Recently I spoke at a Renew Conference in Fresno, California. The guest resource leader was Mark Lau Branson from Fuller Theological Seminary, the author of Memories, Hopes, and Conversations
I had a chance to interview Mark, part of which is in this clip:
We’ve all said it—all of us who are married. At least we’ve said something like it: “for better, for worse.”
But how could we have possibly known how bad “worse” could be. We imagined aging, failures, mistakes. We did not imagine losing a child.
Of course, many who lose a child are single. But don’t suppose that being married removes the burden of the aloneness.
For in grief, we go our own way.
The eyes of our beloved bear the sadness of our loss. Plus, you rally one day and are brought low by the other’s wretched sadness; then you feel like you’re slipping into a deep abyss just as your spouse is whistling in a temporary reprieve from the hurt.
If you imagine marriage as the perfect place of solace for a grieving soul, you may be overshooting. You imagine marriage halving the sorrow; in some ways it doubles it. For you’ve lost a son or daughter; but you’ve also lost your marriage as you knew it.
Grief takes you into places that can’t be explored arm-in-arm, soul-in-soul.
One of Robert Frost’s most piercing poems is “Home Burial.” Behind the poem is the loss of a child (a grief that Frost knew all too well!). But within the poem is the loss of a relationship. The husband is trying to suck it up and get on with life; the wife is blinded to life’s goodness by the constant sense of loss.
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: “What is it you see
From up there always? — for I want to know.”
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: “What is it you see?”
Mounting until she cowered under him.
“I will find out now — you must tell me, dear.”
She, in her place, refused him any help,
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see,
Blind creature; and a while he didn’t see.
But at last he murmured, “Oh” and again, “Oh.”
“What is it — what?” she said.
“Just that I see.”
“You don’t,” she challenged. “Tell me what it is.”
“The wonder is I didn’t see at once.
I never noticed it from here before.
I must be wonted to it — that’s the reason.
The little graveyard where my people are!
So small the window frames the whole of it.
Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
On the sidehill. We haven’t to mind those.
But I understand: it is not the stones,
But the child’s mound —-”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t,
don’t,” she cried.
(The full poem can be found here.)
The couple is so wounded by grief that neither can stop to understand the other. Grief separates rather than pulls together.
I mention this to say that those who come alongside those who’ve lost a child need to be aware that no part of life is untouched by the loss. Marriage is different; parenting (with surviving children) is different; work is different; church is different.
Grieving parents need patience, hope, silence, help, encouragement. (Note in posts 1 and 2 the preference for silence or brief expressions of love in the earliest days.) Their world is falling apart. When you get a chance, remind them that there is no blueprint for grieving. Encourage them to get help when they need it (from friends, minister, therapist, etc.).
A new world can be constructed—including a renewed marriage. (Some couples look back and see that their relationship is deeper and richer than they ever could have imagined—though they hate the journey that took them there.)
But it will take time. Lots of time.
I am Megan’s mom.
I had that title for 10 years. I know I am still Megan’s mom, but many people don’t know me anymore as Megan’s mom. They know me as Mike’s wife, Chris’s mom, Matt’s mom, Mrs. Cope (their teacher), Mimi… It seems like a lifetime ago, but I am still Megan’s mom.
Those 10 years were some of the most exhausting, formative years of my life. Megan had many challenges in her short lifetime. She had bone anomalies and mental challenges which caused her to develop slower physically and mentally. But she was a happy, fun-loving ball of fire! She never stopped. She was the energizer bunny! She didn’t sleep, which means we didn’t sleep. We were exhausted!
Megan taught me to live for each day. I learned that lesson from the very beginning. I could only think of how to survive that day. I couldn’t worry about the next day. Without realizing it, she was already preparing me for the journey I would have to live out without her. You see, walking through grief is a one day at a time journey.
I experienced grief at so many different levels with her. I grieved early on for the “normal” daughter I would never have. And, yet, I couldn’t picture Megan any other way. I loved her for her.
Because she was so all-consuming, when she left us, my life took on a dramatic change. My life consisted of taking care of her 24-7. I had three sheets with single spaced instructions on how to take care of Megan posted inside our kitchen cabinets. I was so afraid something would happen to me and no one would know how to take care of her. She had several medicines, a feeding tube (the last couple years of her life), percussion treatments, asthma treatments, etc. (I realize Mike could have taken care of her alone, but I was the one who usually took care of most of her medical needs.) So, when she was gone, it was so very different.
I spent hours just sitting. Chris was two years old at the time. I plopped him down in front of videos and sat. I’m not proud of that. But I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. At night, I would cry for hours in the closet. I tried desperately to hold it together until Chris and Matt were asleep in their beds and then I would cry. I felt as though my arm had been cut off. I felt as though I was in a dark, black hole. There was no light. I didn’t realize how much despair I felt until I was listening to the news one morning and heard about the Oklahoma bombing that killed so many people. I remember thinking I wished I had been in that building. And then I remember thinking that I couldn’t believe I thought that. Of course, I didn’t want to leave Mike or our children. But, at that moment, I realized how heavy my grief was and it surprised me.
Not long after that, Mike was asked to help lead a spiritual retreat in Switzerland. I did not want to go. I know that is hard to believe. Who wouldn’t want to go to Switzerland! All I wanted to do was stay cocooned in my house away from everyone and everything. But I went. This trip became a healing balm for me. I know you are thinking this came from all that time in scripture and prayer. Although I’m sure that helped, it was more a near-death experience for me. At least, in my memory it was near-death; Mike might tell it a little differently.
While we were in Switzerland, Mike and Darryl Tippens led us through a morning of scripture and meditation. Then they would send us off in the afternoons for contemplation, fun, rest, whatever we needed to help be renewed. We would set off for hikes every afternoon with several from the group.
One particular day, we reached a part of the path that was full of snow. In fact, there was no path anymore and there was a sign with red tape on it. Now, I was with a group of very smart people. But I soon realized none of them had any common sense, except for me. I insisted that the red tape crisscrossed on the sign was a universal message that meant stop. My adventurous group didn’t want to believe the sign. My choice was to turn back and walk back on the trail by myself or go on with the group. I did not want to be by myself, so I trudged forward. We walked on guessing the direction we should go. We were finally close to the top of the mountain and realized we would have to climb up the side of the mountain to get to the top. I was to go first. I placed my hands in the snow and my feet. Then I froze. I couldn’t move. I was so afraid I was going to fall to my death. And then I prayed, “Please God, don’t let me die on this mountain.” That was a moment of epiphany for me. At that moment, I knew I really did want to live. I did make it to the top of that mountain at which time I sat down and cried like a baby. I cried because I was alive and knew that my life was going to go on, even without Megan.
My grief journey began in a very dark hole with no light. Little by little tiny specks of light broke through the darkness. Those were the moments that I knew I might be ok someday. My moment on top of the Switzerland mountain was a tiny bit of light breaking through for me. Later, I began to feel as though I had parts of days with actual light. Now, I walk in the light for the most part. As I’ve read all the comments on Mike’s blog the past couple weeks and as we get to walk through grief with friends, I find myself revisiting the darkness. But it is never as dark as it was for me those first few years. I walk in the light, enjoy my family, and long for the day I will be with my sweet Megan again.
This excerpt is from my book Megan’s Secrets and is used by permission:
We live with grief. Life doesn’t turn out the way we expect, and we suffer the loss. The health we expected into old age is suddenly lost. The child we thought was “normal” turns out to have special challenges. The teenager we love more than life makes destructive choices. The job we worked hard for is suddenly lost in a downsized economy. The marriage we thought was perfect turns out to be wearisome. The one we love so much dies. Rachel keeps weeping for her children.*
The years roll by and grief changes. But it doesn’t leave. And sometimes it sneaks up and bites us unexpectedly.
Long before I’d ever heard of Dick Hoyt, Megan was my frequent companion as I trained for marathons. She loved the feel of the wind and the up-close view of the outdoors. As I ran and pushed, she clapped her hands, sang little bits of her favorite songs, and would occasionally yell, “Hey, I’m Megan!”
I didn’t know how much I missed those running experiences together until ten or eleven years after her death. On the Sunday that our congregation is full of parents dropping off children at college, I took the stroller (which remains in an honored place in the garage) as a prop to talk about the challenge of letting go.
But in both services, the moment — the MOMENT! — I touched the stroller, I melted down. Through the years, I had some emotional moments while preaching. But never like this. The memories were just too strong.
Megan's stroller
What I’ve learned about grief, though, is this: it’s the only way. I can’t ignore it; I can’t set it aside; I can’t pretend. I must grieve my way through the sorrow and the loss. Painful as it is, grief is a gift—a part of the healing process.
It allows me to remember; it forces me to remember how strong love was and is; it slowly—slowly!—allows me to imagine a new future. And it keeps me dependent on God, eventually looking back over the many miles and realizing how true the words of the Psalmist are: “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.”
This is not a naive, Pollyannaish joy. This is the joy of those who have known deep loss, who have wept the tears of Rachel, who have lived in friendship with others who allow the balm of healing to slowly work (and who are themselves part of that balm of healing), who have been turned by God back to life in this desperate world, and who have learned to hope.
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*See Jeremiah 31:15; Matthew 2:18. I write earlier in the chapter that Rachel is the “patron saint of all those who have lost a child, all those who’ve suffered greatly, all those who think God has forgotten them.”
For other parents who’ve lost children: What songs, what pieces of art, what books, what poems, and what movies have spoken into your grief? Please take the time to drop a note in the comments.
Robert Plant with his son
So many songs spoke right into my grief: Led Zeppelin’s “All My Love” (written by Robert Plant as a tribute to his young son, Karac, who died in 1977 from an infection), Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel,” so many older hymns (“It Is Well With My Soul,” written by a grieving father, especially helped articulate my loss and hope), etc.
But perhaps no song spoke for me more than “Tears in Heaven.” Eric Clapton lost his four-year-old son, Conor, in 1991 when he fell out the window from a 53rd-floor apartment in NYC. Clapton later spoke about his sorrow in the following days: “It becomes like someone else’s life in a movie. I went into shock. It felt like I shut down . . . .”
Equally moving is Clapton’s “The Circus Left Town,” about his last day with Conor before his death:
For a long time after Megan died, movies just weren’t safe for us. Grieving parents are raw, tender. Our emotions can run from slight joy to sobbing quickly. In fact, it’s dangerous to be in any public place for a while. Some parents find they just can’t be at church for weeks or months. It’s not that their faith is weak (though it may well be shaken); it’s that they can’t control their emotions. One line of one song could send them over the line.
Still, a huge part of the healing process comes from the power of music, art, and literature. We find there expressions of true grief (not the formulaic kind of grief that gets doled out so often) and of hope.
We have survived by friends who supported us. But the healing community was much larger. So, my special thanks to those I’ll never get to meet: Wendell Berry, Henri Nouwen, Anne Lamott, Pat Conroy, C. S. Lewis, Handel, Eric Clapton, John O’Donohue, J. R. R. Tolkien, Horatio Spafford, Nicholas Wolterstorff, John Claypool, etc.
One of the great fears we grieving parents have is that others will forget our child. For a while people surround us and talk about our son or daughter.
But then their lives go on. And ours don’t. We get caught in a black hole where the rules of time don’t seem to apply. We move from numb to angry to sad to hopeful to numb to desperate to . . . . Well, you get it. It’s a bit of an emotional merry-go-round.
And as their lives move forward, as they return to their jobs, as they await summer little league, as their kids move on, we fear that they’ll forget.
family photo with all five of us!
I know of no greater gift that you can give a grieving parent than this: promise that you won’t forget their child! And follow through with that by keeping memories alive.
An important part of the grief process for families is to build their own memorials. It’s not uncommon in the beginning days of loss for sorrowful parents to turn their house into a kind of shrine built around their son or daughter. That’s an attempt to say “she lived,” “this is what she was like,” “we won’t ever forget her.”
But eventually, shrines may not be helpful. For, as hard as this is to hear, life must go on. I don’t say that flippantly. I had many days, months, perhaps years, when I wasn’t sure it would go on.
But it does. Wiser in some ways; sadder in many ways; even hopeful in other ways. And this new existence recognizes that life cannot be built around the one who has died, though they remain a vital part of who we are. As an example of how tricky this is, most parents who have lost children stumble on the new acquaintance who asks, “How many kids do you have?” I usually say, “two boys.” But a part of me wants to say, “three—two sons and a daughter—but only the sons are living.” (And I still say this at times, depending on who’s asking and the circumstances. But usually the former answer fits the occasion.)
But even though shrines may not always be helpful, memorials always are. They provide us ways of keeping the blessing of our son or daughter alive.
Here are some examples of our memorials:
the divided door into Megan's room
1. Items and special spaces with great significance. We still call our daughter’s bedroom “Megan’s room.” Of course, now it’s really Reese and Ellie’s (our granddaughters) room. It has their bunk beds, their toys, etc. But when they’re old enough, they’ll know that this special playroom is named for the aunt they never knew. And they’ll eventually figure out that the door going into that bedroom is different! We decided not to replace the door; it’s just too special. Since Megan was good (or bad!) about slipping out at night, this door allowed us to lock her in so she couldn’t get out, without letting her feel trapped. We’d leave the top half open so she could see out (a child without her challenges could have climbed out easily) and so we could easily hear her; but the top half would be closed so there was no danger that she’d walk out and leave the house. We still keep a huge family photo up in the living room. Many times people have asked about her after seeing it. There are other things: her stroller, her favorite stuffed cat, etc. They help us tell stories and remember. The house isn’t built around these, but they’re still very much a part of our lives.
2. Anniversaries. For many years after Megan’s death, we shared a birthday cake on August 26. And we invited friends to come over on November 21 (the anniversary of her death) to share “Megan stories.” On the first anniversary of the death, friends held a special service. One, a gifted writer, had authored a piece about her influence in his life; another, a gifted pianist, had composed a piece in her honor.
3. Acts of hope and thanks. Part of what we do is remember that grief will not have the final word. So for fifteen years, we gathered with others who’d been especially close to Megan at her grave at sunrise on Easter morning to read part of 1 Corinthians 15 and to give thanks for her life. (Sadly, we haven’t been able to continue the tradition the last couple years because I’ve been speaking out of town.) Also, for about ten years, we would take roses by her grave on Valentine’s Day. It was a way of remembering how she embodied God’s love for us. And, of course, Megan’s stocking still gets put out at Christmas.
Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts
Where no storm or night or pain can reach you. – John O’Donohue
Now, this is the most important part of this particular post (as is usually the case!): your comments. Could others who have lost children and grandchildren tell us about your own ways to remember? What celebrations, what symbols, what memories around the house have helped you honor and remember your child or grandchild?
To continue the series, I’ve asked my friend Dane Altman to write about the grief journey he and Carole have faced since the death of their beloved daughter Kristin. I appeciate his willingness to share part of their story of loss ten years down the road.
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Our journey of grief began on January 16, 2002, when our oldest daughter, Kristin, died of injuries sustained 3 days earlier in a car accident. I had lost both my parents in the previous six months, so I guess grief was already a resident. I had just buried my mom a month before and was still processing that. But this was a different kind of grief. A darkening kind of grief. After a 3 day vigil of pleading and prayer to the Great Physician, we were told early on the morning of January 16th that Kristin was gone. I felt like I was in a dream, outside my body watching all this. My first and very naïve reaction was, “How do I fix this?” (Isn’t that what we do as men … as husbands and fathers? Fix things and make them right?) I wanted to fix this, not only for me but for the two most precious things I had left in my life: my wife, Carole, and my other daughter, Dana. I wanted to make it better for them. My hurt was deep and raw. But at that moment I hurt as well for them and wanted to stop the hurt.
Over the next several weeks we had so many people close by us. They knew we were hurting. I immediately went back to work because that’s what I was doing before Kristin’s accident. So to me, that was a way of trying to feel like things hadn’t changed. It kept me busy and preoccupied. But we also wanted to be with our friends, to have laughter, levity, anything to make it seem like things were normal. Little did we know then that we were starting another journey to find the “new normal.” We were told numerous times that we would now never be the same. At first I thought that was cruel, but as time passed I could see they were right. We will never be the same … the same Dane & Carole. A part of us has died as well. It doesn’t mean we’re different in a bad way. We’re just not the same. Part of us is now gone and we search for what is “normal” for us now.
Grieving is hard enough as it is, but doing it alone is even worse. I honestly don’t know how people make it through a tragedy like this without a good support group. We had a wonderful support group of friends and family that stood by us and comforted us, listened to us, cried with us and sometimes didn’t say anything—they just hugged us. And we could tell by the hug, by the look in their eyes that we were not alone. Sometimes that was all we needed—a good, sincere hug without any words spoken. A lot of times those loving hugs were the most emotional for me, even more than the words expressed.
Kristin was a beautiful young woman, full of life and energy. She had a contagious smile and an engaging personality. She loved little kids and adored the elderly. Over the years we continue to hear new stories or remembrances of Kristin from friends and acquaintances. From the parent of one of our college friends who said at her memorial at Harding that Kristin was so nice and friendly to their son when he was a freshman and she was an upperclassman. She made him feel special and it impacted him. Parents who have lost a child love to hear stories like this. We crave these stories, these snippets of memories of what she did, what she said. Many we’d never heard before. We need these memories even after 10 years. One of our favorites was from one of her close high school friends who during those years said she was not really a spiritual person. She said she watched Kristin and how she interacted with us and how she lived her Christian life. Today, this special friend is a devout Christian and a godly wife and mother. She told us it’s because of Kristin’s example during those high school years. She said she wanted what Kristin had. How cool is that?! This story absolutely warmed and thrilled our hearts.
We are forever grateful to those who to this day remember Kristin’s anniversary of going Home, and of her earthly birthday. These acts of kindness give us affirmation and give us encouragement … that we’re really not alone. Perhaps our biggest fear is that at some point people will forget. Not only that they’ll forget Kristin, but also the fact that we will continue to grieve until we see our Kristin again. I’ve probably been more emotional at this 10 year’s anniversary than ever before.
In the last 12 months we’ve had 3 friends lose a child. They’re now in the club. We wish they weren’t. We don’t even want to be in this club. We talk to them, listen to them, let them know they’re normal for feeling the range of emotions they’re feeling—the anger they feel. It’s normal we tell them. We hope and pray we’re helping in some way to prepare them for what’s ahead. They always ask, does it get better, will it always feel this way? We think it gets better. The hurt is still there, the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach comes at times, but it does get better. It really does. God sustains us and we trust Him. If I could wave a magic wand and get my daughter back, would I do it? In a heartbeat!! But we look forward to that day when we’ll be with her again. Until then, though, we will continue on the grief journey … heading Home.
For today’s post in this series, I’ve asked my friend Rick Ross to write about the journey he and Beverly have been on since the sudden loss of their daughter, Jenny Bizaillion. Here are his powerful words:
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Two years ago today, my family was halfway through the roller coaster ride of our 31-year old daughter Jenny’s struggle for her life. The previous week she had gone to the doctor, been diagnosed with the swine flu, and sent home with a prescription of Tamiflu.
Three days later, she was much worse. At the hospital we discovered that she had been misdiagnosed. Actually, she had Group-A strep, and it had gone untreated for days – throwing her body into septic shock. It ravaged her body like a wildfire. After a cruel battle, she went to be with Jesus on February 22, 2010.
As my wife and I walked down the ICU hallway after leaving Jenny’s room, Beverly asked, “What do we do now?” Being the task-oriented person I am, I thought she was referring to making arrangements. But what she meant was, “How do we do life now?” “How do we take our next step?” “How do we breathe our next breath?” Beverly is a licensed marriage and family therapist, so she knew that grieving would be difficult physically and emotionally. But as she later said, “What I didn’t anticipate was the spiritual eruption. Death created a spiritual earthquake and left me searching through the rubble to find the remnants of my faith.”
Paula D’Archy once said, “I know this, you can’t die from crying . . . or I’d be dead.” Never having been a crier, I have now come to appreciate her words over the last couple of years. Just a couple of weeks after Jenny’s death, my oldest son, Josh, a minister in Memphis, TN, called me one Sunday morning and said that we, a family of ministers, would be “playing wounded” for a while. He reminded me of how Emmitt Smith played one of his greatest games with a separated shoulder. And I totally understand and agree with what Josh said, as two years later we continue to “play wounded.” But many are the times I have thought that I would rather play with a separated shoulder than with a broken heart.
Still, I often think of something Jenny said several years ago as she struggled with secondary infertility. She said, “I want people to remember me as someone who, even when she didn’t get her way, praised the Lord.” And that is what we as a family choose to do. As Beverly has said, “Our family has been called to do hard, so we will do hard.”
Being a minister, I have come to view grief in a totally different light. Grief that, too often, I had naively assumed passed in a couple of months. I had mourned the death of my father and my father-in-law. But I had never known grief – not like this. Now, when I hear about a teenager killed in a car wreck or a young mother who died of breast cancer, my first thoughts go to the families. Oh, what grief!
Paul asked the question in 1 Corinthians 15, “O death, where is your sting?” I can tell him. It is piercing the hearts of people who lose loved ones. Oh, I know that through Jesus, the sting has been ultimately removed. But it sure feels like a swarm of killer bees right now.
There are so many spiritual things that I used to KNOW that I don’t know anymore. Lots of things I once had tied up – that now look like a fishing reel when it has “bird-nested.” But I am taking the advice of a fellow minister, John Scott, who told Beverly and me to “learn to be content in the mystery.” I am learning to live the words of Anselm of Canterbury, who once prayed, “I do not try to understand you so that I can trust you. I trust you so I can understand you.”
Some people have insinuated that they will be glad when Beverly and I “get back to normal.” I know they mean well and only have our best interests at heart. But what they need to know is that this IS our new normal. Our lives have been forever changed by the events of two years ago. In some ways, even for the better. I am a better minister today as I walk with the bereaved. And my faith has been put to the test in such a way that I no longer wonder how I would respond in the face of real persecution. I have learned what trust REALLY means. That word is huge to me today. Trust. And hope. And peace.
So, back to Beverly and me as we walked out of ICU that day nearly two years ago. We stopped in the hallway and looked into each other’s eyes. She said, “Remind me what we believe.” And I stood in that moment speechless. It seemed like an eternity, although it was only a second or two. “Remind me what we believe.” And in that moment, with all of the theological positions and views I have often thought were so important, only four words came from my mouth: “The tomb is empty.” In THAT rests all my hope and all my peace.
I close with my daughter’s life verse. It is Romans 15: 13. “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”
I boarded the last flight to Abilene last night and saw a good friend of ours. She was beaming, having just spent the weekend with her granddaughter in DC. She asked if I’d like to see pictures. Well, of course! Because as a proud grandpa, every time I look at pictures of YOUR grandchild, I assure a future audience for looking at pictures of MY grandkids!
There are just no words. Grandparenting is one of life’s greatest joys. (I love the old saying that grandparents and their grandchildren are so close because they share a common enemy!)
But the fact that it’s one of life’s greatest joys means that it has the potential to crush us with sorrow.
I write this thinking of my parents who have had to endure their children losing children.
used by permission
My observation is that people rally around grieving parents. They know the loss must be unimaginable. But they do not often recognize the devastating loss the grandparents (and other family members) suffer.
Grandparents suffer a double blow. First, they lose a precious grandson or granddaughter. But they also have to see their own son or daughter enter the dark cave of suffocating grief. So they hurt for their loss; and they suffer for their own child.
What do you say to a grandparent who has just lost a grandchild? Return to #2 in this series. The same advice would apply. Be aware that their suffering is real, deep, and persistent. They will need you for the following few weeks. But they’ll also need you for the long haul.
Hold them up as they try to help bear the sorrow of their son or daughter, worrying whether they’ll ever have their child back again as they knew him or her. And support them as they continue the long journey of mourning the loss of their precious grandchild.
This is a reminder that the loss of a child sends shock waves that could almost be measured by the Richter Scale. An emotional seismograph could chart wave after wave, aftershock after aftershock, of loss. It will extend to grandparents, to siblings, to cousins, to uncles and aunts, and to friends.
Be prepared to weep with those who weep, to remember with those who need to relive cherished memories, to sit in silence with those who are exhausted, and to pray for those who for the moment seem too sad to pray.
We’ve already heard from grieving grandparents in the comments sections of the past four posts. But I would love to hear from others who have lost grandchildren. Can you help us understand more? Or perhaps there are others who can help us understand the loss of a brother or sister.
Megan and my dad
Four and a half years after our daughter, Megan, died, tragedy struck our family again. My seemingly healthy, joy-filled, 15-year-old nephew, Jantsen, died suddenly after lifting weights with his high school football team. Apparently he had a heart irregularity that had gone undetected.
with my little brother
In Megan’s Secrets
, I devote a chapter to this story, including when Diane and I finally arrived at their house after receiving the tragic news:
When we finally got to their house, one of Pam’s relatives said, “He’s back in the bedroom waiting for you.” As I walked in, Randy gave a huge, first-recognition smile, then one second later collapsed into sobs.
We had shared a room as kids; we’d ridden ponies and bikes and played endless games of football and basketball; I’d performed his wedding ceremony.
And now we were two grieving fathers in each other’s arms.
He choked out the words, “I’m so sorry.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’m just so sorry about Megan. If I’d known how painful it is, I would have called more often.”
I assured him that no one can know. It’s a private club of grief. No member hopes for more members. We don’t recruit.
Some of the things Randy has written through this experience are among the best things on grief I’ve ever read. (More of their story is included in my sister-in-law Pam’s book, Jantsen’s Gift: A True Story of Grief, Rescue, and Grace
I asked Randy to write something for this series. Here is how he describes the persisting sense of loss (and the eventual return of a new life):
On June 16, 1999 a part of my body left this world. Actually, it was my 15-year-old son that left, but as I later described it to a friend it was much like losing a leg.
The early days were so intensely painful that thankfully something kicked in that put me in a fog – a place in the universe that I didn’t know existed. Time didn’t exist, I didn’t feel hungry or notice the sun come up. I heard few voices.
Actually some of the hardest parts of these first days and weeks were trying to get my mind to kick in. As soon as I tried to move back into “this world” a breaker would trip in my mind. This world didn’t make sense without my “leg.”
After an amount of time, perhaps 40 days, the open wound healed over, but the pain was just as intense as ever. I had to sit up in bed and think about how to live life without my leg. I had to get up, get in the shower, and somehow go back to work.
I realize now how awkward it was for my friends when they saw me in those early days. Do they say something about how good I looked when I obviously didn’t or should they just ignore it, not knowing what to say? Most chose the later.
I’m still not sure how I did it, but I managed to pull it together and make a meager effort to get through a workday, although by the time I got home I was exhausted. It took so much more energy to get through the day without my leg.
Jantsen Cope pushing his cousin Megan in her stroller
The hardest part of my new life was accepting that I would never have my leg back. I learned to get up, get out of bed, even learned to run without my leg, but it was never and will never be the same.
Actually, it would be easier if it were a leg. People would see my loss is still there. They would know my leg isn’t growing back, that there are days when I’m mad that my life is hard and wouldn’t question why I am emotionally drained and ready for bed at 9 p.m.
I like life again and some days even love life. But when it is over please enjoy thinking of me in heaven reunited with that which was lost.
