The deep, soul-piercing heartache of losing a child is unlike any grief possible. People say they can't imagine what it's like because it's true...no one can possibly imagine. The constant ache. The intense longing. One might try to imagine it but it is oh-so-much more. I've learned that it's not like losing other loved ones. I'll use my grandparents as an example because I have been closer to them than any other extended family. When my grandmother died, I was sad. I grieved. I miss her still. There are so many times I wish to call her or I long for her advice. I would LOVE for her to meet my younger children. I wish they could've known her. But there is a part of my soul that subconsciously accepted the natural order of things (not that death is natural, but that's another topic altogether). She had lived a long, fruitful, full life and she was ready to be with her Savior. Although her death was sudden and unexpected, it was not utterly devastating. My grandfather's death was much the same. I miss them both terribly but it is nowhere near the same intense loss that I feel over William. The kind I have no relief from. And what I've learned is that I will grieve William until the day I die and we are reunited. And I'm okay with that. I'll grieve the loss of him because I won't stop loving him. And though the grief is changing slightly, bit by bit, it remains. And so it shall.
I do not know that the sun will ever shine as brightly for me as it once did. But that’s okay. It doesn’t mean I’m not joyful or that I’m not thankful or that I don’t look forward to great milestones. I am and I do. But there is a shadow that tinges every part of my life now. All celebrations also have a touch of sorrow. I’ve come to realize that the grief of losing a child has much in common with the love of having a child. It is overwhelming and overpowering and consuming. The grief is just as powerful.
Love doesn’t die.
The empty spot doesn’t get filled.
2) Grief makes people uncomfortable.
No one knows what to say so, typically, one of two things happen.
- One: generally people will try to cover the sorrow with words. They want to make things better - but there are truly no words. Even words that are true and meant to be helpful can be hurtful. I can't tell you how many times I've heard some version of...
"He's in a better place."
"God needed him more."
"At least you have other children."
"You'll see him again one day."
"Christians do not grieve without hope."
"God has a plan."
There are more, but I think you get my drift. While these things are all true (except that God needed him) and I know they are meant to comfort, in the early days they felt like a knife. The words even made me angry for awhile. I'm finally in a place where I can give grace and just smile without it causing me to fall apart (most of the time). Things are still said occasionally which tempt my frustration, but I feel strong enough now to recognize, and even appreciate, the good intention.
- Two: if people are trying to fill the silence with words, many just disappear. This has been a hard one, not just for me personally, but for our family. There have been those who shied away from our pain because it was too hard for them. We've had to work through much hurt and anger over this. This one has been particularly difficult for me, as I have generally been a person to not hold on tightly to many relationships. But it is extremely difficult for me to let go of someone who William loved, even when their actions say it's time. Even at great personal cost. I know it has been frustrating for my family to watch me allow things in relationships that I never would have before but I am getting stronger. Letting go is hard, but sometimes necessary.
But it also makes me all the more thankful for those who have been able to walk beside us, sometimes carrying us...those who have remained and grieve with us but also rejoice with us and just live life with us. A friend once relayed these wise words, "Words are useless, but actions are everything."
3) Grief is a lonely journey.
This is one of the hardest things about grief. Everyone grieves differently, even when grieving over the same person/event. It is hard to allow others to grieve in ways that help them, while those things are difficult for you. For example, when William first died, Michael wanted to shut out the world. I wanted the comfort of others who loved William. In an attempt to shelter and protect me, Michael asked everyone to leave us alone. I did not know it and just felt abandoned by friends. As I learned about it and pulled others in close, it was difficult for Michael to have others around so constantly. He needed time to grieve alone. We needed such different things to work through our grief that we've had to really work through some painful moments. It was especially hurtful for us because we have always been so united. Not that we've always agreed on everything...we haven't. But we've known what was in our hearts/heads and been able to articulate it and make a plan together. Grief has not been like that for us. We can certainly look BACK and see things and discuss them, but going into them and through them has been like fumbling around in the dark. Most often, neither of us have known our needs until long after the hurt has happened. But walking this road together has also drawn us closer than ever. It is interesting...I've always been such an independent person. I never resented his protection, but when I was young I sometimes did not appreciate it as I should have. Now it is one of the things I treasure most. Maybe I recognize my own weakness now and that gives me a desire for that protection.
For grieving children, this can be especially difficult. People forget that they are grieving, too. "How is your mother?" they ask. Add in the awkwardness of those who can't take the silence, the disappearance of those who don't have the fortitude to stay, and the struggles of youth and grief is an exceptionally lonely road. So many do not see the grief of children as impactful as ours. They expect children (young and old) to be "resilient" and "push through."
4) Grief is not a one-time event.
It would be nice if you came home from the funeral, had a time of mourning, then moved on as normal. But that's not the way grief works. In fact, "normal?" What is that? That died with William. For that matter, so did I, really. The old me that never worried, was carefree, continually saw the positive, and did not struggle with so many new things...she is gone. I am having to get used to the new me, the broken me. It is somewhat weird. I find that just when I think I've conquered this monster of grief, it rears it's ugly head again. The thing about grief is, it's so inconsistent...a conundrum, to be sure.
- I find that I continually have to take my thoughts captive and not let them run away with me.
- I catch myself thinking, "I'll never...(fill in the blank)...again." I hate so much that he's gone.
- I must diligently fight against anger. Not at anything in particular, just a general sense of frustration.
- I often find myself on opposite ends of a spectrum. For example, photos. Or his monument. I love them, but I often can't tolerate them.
- Grief hits when you are least prepared. Sometimes I think something will be really hard, but it isn't. Then things that should be no big deal hit me so hard, it knocks the breath out of me.
- I realize that I've lost all patience for small talk or petty things. I am not going to waste my time on things that don't matter. If I'm going to spend time on something, it's going to be something I care about.
- Grief continues. Maybe you can't see it, but it's certainly there. It is a unique mixture of fragility and resilience.
It is hard to believe that only 4 years ago I was waking up to a world that was right and bright and normal. I'm glad I didn't know what was coming. As much as I like to know all things and be in control, I'm so thankful that the Lord didn't let me see it. I'm thankful for the normalcy of what life was....for the fullness and the dreams and the work and the hope and the bliss and the plans and the ignorance. I'm so grateful that William had a (mostly) typical, regular childhood...that our plans were geared towards meeting his needs after Michael and I parted this life, not on all this. And I'm thankful that I didn't know how hard grief would be. I thought the first year would be the toughest part, but the second year could easily have killed me. I think I'm finally beginning to settle in and, although grief is still hard, it's become more of a strange friend.
I'll leave you with these 2 last thoughts:
1) If you are a Christian and you are tempted to chastise or even "encourage" a griever with these words, "We do not grieve as those who have no hope," remember that while that definitely IS true, we still grieve. The difference is that in those lonely moments of agony and despair, God holds us fast. When our thoughts and feelings try to strip us of hope, we can cling to His sustaining grace, His promises of a hope and a future beyond this life. But there is still pain.
2) Remember the simple truth that "Words don't matter but the action does." There are friends who will contact us in some form today. I'm so thankful for them. They know this important truth and I love them for it. 💕
