When someone is grieving it can be a challenge to know what to, what is the right thing to say? If you don’t know what to say, just hug me & shed a tear. Just do not avoid me and say nothing.
Year after year the candle stood in the window guiding you home
Our hearts filled with anticipation and anxiety until your arrival
As you turned into the drive I would whisper “thank you Lord”
Now, now the candle in the window replaced by a black wreath,
your picture hung in the center with grosgrain ribbon
The anxiety now is only in our voices as we cry out “Why Lord, why ?”
The void left in my heart… unfilled
The longing that flares like the flame of that candle reminds
Of your sweet breath upon my cheek,
Long arms about my shoulders in hugs once more
Bittersweet memories for you.
Like the flame of that candle…gone
My heart holds now only your memory
where new ones we should be making.
Whew! I did it, I made it through the third anniversary of Klysta’s death without committing suicide.
To be real here you must know that I contemplated many times on each anniversary, birthday hers and mine, holiday and a hundred other days. What has stopped me? My beautiful Dusti Jean and g-son Eric, knowing the pain I go through each day, the way I cry each day for my daughter…I could not put them through that. It will be hard enough when I do actually go…God willing not too soon, I need to get a few things done first. The other is reading blogs of mothers that have lost children to suicide, even with notes left it never answers all the questions and the why’s.
I have decided that although I will never have a day go by that I don’t cry for the loss of my daughter or think of her, that my promise to myself that I would get better this year, I cannot do it alone.
I have decided to seek professional help (opening a Pandora’s box) I need to contact insurance to see if they will pay if not hopefully I can find an agency that accepts a fee based on sliding scale.
I know I am no longer strong enough to continue on my own. I need the help and it must, must be individual as I am in no uncertain terms going to bear my soul to a group. I did try that when Klysta first died but the ‘newest’ death was a woman whose husband had passed twelve years before. Not to negate her grief but at that time I was so raw it took all I could do to not jump up and choke her for my pain was so much more and new. I just could not fathom anyone grieving that long…I now know differently and I hope I don’t ever see that woman again for if I do my cheeks will be so red, although she would not know why.
I feel I made it through the nineteenth too because my Dusti Jean called me to tell me she had had her cry that morning and wanted to know how I was doing. That meant the world to me although we both ended up crying and saying how much we loved each other at end of the call. It meant the world to me and gave me the strength to make it.
So wish me luck on finding a therapist of some kind to help me on this journey.
Such perfect features with coal-black fuzz on your head
I was enraptured, the wonderment of you.
You looked up at me as if you knew,
I would love and protect you till the end of my life.
I watched you through the years,
as you blossomed and grew
Into a beautiful strong young woman, yet I knew
Someday you would leave me as children tend to do,
I just never knew you would leave me in this way
I never thought without you would there be a day
You would no longer walk earth with me in any way
After forty-one years, my greatest fear came true
Never imagined the pain in this life without you.
I miss you my beautiful daughter
This third anniversary is again one
Not one for celebration, only the loss
Of you but never, never
the loss of love for you.
RIP Klysta LaNell
Aug. 20, 1969 ~ Feb. 19, 2011
When a woman loses a child no matter the age, there is not enough liquor or drugs in the world to fill that hole.
When a woman buries a child there is a hole in her soul that changes who she is, forever.
As most people know, it’s not uncommon for a parent to have a crisis of faith following the death of his or her child.
What is a crisis of faith? One definition is “periods of intense doubt and internal conflict about one’s preconceived beliefs*”. The key words here are “intense doubt” and “preconceived beliefs.” Basically, it’s when we thought we knew something for certain (or perhaps took something for granted) in the realm of our faith in God (what we “see” with our spiritual eyes or experience and understand in our spiritual lives or believe to be true in the spiritual realm); but when it differs so drastically from what is the reality of our lives (what we “see” with our physical eyes or experience in our physical world), we question everything we believed. Our preconceived beliefs don’t jive with what we’ve just experienced. Trying to reconcile the two opposing concepts when they are at extreme odds with each other can lead to a crisis of faith.
One of the things I miss most since Jason died (besides Jason and my life as I knew it before my world was shattered) is my unquestioning faith in God. I remember times when my heart was so full with love for God that I thought it would burst. I don’t feel that way any more, at least for now. I remember standing by the cassette player (yes, cassette player) with my eyes closed, singing my pledge of devotion to God along with Andrea Crouch or Clay Crosse. I remember being so moved by a song as I sang in the choir that I could hardly get the words out. “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him” (Job 13:15) was my anthem. I would have died for my faith, for God.
But what happens when it’s not you who are “slayed” and it’s your child who dies? What happens when you have to face life without your child, when you have to figure out how to go on living without your child? Then it’s not quite so easy to say, is it? I doubt that there isn’t one parent whose child died that gladly wouldn’t have taken his or her child’s place. I would much rather take the brunt of something awful FOR my children than it happen TO any of them. I would gladly have died in Jason’s place.
There are parents who seem to find a “greater good” or a “higher purpose” or find solace that God is in control of their child’s death. I just haven’t been able to do that. I woke up nearly every night, went downstairs to kneel in front of the couch and pray for my family, for my kids and their friends. I prayed with all my heart and all my being for my kids’ lives and their protection. And still Jason died. And still our family has had to walk through so many hard things, just a fraction of which I would tell most people. How do I reconcile those two?
I have had a crisis of faith. Does that mean I don’t believe in God? No. It just means it seems that what I thought I knew about God wasn’t accurate. It means that what I thought God would “do” for me, He wouldn’t or didn’t do. I thought that if I prayed for my kids that they would be protected. I thought that if I served God with all my heart and tried to do the right things God would make things right for me. I believed that God heard my fervent prayers, that my prayers “availed much” (James 5:16) in the kingdom of heaven and on earth, and that God answered my prayers. I believed God protected my family. I guess I sort of saw God like my own personal genie who could grant me whatever wish I wished for if I wished hard enough for it. That’s not faith; that’s wishful thinking.
Right after Jason died, I remember praying and praying that God would make something good come out of Jason’s death. I didn’t want Jason’s life and death to be for nothing. Both my husband and I felt, from the moment Jason was born, that God had great plans for his life. We felt that he was to do something great for God. And then God didn’t protect Jason and he died. After he died, I prayed that Jason’s life would be like a pebble dropped in a pond, that the ripples of his precious life would be like concentric rings and reach far and wide. Surely, there had to be more to Jason’s life and his living than he would die at the age of 19 before he barely was into adulthood. Surely, “all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28),” don’t they? I guess I’m still looking for the “good” to come out of Jason’s death, as I can’t say that I’ve seen it yet.
I felt God’s presence incredibly close after Jason died. I felt the prayers of people who knew us, lifting us up before the Most High. Somewhere along the line, it seemed as though God wasn’t paying attention any more, that He really didn’t care about the anguish we were going through. Somewhere along the line, I felt like God had abandoned us. I felt like the heavens were brass and my prayers weren’t even reaching the ceiling. I felt that people were no longer praying for us. Somewhere along the line, it seemed as though God’s people didn’t care so much any more. God’s people abandoned us.
Honestly, I have to say that being left so alone by nearly everyone we knew added exponentially to my crisis of faith. Who were most of the people we knew? Christians. People in the church. People we had served and had served with in the church and homeschool community. Christian people I thought of as friends, as extended family since our own families were more than halfway across the country. I thought of Christian people as extensions as the hands and feet of God. I looked to them for support; I expected them to be there for us. Not only did God seem so very far away, out of reach and uncaring, so did nearly everyone else we knew. When you’re hurting so badly, it’s easy to confuse God, the church, and God’s people. It seemed that not only had God let us down and left us alone, so had His people.
I know I have beat this drum a lot in writing my blog – “we were alone, we were alone, nearly everyone left us.” “Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I’ll go eat worms,” right? If that’s what you think, you’re missing the point. Many bereaved parents feel so very alone at the time they most need support. Many bereaved parents ARE left alone at the time they most need support, kindness, hugs, and an ongoing expression of God’s love. We ARE the hands and feet of God on this earth. We need to remember that.
I wrote in an earlier post about reading and relating to the Book of Job. Job suffered great losses. His “friends” came by to “comfort” him – more like confront him – in his grief. They accused him of sinning. He felt deserted by God, his friends and his family. He didn’t understand why God was doing this to him. God had been good to him, and now he felt like God was punishing him for something he didn’t do. He didn’t understand. He had a crisis of faith.
Is a crisis of faith a sin? No. It’s an opportunity to grow. It’s an opportunity to look carefully at what we believed and what we thought we knew, throwing out the wrong while trying to find the right. It’s an opportunity to learn that our ways aren’t God’s ways, as hard as that may be to accept or understand. It’s an opportunity to remind ourselves that now we “see through a dark glass (I Cor. 13:12).” It’s an opportunity to remind ourselves that we walk by faith, not by sight. We don’t know it all. All we know is what we can see with our finite eyes, and all we can understand is what our finite mind can comprehend. The rest has to be taken on faith.
I still struggle greatly with my faith. I still have more questions than answers. I feel like my faith is so small, and my ability to believe and trust in a God that seems to have let me down is small. I no longer see “the church” as a source of comfort or a source of friendship and support. I have very little desire to attend church. I need God to answer prayers for me right now. I need to see that he hears me and cares for the struggles my family and I are going through. I hope that He hears me more than I have an assurance that He hears me. I am worse for wear.
But, I know that this isn’t the end of it. I pray, though not with the fervency and unquestioning devotion as I once did. I try to water that root of faith I have had since I was a child. I know that root of faith goes deep, although most of the above-ground, visible manifestation of my faith may have been pruned. More often than not, in my prayers I remind God, “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief (Mark 9:24).” I remind myself of what I know for certain. I believe in God. I believe in heaven. I believe Jason is in heaven with his hands lifted in praise to the Most High, even as he was the Sunday before he died. I know that the grave was not Jason’s final destination. I know I will see him again. I know that someday I will join Jason before the throne of God, and then I understand. And that’s as good a place to start as any.
For further reading on Job, I recommend this post: The Trial of Job.
© 2013 Rebecca R. Carney
Don’t fret about me,
I’m doing ok.
I understand that you’re worried,
but I’m grieving my way.
I need to keep busy
or my thoughts start to stray,
I’d sit and dwell if I let me,
but coulda, shoulda won’t pay.
Drugs are a blessing
I’ll damn well numb what I may,
Take a walk wearing my shoes
before having your say.
I understand that you’re worried,
but know my grief is different each day.
I love you for caring.
I’m doing ok.