Finding myself in a dark place

The promise of spring hangs in the air. The sun glints off the snow, and the black-capped chickadee lands on the feeder outside my window. The sound of my children’s voices rings throughout the house, yet somehow I am alone. Several attempts at getting together with friends over the past several months has failed, each having canceled for one reason or another. I have never felt so alone. I have much to be thankful for, yet I am weary of this day. I am sad. Try as I might to dispel this darkness, I cannot. My usual attempts at staving off discouragement are to no avail. Late nights, interrupted sleep, bodily aches and pains, Seasonal Affect Disorder, and worry over loved ones has overtaken my valiant efforts to swim out of this current of depression. Worship and praise music, devotions, and prayer seem to be ineffective. Dark thoughts persist, prowling, pacing, waiting for opportune moments to devour.

Several days of this, and I keep thinking, “I need to tell someone. I need to be honest about the struggle.” Of course, God already knows. Oh, yes, I’ve told him. I’ve cried out to him as David, the man who hid in caves, surrounded by enemies. I’ve tried praying, but no words come. I’ve kept the praise and worship music going, yet I fail to be uplifted. I keep reading my daily devotions, but the words fall like arrows missing a target. Where do I turn? Who will listen? Again, I go back to God. He hears, though I fail to see Him bending toward me. I think of those whose pain was too great, who chose to end their lives. What’s the difference between them and me, I wonder?

But I continue life “as usual,” keep going through the motions because I don’t know what else to do. I know there has to be an answer. I’m doing what David and Job did, giving voice to the One who holds all things, but I know, deep down, I must do what others did not. I must tell someone. I must be vulnerable, real. I must not stay isolated.

And so, I, quite unexpectedly, tell someone. I confide that I am struggling, that life is hard right now. She understands, as she’s “been there, done that” with loss, as well. She acknowledges the hard. She listens and doesn’t try to fix. She hears and doesn’t offer advice, only validation. This, this is my key to getting out of the dark place. Validation.

It was then that I realized what I had failed to do: Give myself validation. I had failed to acknowledge what I was feeling. How crazy is that? I mean, I live with grief every day, yet failed to name it for what it was. See, because this was different. This wasn’t just a “loss of child” grief. This was a tangled ball of grief all wrapped up in a crazy mess of other things that life throws your way. Things like your children growing up, reaching adulthood and the reality of them actually leaving hitting you like a ton of bricks. Things like the enormity of dealing with a young adult child whose future is uncertain because they’re still dealing with the effects of their brother’s death, yes, six and a half years later. Things like realizing one of your other children may have a learning disorder.

These things, I finally realized, are grief. (Slow learner, that I am!) On top of all this, contemplating Matt’s annual memorial scholarship and upcoming birthday threw me deeper into the pit of despair. What’s more, I have no one to turn to for these things, no one who has gone ahead or “been there, done that.” Where are the mentors? Where are the older women who will come alongside me and share what they learned? Why haven’t I found them? Why are we not being vulnerable with one another?

But for this woman I shared with, I think I would still be in the pit. After sharing, I realized this was grief, but more than that, I realized that giving voice to it was the key to climbing out of it. God gave us people, community. He gave us one another. We are not, as poet John Donne correctly penned, “an island.” Are you struggling? Are you feeling alone? Have you told someone? We weren’t meant to carry our burdens alone. Of course, God gives us Himself, but He also gives us those with skin on, other humans with which to commiserate, share sorrow (and joy).

I felt significantly better after sharing with this woman and continued to play worship and praise music and read my devotions. This morning, I woke with hope again, the bony grasp of despair’s grip blessedly less. I watched one of my grief mom friend‘s Facebook live video and was reminded of important truths when grieving: Keep your eyes on Christ, not looking ahead in apprehension. Trust Him for the future. Make your plans, but hold them lightly, knowing and trusting God’s Sovereignty. More than that, take hold of the peace He gives freely and abundantly. Finally, praise Him. Praise Him in the dark, for the opportunity it gives to draw you close to God. Praise Him for His faithfulness, comfort, and peace.







Life after loss is, well, a lot of things. The loss of a loved one is often compared to an amputation. The death of a loved one is permanent. There is no re-growth of a limb. Of late, however, I’ve described child loss akin to a house fire where one’s house is literally burnt to the ground with only the foundation left. (Yes, I’m a “This Is Us” addict fan!)

After loss, you have to decide to rebuild. See, the only other choice is to sit in the ashes, never rebuilding, never recovering. (Of course, we must sit in the ashes for a time; allow ourselves time to process our loss. But at some point, we have to rise up and begin the rebuilding process.) It is much like recovering from a house fire. Grieving loss is like sorting through the ashes, the rubble. It takes time. It takes intention. It requires help and outside resources. Can you do it alone? Sure. But it will take longer and you will miss the benefits they provide. (And there are many!)

Rebuilding after loss is incredibly overwhelming, every step painful, but necessary. The process is not quick, and once the ashes have cleared, monumental decisions remain. One has to answer the questions, “Who am I now?” “What is my life going to look like?” “How do I want to rebuild?” As with a house fire, loss destroys everything. But loss doesn’t always involve material items. Loss causes one to question one’s identity. Bereaved parents often wonder, “Who am I?” and “Am I still a mother/father?” after their child dies. The loss of relationships and friendships after a loved one’s death is also common. Daily life and certain routines, too, never get back to what they once were. Assuredly, just as a house is recognized as a house from the outside, the reality is that the inside is drastically different. Suffice to say, grief is complicated.

Rebuilding is complicated, too. For the bereaved, it is a process of redefining one’s self. You are no longer the person you were before your loved one died. That person died the day they did. But the foundation remains; you, your physical body. Now the question becomes, “What is this new me going to look like?” This is the question I’ve been asking myself for some time now because the death of my son stripped me of who I was. It’s taken time to figure out since loss also creates insecurity, fear, and mistrust.

This is why rebuilding and reinvesting is so difficult. It’s one thing to build and reinvest when one has confidence and assurance. It’s another when one’s not sure they can trust the future, or be secure in themselves. Can you blame them? Their once secure world came crashing down into a billion pieces. They are never again a naive participant in the world.

This is where many of my bereaved parent friends and I are at right now, this reinvesting in the world. We navigate with caution, confusion, and hesitance. Do we, essentially, want to risk having our world crash down upon us again? We’re not ignorant any longer, we now know that, indeed, the unspeakable can happen. And we’re not talking smack or exaggerating. It’s real. We speak from experience.

So this? This post from Ann Voskamp the other day spoke volumes to me, made me cry, in fact, when reading it: Told You’re Too Much? Or Feel Like You’re “Too Much”? Dear Me: Lifelines to the Person I Long to Be

See, child loss makes you question everything. It causes you to doubt who you are anymore and question whether certain parts of you even still exist. You wonder if any part of you remains, if anything in the foundation of the “old” you remains. I am, I believe, coming to the conclusion, at last, that yes, one thing, at least, remains: My strong personality.

I think the biggest thing I’m learning lately is that, as Max Lucado puts it, “God loves you just the way you are, but He refuses to leave you there.” (Just Like Jesus) Meaning that I am a “strong” personality; that’s how God made me. And it is 100% okay. BUT, I have to also temper it, learn to be gentle, patient, humble, and speak for the right reasons, not just to win an argument or prove a point. Losing my son definitely humbled me; grief will do that. But after Matt died, I sort of lost my voice, if that makes sense. I’ve been afraid, really, to reinvest in people, in life. I no longer care to discuss surface issues; trivial matters grate on me. Yet so much of building new friendships and relationships rely on this, so I have avoided them altogether. Additionally, I no longer have the desire to prove a point or win an argument. That sort of pride died when my son died. (Not that I don’t, on occasion, fall into the temptation! But as a way of life, it’s pretty much been stamped out.) While humility is good thing, the flip side is, because of that, however, I stopped investing in relationship, in pursuing earthly connection with those outside the realm of grief. Grief has a way of silencing one’s voice like a fire extinguishes the living, leaving only ashes.

I recently realized I was afraid to be that person again, the vocal one. I have been fearful of reinvesting in relationships, of risking depth. Deep hurts, like child loss, can make a person withdraw from the world and from others. Pain has a way of making a person feel invisible somehow. I can’t explain it, but pain is isolating and lonely, even if you are surrounded by a plethora of people.

So this reinvesting is hard. The me I used to be? In some respects, I still feel like a pile of ash, and reinvesting is like blowing on those ashes, trying to rekindle a flame. Or, it’s like the frame of the new me is in place; built on the foundation that remained, but the inside needs furnishing yet. Again, I don’t know how to describe it. I’m trying to find my voice, establish my place in the community of life once again. To be honest, I’ve resisted reinvesting. I didn’t want to invest. Investing takes energy, energy I didn’t care to expend. I don’t want to risk loss, risk losing any more relationships. Yet I know that this is reality in this fallen world; not everything lasts. People move away, relationships change, and life on this side of heaven is not perfect.

But reinvesting is necessary. As a believer in Jesus Christ, we are called to community. We are, like it or not, a part of a body. Each member of the body has a part to play, something to contribute, a responsibility to fulfill. Fear cannot be an excuse to excuse myself from stepping into others’ lives. God is calling me to invest. He gave all for me, experiencing grief and sorrow for my sake, willingly. And so, I, too, must willingly give all for the sake of others and to glorify my Father in heaven. With His grace and strength, I will triumph…and the house, this earthly tent, will some day be finished…and beautiful. Because of Him.





Grief with a purpose

 I watched the movie “Mary and Martha” the other night. I didn’t exactly know what the movie was about before clicking the Amazon “Watch Now” button. The movie description simply said, “Two women forge a unique bond steeped in tragedy in this uplifting, emotional film…”

I don’t know why I clicked on it. The title intrigued me, and I like Hilary Swank’s acting. I had no idea it was a story of child loss. I assumed the tragedy was of another sort.

Nonetheless, I started the movie. Perhaps it was the blizzard we experienced Monday in our area that compelled me to “hunker down.” I don’t know.  But start it, I did. It began innocently enough, portraying a beautiful family. Not a perfect or flawless one, but real, with small glimpses into their daily life with authentic struggles. Much like ours, really, before tragedy hit.

But the unexpected happens. Their son dies. And I watch the film as if an outsider, only I’m not. I observe Hilary Swank’s character as she sits next to her son’s lifeless body, identifying all too well the look of shock, the feeling of numbness take over her body as her mind tries to wrap itself around the truth that her child has died. I remember how, before loss, I would be moved to tears in scenes like this. Yet after loss, I now take great pains to restrain myself from “going” there, from recalling those memories of my own son’s death, of mechanically standing at the doorway of the hospital room where his lifeless body lay. I slam the door on memories as I watch the movie, try to push away the recollection of my own numbness and disbelief in those early hours of losing Matt.

I watched the mother’s behavior at the funeral and how she interacts with her friends after it’s over, and the different ways in which a husband and a wife grieve in the immediate weeks that follow, and I identified with it all.

But mostly, I recognized the guilt. The guilt I still live with.

And I recognized the overwhelming desire to find purpose after child loss, to find some sort of significance to your child’s death. I get it. I’m guessing probably almost every bereaved parent suffers from guilt after losing a child. It doesn’t matter if it’s rational, right, or reasonable. Guilt is guilt. Additionally, pain begs purpose. There must be purpose, for without it, we become cynical, bitter, and unhealed.

Guilt remains, but purpose is a salve of sorts. There is nothing I can do to absolve it. Sure, I can forgive myself for not being the perfect parent, but the consequences remain: my son no longer lives an earthly life. He will never come back to me. I will never hear his voice or see his face, watch him walk into a room, or give him away in marriage. I’ll never be a grandmother to his children. The film rightly concludes the same for the main characters, Mary and Martha. They, too, deem purpose to be a ladder, of sorts, out of the pit of grief. Purpose is the bereaved parents anthem, their lifeline to living in this world bereft of their child(ren).

Mary and Martha find their purpose in telling their story, in striving to save just one other child or person from the same fate their child suffered. If they can save just one life, then perhaps, just maybe, their child’s death was not in vain. Perhaps there was meaning. And just maybe, in some tangible way, their child lives on.

My purpose after Matt died remains the same: to glorify God, to speak honestly about my grief and to point others to Christ through it, to show that a relationship with God isn’t perfect, but He is. Because of Christ, I purpose to show that life after child loss is, indeed, possible. Life, good life and joy are, incredibly, unbelievably, possible after losing a child. It doesn’t mean your life will look like it did before. No, that’s not possible. But life must, like a home destroyed by fire, be rebuilt. It will take intention. It will take time. It will take help from others. Like Mary finds friendship and a common bond with Martha (and Martha likewise), the bereaved must forge friendships and accept help to rebuild. They must be patient with the remaking of their lives after loss. They must be intentional in shutting the door on the “what ifs” and “if onlys” and move forward by deliberately choosing to rebuild, to refuse to sit in the ashes for the rest of life. They must determine to take steps, however small, toward healing.

I’m not sure the guilt will ever go away, but I do know this: I can’t change the circumstances. I can’t bring my son back. Moreover, I refuse to live in fear. I will do everything I can to live life well because I know that if I allow my son’s death to destroy me, then death will have won, and Matt would not have wanted that. The voice of guilt is a vicious beast, but the voice of Grace and Mercy is sweet, tender, and forgiving. Death will try to convince you that nothing good remains, but that is a lie. Love remains. God remains. He has never left, never failed, never given up.

The story of Mary and Martha resounds because God has a purpose for our pain, a good purpose. There is an eternal weight of glory that is being prepared for those who grieve, who trust God with their sorrow, who sit at his feet among the ashes of their devastation. It is a weight of glory far beyond all comparison. Far beyond. (2 Cor. 4:17) When we choose to trust him through our grief, he will fashion it into something beautiful, something with purpose.

Watching Mary and Martha reminded me that when the voice of guilt comes calling, I have every right to not answer the door, but instead to stand back and allow Jesus to open it, for when he does, he speaks to guilt and bids it leave. I am forgiven for all my mistakes, all the missed opportunities I didn’t take, all the failures I’ve made as a parent. I can’t bring my son back, but I can move forward with purpose, trusting God to purpose good from grief.




When grief launches a “miss”ile

Like thousands of other people last night, my family watched the Vikings football game against the Saints. The sounds that rang out from our living room were decibels above the safe level of hearing, I’m sure. Diggs’ run into the end zone after catching himself from momentarily losing his footing will be talked about for weeks on social media. The last few seconds of the game will be remembered for years to come. The Vikes’ victory was a solid reminder to many to never quit, never give up. My husband called it “The Minnesota Miracle.”

I watched replay after replay of those exciting last moments of the Vikings game and smiled with joy in seeing the gladness on the faces of the people gathered in our home. I viewed the landscape of our living room packed with family and friends and cherished the sight. But my heart weighed heavy. It ached. It ached because my son wasn’t there.

Just like that, grief dropped a “miss”ile, one of those “no rhyme or reason” missing moments where the pain of child loss explodes like a land mine.

After almost six and a half years, it still sucks. I’m not sure why, but the ache of missing Matt has flared up the past couple weeks. I suspect it’s simply the grief of entering yet another new year without my son. Moments, too, like last night, are bittersweet reminders of how our life used to be. Matt’s dad is a Vikings fan and, well, Matt was not. Game days at our house were (and are) exciting. The spirit of competition runs high here. Matt was a Packer’s fan. Yep. A Viking’s fan and Packer’s fan living in the same household made for great Sunday memories (and still do, as one of his sisters and I carry on Matt’s devotion to the Pack). I can’t help but wonder how my “Mr. Stoic” would have reacted to yesterday’s game and which team he would have been rooting for.

I went to bed early last night, knowing that what I needed was a good private cry. I miss my son. I cannot bury my grief, just as I cannot bury my love. I will cherish the memories and count my blessings, but I will not deny the pain, because I know that God invites us to call out to Him in all our moments, the joyful ones as well as the painful ones.

As I laid in bed weeping last night, I turned to the two tangible things that have helped me most in this grief journey: God’s word and music. As always, God’s word brought comfort and the reminder that He sees, He knows, He cares. He loves. There is purpose in pain. Not a single second of this grief is wasted; it has purpose.

I opened my YouVersion Bible app and clicked on one of my saved reading plans from Your Time of Grace titled, “Don’t Lose Heart.” As always, God’s word was timely. I needed to hear this truth, that God acknowledges the hurt, yet supplies encouragement, endurance, and hope to persevere the permanent circumstances of child loss.

I also replayed a powerful song message from earlier in the week that I have on my playlist by Shane and Shane featuring John Piper. (Piper comes in at about the 3:30 mark.) I thank God for speaking through His people, people with the gift of music and preaching.

When one’s loss is permanent and grief launches an unexpected “miss”ile, it is all too easy to become discouraged, to succumb to despair and the thoughts of depression. But what a simple game of football with the Vikings taught me yesterday was this: persevere, do not give up, do not lose hope. We who grieve have the greatest coach, the LORD God Almighty, guiding us, teammates running alongside us, and a cloud of witnesses cheering us on to the finish line.

I miss Matt. I will never stop missing him, not until I enter paradise and the presence of God and meet Jesus face to face. But until then, I am called to persevere with joy, in the strength and grace of God. With faith, hope, and love, I will run into the end zone of heaven some day…right into the arms of my savior Jesus Christ, and my son Matt. What a touchdown that will be. #notlosingheart




Why you can’t do grief alone

I’ve been re-reading Ann Voskamp’s book on Advent, “The Greatest Gift.” The entry for December 12th drew from the book of Ruth with the story of Naomi and Ruth. Naomi’s story gives a glimpse of real life, life with death and disappointment. Naomi’s husband has died, as well as both of her sons. She has been through famine and a subsequent move, and is preparing for yet another move. Her life hasn’t been easy. I know some of you can relate. However, Naomi does have her two daughters-in-law. But, seemingly strange, she tells them both to return to their mothers’ homes. Her words to them reveal much, I think, about her state of mind.

11 But Naomi said, “Return home, my daughters. Why would you come with me? Am I going to have any more sons, who could become your husbands? 12 Return home, my daughters; I am too old to have another husband. Even if I thought there was still hope for me—even if I had a husband tonight and then gave birth to sons— 13 would you wait until they grew up? Would you remain unmarried for them? No, my daughters. It is more bitter for me than for you, because the Lord’s hand has turned against me!” (Ruth 1)

Even if she thought there was still hope, Ruth is still hopeless. What happens when hope is gone, you wonder? Ruth’s words leave no ambiguity. Bitterness slides in when hope evaporates. With all her heart, she believes God is against her. Do you feel like Ruth, Friend? Listen as Ruth continues:

20 “Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter. 21 I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty. Why call me Naomi? The Lord has afflicted me; the Almighty has brought misfortune upon me.” (Ruth 1)

Wow. That’s strong stuff, right? Naomi doesn’t pull any punches, and it’s clear who she thinks is to blame. Bitterness doesn’t hold back, and neither does Naomi. Bitterness blames, but God’s favor (and character) are not dependent on our circumstances. Circumstances do not dictate God’s character. I believe that’s where Naomi got it wrong. While she’s correct that the LORD has afflicted her or allowed these things to happen, her response to these tragedies, albeit honest, is wrong. She, like many of us, missed the obvious truth: God is sovereign. He reigns. He alone has supreme power and authority. Pastor and theologian J. Vernon McGee put it this way: “This is God’s universe, and God does things his way. You may have a better way, but you don’t have a universe.” 

Grief has a way of clashing with sovereignty. We want our way. We want things done sensibly, understandably, neatly. But heartache, catastrophes, and sorrow are never these. Seeds of bitterness, watered by hopelessness and despair, grow quickly if one disregards the soil of sovereignty. Many who have lost a loved one can tell you how how swiftly the temptation towards bitterness sweeps in, how the temptations to choose bitter over better keep rolling in like waves upon the shore, day after day, month after month, year after year.

Friends, left to ourselves to deal with our grief all too easily creates ripe conditions for bitterness to take root. Naomi wanted to be left alone with her bitterness. She wanted to nurse the wound, reject healing. Like bitterness does, it wants to complain. Naomi doesn’t lament; she complains. She complains about God rather than lament to Him. Complaint blames God. It demeans Him and separates us from Him. Lament draws us to Him with honest cries and a yearning for Him. Lament draws closer despite not understanding.

Thankfully, Ruth refuses to leave. Ruth stays and Naomi is ultimately blessed through her. Naomi couldn’t do it alone. She had Ruth and the women around her to remind her of the truth. They reminded her that God had not left her, that He was, indeed, the restorer of her life and her sustainer.

13 So Boaz took Ruth, and she became his wife, and he went in to her. And the Lord enabled her to conceive, and she gave birth to a son. 14 Then the women said to Naomi, “Blessed is the Lord who has not left you without a redeemer today, and may his name become famous in Israel. 15 May he also be to you a restorer of life and a sustainer of your old age; for your daughter-in-law, who loves you and is better to you than seven sons, has given birth to him.” (Ruth 4)

Grief will do its best to isolate and embitter. Allow those around you to carry hope for you until you can again. Don’t push away the hand of healing, but embrace the One who died for you. Accept that though He wounds, He also heals. Ruth stayed with Naomi, and there are “Ruth’s” who will stay with you. Compassionate Friends is one Ruth. If you’ve suffered child loss, CF is there to make sure you “need not walk alone.” GriefShare is another Ruth. For loss of any kind, GS is available to provide hope and healing through a Christ-centered perspective and video seminars.

Grief was not the end of Naomi’s story, and it is not the end of yours. Naomi’s God, your God, proved Himself faithful. As He sustained Naomi, trust that He will sustain you. You are not alone. This holiday season may you be reminded, most of all, that Emmanuel, “God with us,” is with you. Yes, in even the grief.



A Heart Full and Empty


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Matt getting lessons on flying at the RC air field with the plane he won through a contest at our local library. 

This is my 7th Thanksgiving without my son. He would be 22 years old, and I find myself wondering (as always) what he would look like, how he would sound, and where he would be working. I wonder where he would be living, and if he’d be bringing a girlfriend home for Thanksgiving dinner. I wonder what kind of car (or truck) he’d be driving, and how tall he would be. I wonder if he’d play with his younger brothers after dinner and tease (torment) his sisters. My heart aches with longing, and most days I don’t allow myself to “wonder,” but these significant days, like holidays, birthdays, etc., I need to wonder. I need to grieve. I need express what is in my heart.

I don’t remember the first Thanksgiving after Matt died. But I do remember not finding anything for which to be thankful. When grief is fresh it paints your world black. There is no light, no world outside of your loss. There is just surviving, even if there’s no desire to. You simply go through the motions of living. All I wanted was for my child who had died to be “un-died.” I just wanted him there. I still want him here.

Some of you won’t remember Thanksgiving 2017. Some of you will ditch Thanksgiving and break with tradition. Some of you will stay in bed the entire day. Some of you will put on the “mask” of the bereaved and show up with a smile that hides the ache. And some of you will celebrate with your family while your heart silently longs; each beat of your heart echoing a quiet “whoosh-whoosh” of their name.

It’s okay. However you spend Thanksgiving this year, it’s okay. I’m giving you permission to spend your Thanksgiving doing what feels right for you this year. (As long as you’re not hurting yourself or others.) Just keep leaning into the One whose heart breaks with yours. Give yourself grace because He does. God knows where you’re at; He knows the jumble of emotions you’re experiencing, for He made you to feel. He just wants you to come to Him. Bring whatever it is you’re feeling, and give it to Him. Yes, even if it’s anger, disappointment, or bitterness. Throw it at Him. He will catch it. God isn’t asking you to do this Thanksgiving thing alone. He’s asking you to do it with Him, for He sits with you. He sees the empty chair. And He invites you to dump it all on His lap. Let Him provide the strength for today.

Seven Thanksgivings without my son is hard to fathom. Every one of those Thanksgivings has been different. Every one of them has been difficult. But every one of them has been filled with God’s presence, provision, and power. My heart overflows with gratitude for what remains and for what God promises will come. My heart aches, but it is also full. I am grateful. I am grieving. I am thankful.

A gentle Thanksgiving to you, my friends.

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All things

Cleaning out my desk the other day, I came across an old clothes-shopping list for my kids. Quite frankly, it jolted me with a fresh wave of grief. My heart twinged as I stared at the list.


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Matt reading to his youngest brother.







Seeing my son’s name in writing sort of threw me, you see. There are so many things we take for granted: like writing our child’s name. How frequently we write their names…until they are gone.

More and more, I grieve for my other children. Siblings are often the “forgotten grievers.” I ache for their loss. I weep for the times they will never have with their big brother, the memories they will never make with him. I cherish the moments I witness of Matt’s siblings interacting with one another, for I know we are not promised tomorrow, and these seasons are short-lived. But these moments bring a pang of bitter-sweetness to my heart, for I long for Matt to be here among them, to hear his quiet, sarcastic voice intermingle with theirs.

Yet I seek solace and comfort from another small item. Not a list, but a bracelet. A bracelet that declares “With God all things are possible.”

Gold Silver Matt bracelet (3)

Many parents say, “I couldn’t live without my child.” Some of us, however, don’t get a choice. We do live without our child. Every day. I’ve now lived six years without my son. My children have lived six years without their big brother. Matt’s siblings carry a loss daily, but they, too, carry this truth:

All things. All things, even living with child loss, are possible.

All things, even living with sibling loss, are possible.

While many bereaved siblings are the “forgotten grievers” by our society at large, they are not forgotten by God, nor us, the bereaved parents. We remember. We see you. We acknowledge you. Gentle hugs today to all bereaved siblings.


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