Tag: #grief

Golden Friends

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, The Chef6 Comments

I screamed at Chef, I smacked my friend’s hands away as she tried to comfort me. I didn’t offer coffee to visitors, I am confident I neglected to say thank you for kindnesses. I asked dear friends to do unthinkable tasks, I haven’t responded to the emails and texts I received immediately after or each day since. Grief has altered my ability to reach out, to show my own compassion. The boxes of thank you notes sit untouched. Plans are made and I break them at the last minute, unable to face anyone or the day. As ugly as my face becomes as I sob, so my soul seems to be. Still, friends refuse to forsake me, my husband has accepted my outbursts and anger and continues to love me. I am surrounded by people who are walking out the directive from Romans 12:15, “ Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” More than ever, with any other loss, I know that supporting those who have shattered hearts is holy work, those who are able to cast aside their own needs and thicken their skin is surely the best example of Jesus I can find.

As memories of that morning when I learned my son was gone come seeping back in, I am appalled by the swirling tornado of anger that consumed me. Unable to accept the news meant I also was unable to allow others to hold me up as doing so meant it was true. Each day, each hour brings a message from someone who hasn’t forsaken me, who understands that I am not myself. My fear though is that I never again will be me. As someone who rarely experiences anger, who disregards the needs of others, I have become self-absorbed and only take take take, anger is my closest ally these days. How long will this behavior be accepted, allowed before friends slink away? I suspect I will be given the time needed. I hear my friend Janet’s words every day, “Be gentle with yourself,” yet I want to be better, to be closer to whole again. I can’t see that day coming, seems so far away.

I awake each morning with the news slamming into me before I have even opened my eyes. Horrible dreams haunt me, I can’t find escape. Then a text arrives, I rarely even acknowledge it, but someone tells me they are thinking of me right at that moment, they are praying for me. So I get up and make coffee, I tend to the beasts in our home. What folks may or may not realize, they are giving me enough air that I can breathe again. I should tell them how grateful I am, what they re truly giving to me. Yet the energy it takes to rise, to focus on washing dishes or listening for the beasts at the door means I have nothing else left. I give back nothing even as I know these friends are completely sustaining me. Being a support person to the grieving, accepting little bits of their pain to carry as your own, my God, who would want that job? My friends from all over apparently do.

My college friend drove us to see our son, a trip 70 miles away, my friend Janet came to my empty house just so I could take a shower. Meals keep arriving, Cathi accepted me into her home to not celebrate my birthday and she listened to me tell her things I surely had over and over. People stop me to offer a hug and then walk away, without asking that I share my story. Others like my pastor ask me how I really am and then fully listen without judgement to my angry words. Another friend is taking me to the grocery today, she says she doesn’t plan to cheer me up. Another friend told me that I am accepting life, that each day when I get up and come into church, that I am making a choice that is counter to what I want. She told me also that she is too is angry, she is with me in this pain. Another friend who also has suffered the loss of her son sat with me for almost 3 hours and let me probe into her life, to ask completely inappropriate questions and she took my grief on as well. Who does this stuff?  Grace filled people who are showing me God because I cannot look to Him. Someday I may follow their example, to be worthy of their care, just not now.

I wish I could relay all the generosity and delicate lifting I have experienced, the stories may come, but right now all I can do is praise those who come close, who haven’t backed away from my pain. I see each of you as the gold that is filling in the cracks of my soul, putting me back together, as in the practice of Kinsugi in Japan where cracked pottery is repaired with gold lacquer. If I am to survive this, it is only because others have gently, one by one, chosen to share their golden souls. I forget to say thanks but whisper it to the One who sent you. I tell Him that I am blessed, a momentary lapse of my resentment and rage. And I take another breath.

Joy is My Birthright

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, The Chef10 Comments

Every year for my birthday, Chef finds some way to celebrate big. Having never wanted attention focused solely on me, I have battled with him over this inclination, become frustrated that he throws a surprise party, that he includes many people, that he refuses to let the day slide by quietly as I would wish. Except here’s the thing, he is right. (Can we all agree never to tell him I said that?) My therapist was talking to me about my sense of self-worth, that I was created for joy and not merely to stumble from one trauma to the next. She shared with me that a friend has a tag line or that bit of something after her signature on every email she sends, that reads “Joy is your birthright.” My mind expanded immediately by the arrangement of those words, by the idea that joy is not something I could guiltily seek or grasp tiny moments of, that God did not make bad things happen to me but His desire for me, for you, was joy. He created me with the expectation that I was worthy of joy, every day, in the morning and as I drift off to sleep. He is angered that I, His child, have been fed lies, have been abused and damaged in such a way that I struggle to find my place with Him. I am heir to the Kingdom, as it is my birthright. As I grappled with this new way of thinking, demolishing old paradigms as acceptance grew, I realized I must celebrate my birthday. If I was to accept the basic premise of my birthright, I must shout out that I am worthy of celebrating because God made me and that alone is enough. I deserve joy. This was to be the big year for me to say yes to whatever Chef came up with and I was going to lean in to the friends who gathered, accept their presence as a celebration of our God and His promises. Then Arrow died, three weeks before my birthday and mostly all this work has unraveled.

Deep in the throes of my grief, angered at a God who didn’t protect my son, I obviously had no desire to mark this day or allow joy to enter into my space, my soul. Yet something unexpected happened as I sought to reject God and His joy.  I received Fb messages and texts that reminded me I am valued and people understand I am hurting. Folks were sensitive to my inability to celebrate, the pain of every days magnified by a special event and still they reached out. People were determined to let me know that I am loved and valued. Much as a skein of yarn looks attractive in color or maybe feels wonderfully soft, it isn’t until the knitter or crocheter begins to work with it, connecting stitches together, that something of real beauty and usefulness emerges. My friends from near and far sent tiny bits of joy that reinforced this transformation of me that God is seeking. Together they spun a thing of beauty out of my unraveled pieces, they told me what I was refusing to hear from God. I am still heir to the Kingdom, I am built for joy even in my sorrow.

This year more than ever I am deeply touched and so very grateful for all the birthday wishes and messages. You all keep sending out life lines and in spite of myself, I am grasping them. You are doing holy work right now, my friends. And just so you know, joy is YOUR birthright too. Shall we all hold each other tenderly and accept this new day?

Grocery Shopping, Driving Require More than I Have

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Travel3 Comments

I am that woman in the grocery store who is blocking the aisle, crying as I reach for ridiculous items on the shelf and then lose my breath completely as I spot something that used to be a necessity, a treat, a special bottle of hot sauce or a dessert mix, when I realize I will never buy it again. Going to the grocery store delivers reality when I am trying to take care of my family, taking one step toward life and seeking a respite from the grief that is seeping from the walls of my house, swirling with every dust particle. Surely the very act of driving to the store, leaving the anonymity of my car, entering a building that by its very nature means we are choosing to live, only to be reminded that I don’t care about fresh apples, that I am angered by beignet mixes, that people who are smiling are an affront, is just too much right now.  I am that woman who annoys you in your rush through the store, the one who is crying over cornflakes and makes you uncomfortable with such uncontrolled emotion.

As you travel with purpose to the next meeting, to work, to shuttle children from one activity to the next, I am the woman in a car driving too slowly, picking up speed just a you pass. What you don’t know is that I can barely muster the effort to push on the gas pedal, that I have lost the focus necessary to remember where I am even going, that my hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly in an effort to not turn around and go back to my home where I don’t have to keep a mask in place. I know I frustrate you when  I sped up as you pass, you don’t know that you have shaken me out of my memories and spurred me to drive again, that you have shown me I am not driving safely so I follow your example, I push a bit harder on the pedal but am unable to maintain the desire or the effort, I slow down again and anger all those coming from behind.

Three weeks ago I too could shop and drive and care about mundane things. Then Friday happened, then the phone call came that would forever divide my life into before and after. Tomorrow brings the knowledge that I have survived 3 weeks without my son here in this world. How did time keep moving so steadily when I am screaming for a chance to go back? I am consumed with rage, with an anger that scares me. I am not an angry person by nature, I forgive quickly and easily because I know the destruction that judgement offers, yet I have lost those parts of myself as I refuse to speak to the God who broke our agreement, who refused to honor the contract I fully believed we had made. I was told to trust Him with my child, I handed him over for safe keeping, filled with assurance that one day he would return to sobriety, become the man I as his mother knows resided in his heart. Scripture feels empty, a hollow scrambling of letters and words that promise what clearly was not to be delivered. My feelings are too ugly to share with most, I lost my son that horrific morning and I lost my faith. Should I really be concerned with continuing to play by the rules our society expects, to stay on the right side of the aisle and drive the speed limit?

Yet I am finding that there are those who are not put off by my lost eyes, by my inability to chat or smile or behave appropriately. My church is my safe place these days, even as I reject the reasons for our gathering, because it is filled with folks steeped in grace. I explained to my pastor yesterday that I am rejecting God but not His followers. One day they will lead my back to a right relationship with the “Savior” who chose not to save my son, for now I can only believe in their belief, in their kindness as they stop to give me a hug and even listen as I say things to them I have probably already said, they don’t show the impatience of the strangers who drive by and honk. No, these people are heroes, bridge builders. I trust in them, the closest I am willing to get to God. I am grateful for their gentleness, the tenderness with which they are seeking out my heart. Somehow these are still my people.

Please be kind to strangers who are annoying and disconcerting in their odd behavior. I am that woman who is desperately hanging by a thread. You can choose to twist and snap it or join your own bit of rope to strengthen mine. The world is full of hurting people, life is just too hard for some of us to smile. You may never know my struggle, my story or that of the one ahead of you in line who forgets to keep moving forward, but trust that they are broken hearted and doing the best that can.