Tag Archives: grief

Ten Years Later

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It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years. So much has happened since I got that phone call from my mother that Wednesday night ten years ago. Little did I know what that one phone call would mean; what events would be triggered. And how all our lives would be changing forever.

Sure, it was to be expected eventually, but to me eventually didn’t mean then. It meant a time somewhere in the future, or so I thought.

But the future comes at unexpected moments. Tomorrow is today’s future, just like today is yesterday’s future. And on it goes.

Sometimes it feels like just a few weeks ago. Sometimes I still feel like I can pick up the phone and call her. And sometimes I don’t think about it. That is, until I happen to see a photo that reminds me of that other part of our life, back in the past.

There will always be reminders, and moments I wish we could recapture. And I really wish I could tell Mom all about our lives now; the things she missed:

Our daughter Ashley’s college graduation.

The excitement of Ashley and Chris’ engagement, of planning their wedding and shopping for wedding gowns, and I believe Mom would have joined us on that shopping trip.

Sitting beside me, holding my hand, crying together, as Ben proudly walked our daughter down the aisle on her wedding day.
The excitement of Ashley and Chris announcing their pregnancy to us; with my first reaction being, of course, “I have to call my mother!” But there are no telephones in Heaven.

The fun and excitement of Ashley’s baby shower, and how proud my mother would have been to be the expectant great-grandmother!
Words cannot express how much I wish she could’ve shared the wonder and amazement as Ben and I saw our beautiful granddaughter for the first time, and how I briefly imagined I saw my own mother’s eyes looking back at me as I looked at baby Rachel for the first time.

And I so wish I could share my feelings with my mother about being a grandmother, because she always told me one day I’d understand.

We still ride through my hometown on our way to my favorite beach, but unfortunately we don’t go there nearly as often as we used to.

I still look at the house on the left on that road going into town, the house where I used to live, and wish it were still ours, even though I know we did the right thing by selling it. It doesn’t look the same, of course, and I’m sure it’s been remodeled on the inside as well. I prefer to keep my memories of it as it was. It wouldn’t be right to go through it now; it would be too painful.

One thing I don’t do very often is visit the gravesite. I don’t feel the urgency to do so. My memories live on in photographs and other rooms in my heart; the cemetery is not a place where our memories will ever live. It is not the place where my parents are now.

I also don’t regularly put flowers or wreaths on the grave anymore. That first year after we lost her, we did that regularly. And we’d talk to her, tell her how much we missed her. But it didn’t feel right. She wasn’t there to enjoy the flowers or hear us talk to her. We’d given her flowers for lots of occasions over the years, and she’d always told us flowers died, and not to waste our money on them. And trust me, I heard her in my mind telling me that each time I brought flowers to that grave!

We still honor her memory at Christmas by hanging her “Grandmom” stocking filled with the red silk roses she loved so much. This year there will be another stocking beside that one, one with the name “Rachel” on it, and my mother’s legacy will continue.

Yes, it’s been ten years. A long ten years. But I can honestly tell you, even though you may think you will never recover from your loved one’s death, you will. You will not forget them, and your heart will heal.

But you will always miss them, and remember them.

Tomorrow Is Not Promised

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It never has been. It never will be. Because we never know when God will call us home. And that is one call that we cannot refuse to answer. No matter who we are.

We cannot say, “Wait a minute, Lord, I haven’t finished this or that. Call me back tomorrow.”

We can’t refuse to answer that call and let Him leave a voicemail message we can return a day or so later when we’re not so busy.

We cannot say, “But I have to make things right with this or that person before I go. I just haven’t had time…”

We don’t even get the chance to say, “But Lord, why me, and why now? Life is so good, and I have so much more to enjoy here. I’m not ready. I need to wait awhile.”

When God calls us home, He means it. There’s no discussion. That is the one thing He tells us that He gives us no choice but to obey.

His commandments? Of course He wants us to obey them. How many of us obey them all, even though He told us to? I guarantee each of us has broken at least one, or more, in our lifetime. And probably will again before we’re called home.

And His commandment to love one another as He has loved us? That’s tough, and also one we’ve all broken. We have free will to do anything we want here on earth, and none of us can say we ALWAYS obey His word.

Not one of us.

But when He calls us home on that day and hour only He knows, then it’s over for us here on earth. We can’t come back and make things right with those we’ve hurt, or those who’ve hurt us.

And for those who are left behind, we also have to deal not only with our feelings of loss, but our own feelings of regret for things said and unsaid. For plans made and never followed through. For time we wanted to spend together, but never got around to it.

We’ve all heard the saying “live each day as if it’s our last one here on earth.” But do any of us ever do that? I know I certainly don’t. I’ll be the first to admit it.

Our last day could easily be today. We have no way of knowing.

The other day I read a story about a man who dropped dead at his daughter’s wedding. Right after their father-daughter dance. No warning. And he certainly had had a few more plans of his own for the rest of that day.

A high school friend’s twin sister died unexpectedly a few days before Christmas. She hadn’t shown up for work that day, and when worried co-workers went to her apartment, they found her dead. Again, no warning. She had a full calendar of plans for the next three weeks, both for work and in her personal life. She hadn’t been planning on leaving.

The other night I looked at my Facebook and saw a friend of ours who had years ago moved to Israel to live his dream had passed away suddenly from a massive heart attack. Again, there was no warning. His daughter is a few days away from delivering his third grandchild, whom he will never meet here on this earth. His wife announced the event in five profoundly sad words: “My precious husband is gone.” I can hear her tears.

Yonatan, dear friend, you inspired this writing. You will be sorely missed by all who knew you. By all who were blessed to have eaten one of your delicious home-cooked meals, enjoyed the wines from your vineyard, and marveled at your expertise as a tour guide in your beloved Israel. May God continue to watch over those you loved and left behind.

No, tomorrow is not promised.

So what are you doing with your today? There may not be a tomorrow.

The Tears Still Come

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Saturday, the day before Mother’s Day, I did something that I haven’t done in ten years. I went into my favorite card shop, which in itself is not unusual, but going to the Mother’s Day card section was. I had no idea that going in to buy a Mother’s Day card for the first time in ten years could be so difficult. Even though it was for our daughter

Looking at the display of Mother’s Day cards that were still left I was suddenly overwhelmed. Especially since I had just written two other blogs about Mother’s Day. I thought after ten years I could handle it. And I did, but not without the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. And sensing that familiar feeling of sobs forming in the back of my throat. You’d have thought my loss was much fresher than ten years ago.

I had just talked to a good friend a few hours previously whose mother passed away two years ago, actually on Mother’s Day. That was still fresh sorrow, fresh grief. She was crying for her mommy, and I felt her pain, and I was crying with her as I tried to comfort her and encourage her. When I told her that her mom knew how much she loved her and was watching over her, that helped some. But such pain takes many years to be healed.

And now here I was. Standing in the middle of that card store in front of a display of cards I couldn’t even begin to read. I’d already picked out the gift for our daughter, which also made me start to tear up, since it was a Willow Tree angel of a mother holding her new infant. I certainly had to get her a card, but how many would I have to go through before I found the perfect one for her? Before I could get out of that store before I started actually crying and the other shoppers thought I’d lost my mind?

It’s not that I’m sad our daughter is getting ready to have her first baby. On the contrary, I am thrilled beyond measure. But suddenly in that store, I realized once again that my own mother was no longer around, and I missed her more than ever! I wanted to share my happiness with her that I was going to be a grandmother, and she was going to be a great-grandmother. I wanted to see the smile on her face, and the sparkle in her eye, hear the excitement in her voice as we talked about all the wonderful times ahead for all of us. Four generations of amazing women.

But only three generations are still alive. Which includes our soon to be born granddaughter.

Yes, the tears still come on Mother’s Day when you no longer have your mother with you. It doesn’t matter how long ago she left. Ten or fifteen years, two years, two months. It still hurts. It doesn’t matter how old we were when we lost her. I was 56. Another friend was 68 when she lost her mother. Another was only 26, and another 18. We all had more memories we wanted to make with them, but now we can only make them in our dreams.

There will always be reminders of her, and I shouldn’t be surprised at my reaction that day. I’m sure I’m not the only one who had similar experiences.

But I am thankful for the years we had with her. I am thankful for her love. And I am thankful for the promise of spending eternity with her.

Will I have that same reaction next year when I go to buy our daughter a Mother’s Day card? I have no idea, but if I do, I know it’ll be okay. Because we never stop loving those we lose.

Mom, I hope your Mother’s Day in heaven was wonderful! And I still love you.

Where Are Your Tears?

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My mother had a difficult time crying. She told me years ago that she’d cried so much when my father died that she had no more tears left. And now I finally understand what she meant.

I’ve probably cried a river, at least, of tears. Maybe even an ocean. I look back at those times of deepest sorrow….when my father died. When my beloved uncle died three days before my husband and I were supposed to be married. All the times I’d tried to get pregnant, and the answer was “no”. When I had my miscarriage and tubal pregnancy. And sitting in the car in my driveway after I had driven back from Maryland after the last time I saw my mother alive, just crying uncontrollably and inconsolably, because I knew in my spirit that I wouldn’t see her alive again on this earth. All those tears….that night alone I think I soaked my sweater so badly it shrunk. I felt like I’d been deserted, even though my husband came out to the car and sat with me and held me, and then our daughter came out and sat on the other side and cried with me, too….

I think I’ve cried so many tears in my lifetime, I don’t have any more left to cry.

All those tears. My sorrows. My heartache. Gut wrenching pain. And not ONE of them wasted. Because in my sorrow, and my lowest hours, the Lord was there, and He had his bottle out and caught each and every one of them, because He never wanted to forget the pain I was experiencing. Because He was there to make it better. As someone said, He doesn’t need our tears, because He has enough of His own from when his only son Jesus was crucified.

tears-in-a-bottle

I find myself wondering at times what my bottle of tears looks like. There’s nothing I’ve found in the scriptures to actually describe what our own bottles of tears look like, but after reading the descriptions of heaven, I can imagine a beautiful crystal bottle, with hundreds and hundreds of facets, so many that we can’t count them all. And it reflects like so many rainbows that we can’t even count them all. We know that Heaven is filled with wonders and colors and beauty we can’t begin to imagine in our earthly minds.

Our bottle of tears is like that. Because God loves us so much, He takes our earthly sorrows and turns them into immeasurable joys when we finally get into His presence. Sometimes I wonder how in the world one bottle can hold all the tears I’ve cried. Surely some of them have evaporated, or been missed. But God in His infinite mercy and love has saved each and every one, and that one bottle that each of us has with our name on it holds each and every tear. If a day is His presence is like a thousand years, and a thousand years is like a day, can we expect any less?

Because I love the beach, I imagine my bottle of tears has tiny starfish and seashells pasted on a delicate sea foam blue glass bottle, with a bit of sand in the bottom, and tied with a narrow string of rope.

But I know that whatever the Lord has used for our individual bottles of tears, it’s perfect. Because He selected it especially for us, and has engraved our name on it.

What does your bottle of tears look like?

To the Man on the Sidewalk

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I did not write this. I do not take credit for it in any way.

I wish I had, but I didn’t. This was written by Julie Nelson, anchor of the 5:00, 6:00 and 11:00 news on KARE-TV in Minneapolis/St. Paul Minnesota. I do not know Julie, and had never heard of her until I read this, but I admire her and her heart. She had written and posted this on her Facebook wall in the early morning hours of November 14, 2015, just hours after the horrific and senseless massacres in Paris.

Those events have shattered our hearts and our very being, and brought to our minds once again how short life really is. As many of us have said, “tomorrow is never promised.”

Julie, very well said. May you never have to write anything like this again. My heart and prayers go out to all who were affected by this senseless tragedy.

11/14/2015
“To the Man on the Sidewalk in Paris:

He had a plan. That is what strikes me. The man lying cold and unmoving on that Paris sidewalk.

He had a plan…for how he would spend his Friday night, his weekend, his 401k. He had people to call and texts to return but first, a pause, a delight…really…a dinner on a sidewalk café in Paris.

I wonder if he felt blessed as he put on his ironed, starched white shirt, the cuff of which would soon peek out from under a white sheet on a picture that would be seen around the world.

Did he feel relaxed, full of life and the senses that only a dinner in Paris under the lights can bring? I mean, really, is there anything better than dinner at a café in Paris?

And yet, there is was, his form. Outlined under a shroud, the curves and the concave, the faceless mound on a sidewalk where life should’ve been busily passing by.

I see you. I want you know, I see you. I see that you had a phone full of contact numbers, a calendar full of events. A life.

You didn’t know that here you’d be, under a sheet, concealed and yet, so exposed. To a woman across the Atlantic. How could you have known that she would see you and hurt for you and wonder: What were your plans? Did you feel blessed? I think yes, judging by so little…not much more than the desire you had to be out living on a night in Paris, wearing a white, starched shirt.

I see you.

And I am desperately sorry.”

Julie Nelson
Anchor, KARE-TV (5,6 and 10:00 news)
Minneapolis/St. Paul, MN

What Kind of Shoes Are You Walking In?

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You’ve heard it said many times that unless someone has walked in your shoes, they can’t know how you feel. Those shoes fit differently on everyone, and we all walk through our lives in different shoes. As a young child we walk and run around in comfortable shoes, shoes that aren’t meant to last forever. As we grow we’re always getting new shoes to replace the ones we’ve outgrown.

When we’re grown, we end up wearing lots of shoes, in different styles and colors. We have different pairs for different lifestyles. The ones for the workplace are different than the ones for home. The ones for work are stiffer, and more confining, but look really good on us, because we have to look good for our co-workers. They don’t usually hurt our feet; we wouldn’t be able to wear them too long if they did. We have a few pairs for dressier occasions, and they always seem to hurt. We don’t wear them much because of it. Then we have other pairs of shoes for casual wear. They’re comfortable, and while they may not always be stylish, they feel good, and make us feel good.
Red shoes

Most new shoes hurt your feet in some way for a little while. Some are even so uncomfortable you want to rip them off and throw them away. These are the shoes you find yourself wearing when your loved one dies. You have no other choice but to wear them, because they’re the only ones you have at that time. They aren’t necessarily pretty. They hurt not only your feet, but your spirit. They pinch and rub your heels and squish your toes until they’re numb. Gradually they start to stretch out a bit and don’t seem to hurt quite as bad, because you don’t notice any more.

When I was wearing those shoes, I actually started getting used to the pain. I thought all new shoes were supposed to feel like that. Then I noticed I wasn’t walking as well when I wore them. I couldn’t walk as fast as I used to because the shoes were too heavy. My steps were tentative instead of strong; the shoes were holding me back. I couldn’t go where I needed to go.

One day the Lord took those shoes off my feet. He washed my poor tired and aching feet and replaced those ugly, painful shoes with beautiful new ones which were as comfortable as an old pair of squishy slippers. And I was able to walk better. Not immediately, because my feet still hurt, but without those ill-fitting shoes on, my feet were finally able to breathe and relax, and start to take me where I needed to go.z-bare_feet_in_grass

As with those uncomfortable, ill-fitting shoes, once they’re removed, walking and everyday living gets easier. It’s the same with grief. At first we can’t imagine ever feeling happy again. Ever feeling like smiling again. Ever feeling a world without sadness. We can’t imagine not missing our loved one every minute.

Then one day we actually go several hours without grieving. The next day it goes a bit longer, and so on. We begin to feel guilty because we feel that way. Aren’t we supposed to be sad? NO! We go on because our joy is in the Lord. Our loved one is there with Him. We should rejoice, and also know one day…..one day….we will be there as well!

“Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5) It may seem to be a really long night, in really uncomfortable shoes, but you do get there, and the shoes you find yourself wearing on that morning are some of the most comfortable you’ve ever had.