Tag Archives: grief

A year to forget…

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I know a lot of you have faced tough situations this year; so have a lot of my friends, family members, and church family. The phone calls, faces, hospital visits, letters, and questions are rolling through my mind as I type this. You know who you are and you’re on my mind.

This year, for many, has been a nightmare and a lot of us are ready for this round to be over. So, this post is for you: For those of you who don’t think you can take one more blow this year. For those of you who have been to hell and back and live to tell about it. Who have dealt with loss. With confusion. With anger. With disappointment. For those of you who see 2010 as a year to forget. For those of you who know 2011 has got to be better than 2010.

This is your time to think about it. To hope about it. To maybe even offer up a typed prayer to the heavens for a better year ahead. For some of you, it wouldn’t take much. It wouldn’t take much at all to spark a tiny flame of hope in your heart… What could light that flame? What’s something you can hold on to–some tiny piece of hope–that would assure you that 2011 is better than 2010?

Type it out here. And I promise you that this little blog community will be praying that our God of Grace reaches down to give exactly what you’re asking for.

You:Create :: My Very First Custom-Made Desktop Wallpaper

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My contribution to You:Create – desktop wallpaper.

Download:: 1280×800 1024×768 1024×640

I had a hard time deciding whether or not to post this today. To most of us, this little picture above is just that: a picture. But, there’s a story behind it. One of my dear blog-friends is hosting a creativity challenge on her site right now – she started it a few weeks ago.

She is an inspiring young woman of faith. She is full of strength and beauty and compassion. She’s wise beyond her years, and has challenged me to take whatever is handed me in life, whether I want it or not. She is a blessing to those who know her – people from all across the world. She’s an amazing writer. And beautifully creative. And her heart is full of nothing but love.

But there’s something else about her… Something that will leave you speechless.

See, Sara (or Gitz, as we all know her in the comments around here) suffers from a degenerative disease that has rendered her homebound. Ankylosing Spondylitis. She’s in chronic wincing pain. Her immune system is very weak. She can’t leave her apartment, or see anyone who has any hint of sickness. I don’t think she’s left her apartment in well-over a year.

We — the hundreds of other internet junkies that love her — are her community. We are a part of her world. And she is a part of ours. And she plays a huge role in this network of Christian (and non-Christian) creative fun-loving social media enthusiasts.

And, this weekend, a thick and heavy shadow was cast over her world. In short, her father quickly and unexpectedly passed away. The funeral was yesterday. But, because of her illness, Gitz was unable to be with her family. Through the blessing of technology they sent an internet stream of the wake and service to her apartment where healthy friends had gathered.

So what does this have to do with Gitz’ story? It’s all in that quote. Creativity is, in some ways, like a birthing. Like a spark of Light and Life. Like a release of a small part of me to go out into the world and become its own entity of hope and faith and joy and freedom. I didn’t know about Gitz’ father when I created this little piece of art, but I knew Gitz’ world. I knew that she too creates out of darkness and would understand it.

And, here again, in the imprisonment of her disease, Gitz has seen another shadow fall on her heart.

A desktop wallpaper may seem trite to you. But, to Gitz, stuff like this decorates her “door” to the rest of the world.

For you, Gitz, and for Light,

mandy

It was all I could do not to sit there and cry through the party.

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I don’t really talk about other people on this blog, because of the unspoken “don’t talk about other people” rule in blogging. But it’s time to make an exception.

I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you about Sis.

Sis is one of our office volunteers at The Chapel. She’s probably in her late 80s, but acts like a feisty 40 year old. Quick-witted, sharp, and disarmingly sarcastic. And she’s got some stories. Stories about getting her pilot’s license at 52. About being an award winning USO dancer. About life as a military wife. And about life as a kick-@%# mom.

She walked in the office yesterday with cake and ice cream. She asked me if everyone would be in that afternoon, because we were going to have a birthday party. It was Doug’s birthday.

It took me a good while to realize who Doug was.

They’d been married 65 years and, from what I’ve gathered, they were quite a pair…  But he died recently, within the past few years.

About an hour after she stuck her head in my office, the rest of the staff had come in from lunch. We passed out cake & ice cream, sat down at our conference table, and sang Happy Birthday.  Then we got her to tell some stories. You should’ve seen her face light up whenever she’d tell us about something he did.

I couldn’t help but think what this day meant for her, and wonder if I would ever walk in her shoes. Doug loved celebrations. At one point the conversation quieted down and she said “Well, Doug, we sure had a nice party for you” and it was all I could do not to sit there and cry.

I’m changing.

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Something has happened to me in the past month or so. I didn’t notice it until a friend brought it up last night.

I was at dinner – girls’ night – the kind where you laugh embarrassingly loud in a public place – and probably talk about things that shouldn’t be mentioned *in said public place*…

Especially when people from church are sitting in the next booth.

(Just kidding)

(Kinda)

Anyway, it was a laugh-snorting, knee-slapping, belly-aching sort of evening, with a healthy blend of seriousness between the explosions of laughter, of course.

Part of that seriousness was an informal moment to fill the others in on how we were doing. And, after my “moment” of honesty, one of the women pointed out that I didn’t hesitate or show any discomfort when saying the words “infertility” and “miscarriage” out loud. I didn’t even think about it. These words just flowed out naturally.

Naturally.

Like I was ok with the fact that I was saying them.

THEM.

Those words. Those hellish words.

I can’t tell you how much this surprised me, considering the fact that I always cringe internally (and probably a bit externally) before those words come out of my mouth.

But she was right. I didn’t pause, blink, or hesitate. I was ok with saying them.

And in that moment, my mind flashed through all the blog posts and emails and conversations I’ve had in the past few months in an effort to come to grips with my reality. Last night was the first time I’ve been able to mention these circumstances without feeling like I needed to protect myself from them. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.

I’m changing.

And even more importantly… I’m going to be ok.

The Waiting: 6. It’s ok to say you’re sorry.

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College. 10ish years ago.

My boss (and head of the Sociology department) knew I wanted to go into Christian counseling, so he insisted that I be his Teaching Assistant for the Death and Dying course. I spent one semester sitting as a student, the three more semesters sitting there listening – and getting paid for it.

I’ve never forgotten what he said about couples who have miscarriages. At the time, I couldn’t wrap my mind around his words, but they sounded …right.

He said that, sometimes, losing a pregnancy is the same as losing a born child. This life already has an identity in the parents’ minds and hearts. They already have plans and maybe even a name. They may have a room decorated. Stuff ready. They may already love this child as parents do. Already bonded. Already have hopes and dreams for their future son or daughter.

But the rest of the world may not understand their pain. The rest of the world has yet to meet this child. Has yet to see it –  get to know it – hold it – bond with it. For the rest of the world, the child may not “exist” yet. So the rest of the world doesn’t grieve. The rest of the world hasn’t really experienced a loss.

I’m writing this one for “the rest of the world” – for those who have no idea what to say, but who want to somehow acknowledge the loss in a miscarriage.

There’s nothing that you can say to make it better or make sense. But you can say you’re sorry. You can say that you were looking forward to getting to know that little one. You can say that you have no idea what they’ve gone through, but you know it’s tough. And you can say that if there’s anything they need, they can let you know.

Is there anything else that you think should be said?

Part one: Before The Beginning
Part two: The Real Reason Why I Quit Seminary
Part three: Clomid
Part four: When Everything Changed
Part five: The Week