Sunday, December 11, 2016

Silence-

I've stayed silent for quite a while now.  Losing "my words" has been incredibly challenging-the silence sitting in my soul, my thoughts jumbled and foggy.  I've shut out the world at large, much preferring to hide in my cozy little house than put my "face" on when I have to leave it.  I had the urge to write this morning-then found that once again, "my words" fled before I could put them to paper.  So I went back and read this post that I'd never published and I realized that these words are the ones I still need to say.  6 months ago, when I wrote them, I needed to say them then, and I still need to say them now.  Maybe saying them will begin to break the bondage that I feel so trapped in.  Before I share those words, I have to say this-

Grief is individual, it is personal, and it is selfish.
I am selfish.  Selfishly heartbroken, insanely jealous of every person I know who hasn't lost a child, envious beyond words of new babies, new adoptions, bigger families and people who don't have traumatized children.  
I am selfish because I can't always look outside the fragile bubble of our minute to minute roller coaster existence, a bubble that gets popped by the dullest of pokes, by the slightest memory and the continual realization that my children's grief and tragedy is shaping and will shape who they are and will become.  
I am selfish because the seething anger at my circumstances that lies beneath the surface every moment of my day feels like a prison.  one that I'm not sure I can ever be paroled from.   
I am selfish because I don't want platitudes or minimization of what we deal with every day.  
Grief is selfish. 

And it is fundamentally redefining who I am...

(I wrote this in June, not long 1 year had passed since the accident date-)

I look in the mirror so often and am constantly surprised to see the same face staring back, the same exact one I had before the accident.  Tucked somewhere in a quiet corner of mind was the assumption that I'd look different.  This face couldn't possibly belong to this me, now the mother of dead children.  This face had belonged to a different woman, one who woke up every day believing she would have the future she planned.

Recently I came to the realization that this past year hasn't just been about grieving the loss of Mercy & Sam-it's grieving our home, our life, my identity, MY innocence, our future, the relationships that have been destroyed, the dynamics of life that changed beyond what I ever thought possible and, of the most consequence, the loss of the innocence of my surviving children.  

So often, I find myself telling complete strangers our story, of Mercy and Sam and the time since.  Of the incredible and countless times God has made a way in the wilderness of grief.  I wonder if it's weird.  If I'm trying to find my new identity and this feels like the only way people can know me now.  I used to be that crazy mom of 5 who'd haul them anywhere, now I'm that lady whose kids died.  And I'm not sure I know how to be anything else.  Does it make them squirm inside?  Is my husband embarrassed by this oversharing ghost of the wife who used to make people laugh and now she makes them cry, or look away, or awkwardly change the subject?




Or does sharing the grace of God in the midst of 
tragedy somehow, someway, touch even just one 
unsaved or struggling soul?  






Frustratingly,  I struggle with seeming to write the same thing over and over...that the sadness of my soul feels too much to bear and I can't find other words.  Other words that will show you the provisions God made from the very beginning of my life and in the lives of my husband, my children and those who love us.    
I want those other words tell you My Story...

It's not just my story, though.  It's a narrative woven of innumerable strands- I could search for the rest of my life and never find every single one.  

I have to try, though.  I have to tell you My Story.
It's my greatest hope, my most fervent prayer and my offering to a God who is immeasurably greater than we know. 
If I show you, if I tell you, will you believe it?  Or will you think I'm just nuts?  Sometimes even I think I'm nuts.    The trust it takes to look back and see, to know and to understand the vast love of a Creator who covered and covers our family in His protection and provision in the midst of our greatest tragedy is mind boggling and quite frankly, seems a bit crazy even to ME.  

I found a journal a few days ago, a tiny and precious collection of memories that I started when Charles was deployed.  In it were moments, rare snippets of time that I recorded for the husband so far away.  And honestly, for myself.  I was always so scared, so filled with fear that I wouldn't remember enough, I wouldn't be able to keep their "littleness" alive in my memory...
and there were only 5 pages-5 priceless pages.  The desperate unfairness of it all washed over me, burying my heart in a fresh wave of grief that took my breath away.  

Dammit-that happens a lot lately.  Those waves of grief that hit me in the gut like a sucker punch.  Maybe it's because a door has been closed, or rather slammed shut, that finally released the dam.  The crack in that door was open just enough for me to have hope that what I believed was someone else's "truth" was just my own perception.   

Maybe it's words that were so hurtful, so powerful, and incredibly cruel at a time when we are most vulnerable.  That old adage about sticks and stones breaking bones, but words will never hurt me?  I call BS on that one.  WORDS are powerful, and they can be flaming arrows to the heart or they can be a balm to broken soul.  We've been pierced by some pretty hot arrows and have been on the receiving end of an accusation that is the single most hurtful thing ever said to Charles and me.  

It could very well be that the last of the shock has worn off...

Or, and this is my most confident assumption, I guess it could be that the clear and present reality of no more "firsts" and a future life of gazing on images of children who will never grow up has settled like concrete in my stomach.  

I'd venture to say it's probably every one of those things, and a million more I can't even find words for.  

What happens to a person when the dreams they have lived for, the life built, the future imagined- when all of that comes crashing down in an instant?  

Doubt-soul crushing, faith blasting, fear mongering DOUBT.   

of Yourself. 
Your spouse.
God. 
Everyone and everything you've ever known.  
The ability of your faith to carry you. 
The strength of God to pull you through. 
Pretty much every decision that got you to the point of impact.  

The doubt becomes that proverbial fork in the road.
But the choice isn't as simple as it would seem.  It's not a choice made "one and done." It's a constant and exhausting battle-living in the pit or hoping for a redeemed future.    

In all honesty, a lot of the time I do want to live that bloody pit.  The thought of a future redeemed is so foreign, seems so improbable, feels just SO WRONG.  Because it feels like a betrayal of the love of my children.  I can't explain it, I can't justify it and I don't know why, but it truly feels like I'm failing them in death just like I failed to protect them in life.  

And it's just so stupid.  I didn't fail to protect them.  I loved them, I cherished them and my entire life revolved around being their Mama.  I guess I just haven't figured out how to be a parent to living children and dead ones at the same time, so in some ways it's easier to teeter at the edge of the pit than acknowledge that an earthly life without Mercy and Sam could be redeemed.  

This morning, I found myself sobbing in front of the computer as I read Ann Voskamp's adoption story at A Holy Experience-her words revived in me the call my heart has felt for adoption for 13 years.  And once again, I found myself grieving-for the dream that I'm so scared of now.  For the fear of opening my heart to take a chance and for the children I may never know because the shrapnel of the past is launching itself into the future of my family.  

I don't spend my days wailing and sobbing, and laughter often passes my lips.  I don't languish in my bed, clutching a photo of the children lost to the world while clinging precariously to memories of a cherished life now shredded into pieces.  At least not very often.

I'd be a liar if I said I didn't have those moments, if I was able to stuff it all the time, if putting on a face was easy.  
I do have them.   There are times, in the quiet of a house filled with no children and sometimes, no husband, I completely lose my sh*t.  I yell at God, yell at myself, scream at the injustice of it all.  I throw stuff and I go through an entire box of tissues.  I clutch pillow pets or stuffed animals, I try to smell clothes that have long since stopped carrying their scent.  
And then I dry my tears.  
Wash my face. 
Pick up the mess. 
And ask God to forgive me all over again.  And hold me up.  And give me His love and mercy.  And fill me with a peace that surpasses all understanding.

My prayer is this- the time that is my enemy will become my friend, laid out before me in a tapestry of moments in which to fulfill God's purpose in my life and the life of my family.  I pray the dreams and plans God placed on my heart so many years ago will someday come alive again.  My deepest wish and heart's desire is to have a story to tell you that will be filled with the provision of God's grace, redemption, new life and a love that transcends all understanding.  

not my story.
HIS Story. 

Please, precious friends, pray for me.  So desperately I want to share all that God has done in and through the people who have loved and lifted us during this tragedy.  Pray that those words are the ones that break through and fly from my heart into the world.  

By His Grace,
tiff 







5 comments:

KinderLearningBunnies said...

Thank you for sharing these words. You're right you did need to share them. Know that you're sadly not alone on this new path. We're also in the same club and it's one that does reshape who you are. We lost our girls fourteen years ago but it doesn't make it any less painful. Both my husband and I have good times and bad and we never know when or why something will spark that flame. I see life and children so differently now. I share too much too, according to my husband. He keeps it to himself but doesn't realize that anyone who knew at the time felt something too. They see us and see that we look "fine" and we've "moved on". They don't see that my heart will never ever be the same. We can still love the moments we're in and the loved ones we're here with now. Thanks again for sharing.

Pammie Sue said...

God Bless you in your story. May I respectfully suggest that through Jesus you ask for his Mothers Blessings and intercession. When ever my life is/ was upside down I would turn to my Mother and she would guide me to prayer and the Blessed Mother of Jesus! God Bless you and your family and know that so many are praying with and for you

Deb said...

Thank you for sharing your heart and your journey. Your words have been a balm to me, giving me a bit of your strength and courage to keep moving forward.
My life changing experience is totally different from your's.....but the death of our future hopes and dreams were ripped from us.
❤️

Jen Jenny anything but Jennifer said...

I too have lost a child and your paragraph on selfish grief rings so very true even 4 years later.

I wonder if you would be interested in sharing more of your story at storiesfromthetrenches.org - a new online community for women to connect/encourage/support one another through the awful trenches of life. Seems your pain and story would connect with a lot others out there. I didn't see a place to email you so my email is jen@storiesfromthetrenches.org.

May you continue to see God even in the midst of sorrow.

beckyg said...

Thank you so much for sharing. God led me to this blog and to your story quite some time ago through a mutual friend that we share and fellow CC mom, Mandy Davis. Know that although I do not know you personally, I am praying for you and your family, and cry out to Him on your behalf quite often. Although the Lord has asked me to walk through entirely different circumstances, so much of what and how you share resonates with my heart.