thirty-five years ago I got to meet the little brown eyed, brown haired baby and eleven years ago I had to kiss him good-bye. A mama's arms are made for holding her child, not her child's memory.

I still struggle to remember things that used to come easily. I still hear words that I don’t always understand. I depend much more on paper and pencil to keep track of important dates, appointments and phone numbers than I used to. And I never walk away from the stove.

I first shared this eight years ago so it may shock some folks that while I have finally tossed most of the things in my fridge that once belonged to Dominic, I’ve got a giant bottle of hot sauce I’m still using. Every time I add spicy flavor to chili I think of him. I’m not looking forward to the day it runs out because it will be one more link dissolved between the living son I knew in the flesh and the memories I have to settle for now.❤

Those hours before I planted one last kiss on my son’s forehead, I held his hand.   I nodded at the people filing past to pay their respects with my arm tucked behind me, desperate to cling to my child. And I’m still clinging.   I will not let him go.   I don’t care how many days or months or years march on taking me further from the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand or the brightness of his smile-I refuse to release my grasp.

My heart is that no one sitting in the darkness of child loss is left to think that darkness is all there is. I want to bring the light of hope to them wherever they are. You can help me do that.

Ninety miles an hour-that’s how fast my mind can go from here to there. From what’s in front of me to what’s behind me. From laughter to swallowing sobs.

I’m thankful this other day exists! Thankful for a day when I can think about and speak about and embrace the child that won’t be with me next weekend. Because Dominic is STILL my son.  He is still very much a part of my heart.  And I need to be able to speak that aloud for others to hear.  

I want my heart and my words to reflect that I know this Savior full of love and mercy. Spared or not, it’s no doing of mine.