The Brokenhearted

Lilia would be six months old today.  She'd be sitting up, maybe even desiring to crawl.  I imagine, with her rambunctiousness in my belly, that she would be crawling by now.

But, we are here.  Without her.  Such a deep, deep void.  It's something that I know others cannot fully understand... the void.  Our family just feels... incomplete.  There's always something missing.  My friend, Jennie, who lost her first says that feeling never goes away.  And reminders of her, or the lack of her, are all around.  It's just something I can't escape.

Before we lost her, I was one of those people who didn't know what to say.  I mean, who does?  Nothing can take away this pain.  Nothing.  I made the mistake, sometimes, of not saying anything at all.  Wow.  Now I get how much greater that hurt than saying something wrong.

When we first lost her, Jason told some friends that nothing they could say would deepen the pain...  Not to be afraid of hurting us.  We were already hurt.  Some said they were worried they'd talk about her with me at the only moment of the day that I wasn't thinking about her.  I can say now, on this side of pain, there are no such moments.

There are some things I would like to teach my children about the brokenhearted... Things I wish I knew before.  Sometimes I shudder at my response to others who were hurting before I knew.  I just didn't know what I didn't know. But, oh, how I could've been more sensitive.  How I could've been more caring.  How I could've been more...

I want my children to know, that unless they've experienced unfathomable loss, they need to understand that they don't understand.  Judging a person going through grief is so... just wrong.  No one knows what they would do in this situation or that until they have been there.  Understand that those who are living with loss are hurting far beyond anything you can understand or comprehend.  And to not take personally something said or done by the hurting.

I would also want my children to know that saying nothing at all hurts so much greater than saying something imperfect.  My sweet friend told me in the beginning that many people may say something wrong, but to look at that as "awkward expressions of love".  That was wonderful advice.  I have had to learn to hear the expressionless as the same, but talking about the weather with someone who has just been through deep pain is a punch in the gut.  Validate their loss.  It is everything to them.  If you don't know what to say, simply an "I love you" or "I'm praying for you" is enough.

There is a friend of mine, whom every time I see shows me with her eyes that she cares.  She lets me know she hasn't forgotten.  That means the world to me. How does she do it?  She doesn't get distracted when she asks me how I am.  To many people it is just a way of starting a conversation but the response is not something they are interested in hearing.  Not from this dear woman.  She doesn't take her eyes off me. She looks deeply into me as though validating my struggle.  I can't tell you how much I appreciate that.

Giving space to a person who is hurting is SO necessary.  Let them know that you are available and are there when they need you means so much.  Put the ball in their court, but remind them often that you can drop everything for them if that is what they desire.  It seemed like weeks before I had a chance to talk to my best friend after we lost Lilia.  Looking back I think it was only two days after the initial conversation... But I remember she just kept texting me saying "I'm here when you want to talk."  Thinking of that now makes me so tender.

Let the brokenhearted know you are grieving with them.  When Jennie prayed with me on the phone in the hospital she asked that our grief would be spread out.  God answered that prayer in amazing ways. I was shocked, shocked to learn that our families were coming from all over to be with us.  I was moved  when reading the emails that had swirled about during our stay in the hospital... People all over our community grieving with us... On their knees for us.  And for days and weeks following I felt that burden spread out.  We didn't carry it all alone and that made it a little more tolerable.

And finally, don't assume that because they seem fine weeks or months later that they are.  They pain runs deep and is long lasting.  What looks like "fine" on the surface is just an attempt to now wallow in the grief.  But it is still there - make no doubts - it is there.  Take time to be with them and listen, especially after it seems as though everyone else has forgotten.

I love this passage from Ann Voskamps One Thousand Gifts, as it sums up where we are right now...

"Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?

Why doesn't anyone ask that question?
Why are we allowed two? Why lavished with three?  A whole string of grace days?
Isn't even one grace enough?"