I've decided that instead of writing about grieving, I'll write about something much more useful: how to help someone grieve. This will be a process, and there's a lot to cover, so I'll probably do it in several posts.
First let me say that these are things that no one knows until they actually go through the grief process. Before Paul died, I never did this right. So, if you've done something that's the opposite of what I say, don't sweat it. I've done a million things wrong (and still do, actually, cuz old habits are hard to break). Plus, these are just MY thoughts on the subject. Everyone is different, and I could be wrong (but I doubt it!)
In fact, I'd love to hear from other Moms on this subject (Marlo, Abra, Karen, Others??). If you agree or maybe have a different perspective, then please comment.
So, with that said, here goes:
My first and greatest rule is: PLEASE TAKE EVERY OPPORTUNITY TO TALK ABOUT THE PERSON BEING GRIEVED FOR (would that be the grievee?? not sure, but you know what I mean). One of the best things a person can do for me is to talk about Paul. Even if it's a story I've heard a million times, I will still enjoy hearing it again. My dad is great about this. He has a cajillion hilarious Paul stories, and he never tires of telling them. When I can remember Paul with someone, I am blessed. Sometimes someone will share their favorite memory of Paul with me, and I beam. Or sometimes someone will tell me a story about Paul that I never knew (something that happened when I wasn't around). Even when it is something mundane and unremarkable, just knowing something new about him is wonderful.
For some reason, we adults have difficulty with this one, but kids are great. They don't have whatever it is we have that makes us feel awkward about grief. One of my favorite memories after Paul's funeral is of my friend's daughter, Emily (who was about 4 years old at the time). I was having lunch with their whole family, and we were catching up on things. This was the first time I had seen them since the funeral, and Emily was full of questions. She interrupted our adult conversation (probably about where we were going for summer vacation or if they had eaten at the newest restaurant in town) and asked, "Where was Paul when he died?" An appropriate question, I thought, for a young mind trying to wrap her head around the actual process of dying. I explained to her that since Paul was in some pain before he died and needed to get medicine very frequently in the middle of the night, he was in my and Terrill's bed - right in the middle. She seemed satisfied with that answer, her parents only slightly uncomfortable, and we continued on with our adult conversation. Several minutes later she chimed in again: "What was Paul wearing when he died?" I couldn't help but laugh, and I had to tell her that no one - not one single person - had ever asked me that before. At this point, Mom's discomfort level was rising - not sure if she should reprimand little Emily or not. I assured her this was a question that I would love to answer. I told Emily that because Paul hurt a lot, we didn't change his clothes at night. He didn't get into his pajamas - we just let him sleep in whatever he wore that day. He was wearing his very favorite T-shirt when he died (one that was on his back if it wasn't in the dirty clothes). It was a red shirt with black letters that said: "It's My Brother's Fault". Well, with that, she and her two older brothers almost fell out of their chairs laughing, which made all the adults crack up, too. Paul making us laugh... What could be more healing to a grieving mother? Thank you, Emily. Thank you for caring what Paul was wearing when he died, and thank you for giving me the chance to tell you.
See, I don't get to hold Paul, kiss him, or hear his sweet voice. All I get to do is remember him and talk about him. So, when you allow me to do that, it is like a warm cloth on an aching joint. Is there a possibility that I might cry when I speak of my precious boy? Absolutely. But that's OK. Which brings me to Leigh's Grief Rule #2...
For the next post.
March 30, 2009
March 25, 2009
Me and Mad
Sometimes I just get mad.
I miss Paul. I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.
How many ways can I say it? How many times can I cry about it? What in the world can I do about it?
I just miss him. I miss him and there's nothing I can do about it and I will live the rest of my life missing him and sometimes that just really PISSES ME OFF!
I will try really hard not to take it out on you...
...but ya never know.
I miss Paul. I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.
How many ways can I say it? How many times can I cry about it? What in the world can I do about it?
I just miss him. I miss him and there's nothing I can do about it and I will live the rest of my life missing him and sometimes that just really PISSES ME OFF!
I will try really hard not to take it out on you...
...but ya never know.
March 23, 2009
Gainfully Employed (partly part time)
I have a job.
Like boyfriends and pregnancies often do, this job came when I wasn't looking for it.
I have written about my journey over the past year or so to diligently seek the Lord's direction in how I am to spend my time now that my boys are in school. I spent the last year and a half praying about it and committing myself to NOT take on any responsibilities. I wanted to be careful and purposeful in making commitments. I was expecting that after a year of praying toward it, some huge revelation would come over me... some great "calling" that the Lord would place on my shoulders with great pomp and circumstance. Yeah, that didn't happen.
I have also written about finally coming to the place where I knew I just needed to start moving forward. It's one thing to know that you should be doing something, and another thing to actually know where to start. In the Lord's perfect timing, it was during this fumbling time in my life that I heard a radio spot on KLOVE asking for volunteers at a medical clinic in Waco called the Meyer Center Donation Clinic(under "Programs" click "Clinic"). This clinic operates on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, providing medical and dental care to folks who don't have insurance and cannot afford to pay for medical services. (The clinic is a ministry of Mission Waco, which is a Christian-run organization that serves the poor in our community). This immediately sounded interesting to me, so I called.
That was in December.
In February (after volunteering there several times and loving every bit of it), the coordinator told me that he would be leaving in May to start similar clinics in China. Naturally, they were looking for someone to take his place. My first reaction was to throw my arm up in the air and yell, "ME!! ME!! Pick me!" However, I started to realize the reality of the idea: How could I be away from my family from 4 pm until 8 pm every Tuesday and Thursday night? These are the only 4 hours during any weekday that I get to see the boys. I simply couldn't be gone from them that much. It was out of the question.
So... I began to think creatively. How could this work? What about if Terrill and the boys worked with me? Jack would be great at handling office/clerical tasks. Whit would be too young for that, but what if he and Terrill hung out in the waiting area and played games with the kids and families while they waited?
And what about job sharing? What would really be ideal would be to find another person like me - who wanted to help, but couldn't do 2 nights. Perhaps someone would be willing to work one night, and I could work the other. But WHO? Who would want part of a part-time job helping the sick and the poor?
And then right before my eyes, in the most amazing of ways, the Lord worked it all out in every detail and in His perfect timing.
I prayed for the Lord's will, not sure if this was the path for me. I asked Him to provide that 2nd person. But to be honest, I couldn't imagine how He was actually going to do it. The clinic coordinator was leaving in less than a month. They had to replace him in the next 2 weeks. It didn't look promising.
I prayed a lot prior to my interview. I really wanted to hold these plans loosely, since they seemed so far-fetched. In my mind, best-case scenario would be that Jimmy, the Mission Waco Director, would be on-board with my job-share idea. I figured if that passed, THEN we'd have to start the impossible task of finding this person.
The interview blew my socks off! I never even pitched my job-share idea, because Jimmy came up with it on his own... and he came up with it on his own because he had the perfect person in mind... a nurse who was interested in the position, but hadn't applied because she didn't want to work a full 20 hours a week!
So within the next 24 hours, I became the new co-coordinator of the Meyer Center Donation Clinic!!
I was praying for bread, and God place an entire meal in my lap.
I just hope that, in days to come, when I am floundering and messing up in my new job, and as I begin to doubt myself and God's calling me there, that I would remember how He carefully worked out the details, even in the midst of my lack of faith.
When it seemed impossible, He made a way.
Like boyfriends and pregnancies often do, this job came when I wasn't looking for it.
I have written about my journey over the past year or so to diligently seek the Lord's direction in how I am to spend my time now that my boys are in school. I spent the last year and a half praying about it and committing myself to NOT take on any responsibilities. I wanted to be careful and purposeful in making commitments. I was expecting that after a year of praying toward it, some huge revelation would come over me... some great "calling" that the Lord would place on my shoulders with great pomp and circumstance. Yeah, that didn't happen.
I have also written about finally coming to the place where I knew I just needed to start moving forward. It's one thing to know that you should be doing something, and another thing to actually know where to start. In the Lord's perfect timing, it was during this fumbling time in my life that I heard a radio spot on KLOVE asking for volunteers at a medical clinic in Waco called the Meyer Center Donation Clinic(under "Programs" click "Clinic"). This clinic operates on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, providing medical and dental care to folks who don't have insurance and cannot afford to pay for medical services. (The clinic is a ministry of Mission Waco, which is a Christian-run organization that serves the poor in our community). This immediately sounded interesting to me, so I called.
That was in December.
In February (after volunteering there several times and loving every bit of it), the coordinator told me that he would be leaving in May to start similar clinics in China. Naturally, they were looking for someone to take his place. My first reaction was to throw my arm up in the air and yell, "ME!! ME!! Pick me!" However, I started to realize the reality of the idea: How could I be away from my family from 4 pm until 8 pm every Tuesday and Thursday night? These are the only 4 hours during any weekday that I get to see the boys. I simply couldn't be gone from them that much. It was out of the question.
So... I began to think creatively. How could this work? What about if Terrill and the boys worked with me? Jack would be great at handling office/clerical tasks. Whit would be too young for that, but what if he and Terrill hung out in the waiting area and played games with the kids and families while they waited?
And what about job sharing? What would really be ideal would be to find another person like me - who wanted to help, but couldn't do 2 nights. Perhaps someone would be willing to work one night, and I could work the other. But WHO? Who would want part of a part-time job helping the sick and the poor?
And then right before my eyes, in the most amazing of ways, the Lord worked it all out in every detail and in His perfect timing.
I prayed for the Lord's will, not sure if this was the path for me. I asked Him to provide that 2nd person. But to be honest, I couldn't imagine how He was actually going to do it. The clinic coordinator was leaving in less than a month. They had to replace him in the next 2 weeks. It didn't look promising.
I prayed a lot prior to my interview. I really wanted to hold these plans loosely, since they seemed so far-fetched. In my mind, best-case scenario would be that Jimmy, the Mission Waco Director, would be on-board with my job-share idea. I figured if that passed, THEN we'd have to start the impossible task of finding this person.
The interview blew my socks off! I never even pitched my job-share idea, because Jimmy came up with it on his own... and he came up with it on his own because he had the perfect person in mind... a nurse who was interested in the position, but hadn't applied because she didn't want to work a full 20 hours a week!
So within the next 24 hours, I became the new co-coordinator of the Meyer Center Donation Clinic!!
I was praying for bread, and God place an entire meal in my lap.
I just hope that, in days to come, when I am floundering and messing up in my new job, and as I begin to doubt myself and God's calling me there, that I would remember how He carefully worked out the details, even in the midst of my lack of faith.
When it seemed impossible, He made a way.
March 14, 2009
More than Prayer
Sometimes, prayer isn't enough.
This is an idea that I've been learning for several years now (I'm a slow learner). At one point in my life, I would've considered this statement heresy. After all, prayer is powerful, prayer is our communication with Mighty God, prayer is... everything.
But, sometimes it isn't.
I've come to grasp the idea that prayer should be our FIRST response to any situation, but - more often that I have realized in the past - it is usually not the LAST response. It is often not the ONLY response.
First, we pray.
Then, we listen.
Then, we ACT.
There are differing amounts of time that pass between each of these steps, and we are wise not to rush the process. However, more often in my own life, I'm not guilty of rushing the process, I'm guilty of stifling it. I'm guilty of stopping at step one... Saying a heartfelt prayer for someone, checking that off my list, and then getting on with my life.
Shame on me. How many opportunities have I missed by not taking the time to listen and then act on someone else's behalf? I would be ashamed to know.
"...let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth." 1 John 3:18
This is an idea that I've been learning for several years now (I'm a slow learner). At one point in my life, I would've considered this statement heresy. After all, prayer is powerful, prayer is our communication with Mighty God, prayer is... everything.
But, sometimes it isn't.
I've come to grasp the idea that prayer should be our FIRST response to any situation, but - more often that I have realized in the past - it is usually not the LAST response. It is often not the ONLY response.
First, we pray.
Then, we listen.
Then, we ACT.
There are differing amounts of time that pass between each of these steps, and we are wise not to rush the process. However, more often in my own life, I'm not guilty of rushing the process, I'm guilty of stifling it. I'm guilty of stopping at step one... Saying a heartfelt prayer for someone, checking that off my list, and then getting on with my life.
Shame on me. How many opportunities have I missed by not taking the time to listen and then act on someone else's behalf? I would be ashamed to know.
"...let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth." 1 John 3:18
March 7, 2009
Rules, Shmules...
When it comes to rebelliousness, I'm a late bloomer. Most folks "sow their wild oats" in high school; a few do it in college. Me? I waited until I was in my 30s and had 3 kids.
I understand why rules exists, I just don't always believe they should apply to me. Yes, some rules are made for the protection of the public and should always be followed (kids in car seats, for example). Other rules, however, are made to punish the majority because of a minority fringe (hair cut guidelines in schools: because there are a handful of parents who would let their kids wear purple 3-foot mohawks, there must be a line drawn, and the school board arbitrarily picked that line to be above the eyebrows and the shirt collar).
I believe - right or wrong - that there is an exception to every rule. Now, I'm not talking about Biblical Truths, so don't go gettin' wadded up over a theological issue. I very much believe in absolute Truth when it comes to the Bible. When it comes to schools, companies and other earthly institutions, however, it's a different story.
Problem is that this idea was cemented in my mind whenever Paul was going through treatment. There were so many "Nevers" and "No ones" and "No Exception" policies that we blatantly ignored, that we began to believe that, as parents, WE were the ones who made the rules. The truth is that when your child is dying, there are no rules and you are willing to confront anyone who dares to tell you otherwise.
I remember my inaugural defiant act against authority. Paul had just been diagnosed, and he was having an abdominal CT done at Cook. This requires something called contrast to be mixed with clear liquid and then a certain amount taken over about a 2 hour period. They handed us his sippy cup full of contrast and told us to be back in 45 minutes for his next round. Well, on the second round of contrast, with only 15 minutes remaining, I found myself in a small waiting room with a VERY water-logged 2-year-old who was quite done with his sippy cup. The nurse kept returning to the room, holding up the sippy cup and disapprovingly looking at me. You know, like I had some power, some magical words that would make my sweet and obedient boy drink the last 6 ounces. I had just spent the last hour and a half using every bribe, threat and game I could think of to get the stuff down him. At this point, he was completely ignoring me and the cup. Of course, we were told, he absolutely HAD to drink that contrast. If he didn't, they would cancel the CT, and we'd have to come back and repeat the test another time (like some other day when he was incredibly thirsty or I had improved my mothering skills).
Well, I was not about to waste the amount of time we'd already spent in the hospital. I was determined that we would have that CT on that day. In an act of fierce protection of my son, I turned to the only other person in the waiting room (another mom) and said to her, "Not a word to anyone!" With that, I lifted that cup to my lips and guzzled the last ounces of contrast. It is one of my proudest moments as a mom! Paul was oblivious (he was busy watching the fish in the aquarium), but I was triumphant! The nurse returned, I held up the empty cup, she smiled and escorted us back to radiation.
And thus began my love of rule-breaking. It's something that I'm actually quite proud of. I'm just trying to figure out how NOT to pass it on to my kids!
I understand why rules exists, I just don't always believe they should apply to me. Yes, some rules are made for the protection of the public and should always be followed (kids in car seats, for example). Other rules, however, are made to punish the majority because of a minority fringe (hair cut guidelines in schools: because there are a handful of parents who would let their kids wear purple 3-foot mohawks, there must be a line drawn, and the school board arbitrarily picked that line to be above the eyebrows and the shirt collar).
I believe - right or wrong - that there is an exception to every rule. Now, I'm not talking about Biblical Truths, so don't go gettin' wadded up over a theological issue. I very much believe in absolute Truth when it comes to the Bible. When it comes to schools, companies and other earthly institutions, however, it's a different story.
Problem is that this idea was cemented in my mind whenever Paul was going through treatment. There were so many "Nevers" and "No ones" and "No Exception" policies that we blatantly ignored, that we began to believe that, as parents, WE were the ones who made the rules. The truth is that when your child is dying, there are no rules and you are willing to confront anyone who dares to tell you otherwise.
I remember my inaugural defiant act against authority. Paul had just been diagnosed, and he was having an abdominal CT done at Cook. This requires something called contrast to be mixed with clear liquid and then a certain amount taken over about a 2 hour period. They handed us his sippy cup full of contrast and told us to be back in 45 minutes for his next round. Well, on the second round of contrast, with only 15 minutes remaining, I found myself in a small waiting room with a VERY water-logged 2-year-old who was quite done with his sippy cup. The nurse kept returning to the room, holding up the sippy cup and disapprovingly looking at me. You know, like I had some power, some magical words that would make my sweet and obedient boy drink the last 6 ounces. I had just spent the last hour and a half using every bribe, threat and game I could think of to get the stuff down him. At this point, he was completely ignoring me and the cup. Of course, we were told, he absolutely HAD to drink that contrast. If he didn't, they would cancel the CT, and we'd have to come back and repeat the test another time (like some other day when he was incredibly thirsty or I had improved my mothering skills).
Well, I was not about to waste the amount of time we'd already spent in the hospital. I was determined that we would have that CT on that day. In an act of fierce protection of my son, I turned to the only other person in the waiting room (another mom) and said to her, "Not a word to anyone!" With that, I lifted that cup to my lips and guzzled the last ounces of contrast. It is one of my proudest moments as a mom! Paul was oblivious (he was busy watching the fish in the aquarium), but I was triumphant! The nurse returned, I held up the empty cup, she smiled and escorted us back to radiation.
And thus began my love of rule-breaking. It's something that I'm actually quite proud of. I'm just trying to figure out how NOT to pass it on to my kids!
March 2, 2009
God in a Garage Sale
I'm going to Iraq in April.
I've mentioned the Preemptive Love Coalition before... it's an organization that was begun by friends from our church who felt called first to Turkey, and then ultimately to Iraq. Their group, the PLC, facilitates heart surgeries for Iraqi children. Since Iraq doesn't have the medical facilities necessary, PLC provides the money and facilitates the trip to other countries in order for the kids to receive the life-saving surgery.
These kids have many different kinds of heart problems, but the most common diagnosis is Tetralogy of Fallot - the same condition as Whit.
We have financially supported our friends for a while now, but recently I began praying about being personally involved. For many reasons, this was difficult for me. I have to be honest... I was extremely hesitant because getting personally involved is messy, and it almost always requires a sacrifice. I'm still quite content to stay inside the safe, comfortable walls of my home and feel sorry for myself. I mean, I'm still entitled to that, right? No one would blame me, would they? Staying here and sending money is a great option.
Before I got past that hesitation, I was faced with another: my pride. I began to realize that what was overcoming my hesitation to moving outside the walls of my home was not a Godly calling, but a search for significance. What a noble thing to do: go to Iraq and help the helpless. I mean, that's something to be proud of. Look at me, everybody!! I'm making a choice to go to that "bad" place and help people. I must be very Godly. [And yet, is it really? The reality is that it's little more than a tip of my hat to the needy.... but that's another post].
I didn't want that to be my motivation. I wanted to have a heart of compassion and love for people in need. I wanted to have the desire to follow Christ's example and command to "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." (Prov 31:8-9).
My confession is that my motives are not completely pure... that part of what is pushing or pulling me to Iraq is my own ego. But I do want that to change, and I believe that God has the power to use even poorly-motivated people, and if I wait to move until my motives are completely pure, I will never move.
And my dream and my hope is that by going to Iraq, by falling in love with families who are distraught over the health of their precious child, by seeing first-hand how God is working in amazing ways, by witnessing the transformation of hearts both physically and spiritually, that I will be so captivated by God that I will come to know truth: any good in me, any ability to help another person, any so-called "sacrifice" that I am able to make, is mine only because of the power of Christ. Christ alone is able to transform my offering of filthy rags into something meaningful and beautiful.
I had a garage sale this weekend. I know that seems like a leap in blog-thought, but there really is a connection. When I agreed to make the trip to Iraq, I had correctly estimated the cost of my trip to Istanbul. However, I had mistakenly assumed that from Istanbul to Iraq would be a quick (and cheap) bus ride. [Isn't that so ignorant of me... it's like I think that the entire area of Turkey, Iran, Iraq is just all the same place. As if someone from Iraq could fly into JFK airport and then just hop on a quick bus to Texas]. Anyway, as it turns out, the trip from Istanbul to Iraq is an additional SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS! Yikes! Thus... the motivation for the garage sale: I was hoping to offset this additional expense. With the help of my very generous friend, Jen, who donated several BIG items to my cause, I thought I had a decent chance of knocking a big dent into the $700.
After we closed our doors, hauled the unsold items to the Salvation Army, and put our garage back together, I counted my earnings. Would you believe the total?...
SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS AND SEVENTY FIVE CENTS!!
Praise God! Could He be any better?
I've mentioned the Preemptive Love Coalition before... it's an organization that was begun by friends from our church who felt called first to Turkey, and then ultimately to Iraq. Their group, the PLC, facilitates heart surgeries for Iraqi children. Since Iraq doesn't have the medical facilities necessary, PLC provides the money and facilitates the trip to other countries in order for the kids to receive the life-saving surgery.
These kids have many different kinds of heart problems, but the most common diagnosis is Tetralogy of Fallot - the same condition as Whit.
We have financially supported our friends for a while now, but recently I began praying about being personally involved. For many reasons, this was difficult for me. I have to be honest... I was extremely hesitant because getting personally involved is messy, and it almost always requires a sacrifice. I'm still quite content to stay inside the safe, comfortable walls of my home and feel sorry for myself. I mean, I'm still entitled to that, right? No one would blame me, would they? Staying here and sending money is a great option.
Before I got past that hesitation, I was faced with another: my pride. I began to realize that what was overcoming my hesitation to moving outside the walls of my home was not a Godly calling, but a search for significance. What a noble thing to do: go to Iraq and help the helpless. I mean, that's something to be proud of. Look at me, everybody!! I'm making a choice to go to that "bad" place and help people. I must be very Godly. [And yet, is it really? The reality is that it's little more than a tip of my hat to the needy.... but that's another post].
I didn't want that to be my motivation. I wanted to have a heart of compassion and love for people in need. I wanted to have the desire to follow Christ's example and command to "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." (Prov 31:8-9).
My confession is that my motives are not completely pure... that part of what is pushing or pulling me to Iraq is my own ego. But I do want that to change, and I believe that God has the power to use even poorly-motivated people, and if I wait to move until my motives are completely pure, I will never move.
And my dream and my hope is that by going to Iraq, by falling in love with families who are distraught over the health of their precious child, by seeing first-hand how God is working in amazing ways, by witnessing the transformation of hearts both physically and spiritually, that I will be so captivated by God that I will come to know truth: any good in me, any ability to help another person, any so-called "sacrifice" that I am able to make, is mine only because of the power of Christ. Christ alone is able to transform my offering of filthy rags into something meaningful and beautiful.
I had a garage sale this weekend. I know that seems like a leap in blog-thought, but there really is a connection. When I agreed to make the trip to Iraq, I had correctly estimated the cost of my trip to Istanbul. However, I had mistakenly assumed that from Istanbul to Iraq would be a quick (and cheap) bus ride. [Isn't that so ignorant of me... it's like I think that the entire area of Turkey, Iran, Iraq is just all the same place. As if someone from Iraq could fly into JFK airport and then just hop on a quick bus to Texas]. Anyway, as it turns out, the trip from Istanbul to Iraq is an additional SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS! Yikes! Thus... the motivation for the garage sale: I was hoping to offset this additional expense. With the help of my very generous friend, Jen, who donated several BIG items to my cause, I thought I had a decent chance of knocking a big dent into the $700.
After we closed our doors, hauled the unsold items to the Salvation Army, and put our garage back together, I counted my earnings. Would you believe the total?...
SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS AND SEVENTY FIVE CENTS!!
Praise God! Could He be any better?
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