A thank-you letter to grief

Kate Motaung, who leads us in the Five Minute Friday link up has written an e-book called Letters to Grief. In order to celebrate that release, she is hosting a link up for us to write a letter to grief ourselves.

"There is something about writing a letter to someone that 

just brings release and satisfaction--which is why I'm

inviting you to write your own letter to grief as well."

--Kate Motaung

Dear Grief,

I never thought I’d be writing you a letter, but it does seem fitting somehow. You have shown yourself off and on during my life and I have to say, even though you’ve been an unwelcome visitor, you have also been a friend that sticks closer than a brother.

You showed up when I was very young. I didn’t know what to call you, then, but looking back I now know it was you. You were there, helping me cope through a very difficult season when I didn’t know how I should feel. 

You. Got. Me. Through it.

I have, unfortunately and fortunately learned a lot about you over the years. I have learned that you can be ignored. For awhile, and on the outside. But, you are never really gone when you've needed to be present in my life. 

My body has told me at the times that you were present, that you are still sticking around long after I thought you had long moved on. You have spoken to me through 

migraine headaches, 

muscle tension, 

anxiety, 

depression 

and a host of other negative emotions that surfaced at inopportune times.

When you showed up, you also did crazy antics in my body, soul and spirit. One minute I’d be doubled over on the floor in gut-twisting sobs, and the next minute I would be laughing so hard that tears were streaming down my face.

I learned that this is part of your way in us when you visit. And, it’s okay.

 I am very thankful for you during the times you have shown up. I know that sounds crazy. But, I know you are a gift from God for me to actually mentally, emotionally and physically survive unspeakable hurt and disappointment. 

Even devastation. 

That’s one of the things I learned about you from a very wise counselor. (I’m glad I asked her about you and the symptoms you were causing in me. It made me feel a lot less crazy.)

She said to me, “You are going to move through your grief pretty quickly because you are leaning into it.”  

I had to ask her to explain what leaning into grief meant.

She basically said that it is healthy to have my arms wide open to accept you in all of your forms because if I accept you with open arms, you will come and stay for a season, but like winter always turns to spring, you would eventually move on. 

And, during seasons when you’ve shown your face, that is exactly how you’ve moved.

I could be really angry at you for coming and hanging around at different times in my life, but why would I be angry at YOU? You are just a by-product, a gift to help me to accept and process hurts and disappointments. You are not the cause of them! 

You can be so misunderstood by some!

 

Prince and I

Again, I thank you for coming around during the very difficult times. 

It’s because of you, ultimately, that I have had so much healing emotionally. During a few different seasons of my life, like 

losing my Dad,

losing my horse Prince, 

feeling misunderstood and betrayed by those who were the closest to me, 

and dreams that have been crushed, 

you've been beside me. You've been beside me, coaching me through your stages, and ultimately coaching me to let go and move on. 

Thank you for coming just for a season, doing your thing, and then moving on. If you hung around me forever, how would I move on to happiness and enjoying abundant life? How would I move on to gratitude and having eyes that see beauty?

Sincerely,

Anne

When you're not sure if you should take the risk

Even though you know the news is coming, you are never quite prepared for it. 

The first thing I wanted to do after hearing about my step-brother's death, was to write out my reflections (process). Then, I dug into my stash of old pictures.

Why do we say that a picture is worth a thousand words? Because it is. 

Especially if it's a picture of a loved one who has just passed out of this life and into the next.


What do these photos say?

Why do they bring so much comfort?

I wanted to scan in and share on Facebook an album of pictures from growing up with my step-brother, Greg, on our Nebraska farm. I found just eight pictures at first.

When I looked at these photos of him as a little boy, and me as a big sister, sweet memories came flooding back. 

How Greg had that silly wink-grin he'd do quite often.

His sense of humor.

The way he was a big brother to my little brother.

But, as I got ready to hit "post album" I hesitated.

How would my step mom feel to see these? Would it hurt her more? Would it make the grieving worse?

I wasn't sure, but I took the risk.

That night she left a message on my phone, "Thank you for posting those old pictures. They are just precious. We are downloading them to use on a picture board at the memorial service."

I called her the next day and I admitted that I was hesitant to post them. She said, "Oh no, I loved seeing them."

I do believe we need to be very cautious about what we post on the internet. 

But, sometimes I swing to the conservative extreme out of fear of not "saying it right" or "doing it right." Because I'm "not perfect." 

These are my old tapes.

In thinking about whether to post the picture memories, I had to ask myself,

 "What's my heart behind this?"

I admitted that it wasn't to bring attention to myself at all. It was to encourage my family.

To bring joy.

To help us remember the good times.

So, I took the risk of showing up, being seen and living brave by sharing these treasures I found.


Let's post the joyful memories if it feels right and if we have peace about it.

Let's speak the joyful word.

Let's send the note.

And, let's be the encouragement this world so desperately needs.

"Like apples of gold in settings of silver is a word spoken in right circumstances."

Proverbs 25:11

"Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you also are doing."

I Thessalonians 5:11

Blessings to you,

Thoughts on my brother and grief

Just last night my step-mother said through the phone, “I hope you never have to go through this.” She had just witnessed her second born pass into eternity after a long fight with cancer.

The priest came to his bedside to confirm my step-brother into the Catholic faith and it was indeed all about faith. The question was asked Greg,

“Do you believe that Jesus Christ died to forgive your sins?” Greg nodded. 

That is all he could do at this point. 

But, he nodded. 

What a wonderful thing that must have been for his mother, and his wife and his brother to see. 

I am so grateful to know that. 

It’s been a struggle this week for me here in Iowa, knowing that my brother was dying in Washington. My body has been acting up. 

In a way, I've needed to make peace with God, too. And, I've needed to make peace with me.

Oh what a twisted irony! Death pulls into focus what really matters. It makes all old outdated thoughts and emotions fade away into the distance, if we let it.

It makes us focus on what is real. 

What is right in front of us. 

The sorrow, the grief bring us together in our common humanity no matter how many miles and how much life has come between us. 

No matter how.

I had prayed and hoped that Greg would be healed in this life. 

But, God, as Sovereign as He is, has chosen to heal my brother's body and soul by taking Him straight through the pearly gates to Jesus’ face.

What a glorious sight he is having right now! The throne room! 

Too many people in my family have already gone to heaven, but really, should I mourn for them?

They are the ones that are experiencing the eternal life that this body longs for. That all earthly bodies long for. They are the ones seeing Jesus’ face and glorying in the communion of saints.

They are the ones with no pain and no tears and no sorrow.

They are really the blessed ones. The ones who have gone before us.

They have paved the way into eternity for us, the ones who are left behind to miss them.

We grieve, but we are not without hope. 

We grieve, 

but we know the Way. 

We also know the Way Maker 

and He has made the way for all of us to

 enter heaven with Him for all eternity.

(I Thessalonians 4:13, John 3:16)

Praise God for Jesus who took Greg’s (and our) place and paved the way to heaven for him!

Just yesterday morning I was remembering Greg as a six-year-old, hanging on to the saddle for dear life, as his Shetland pony, Christie, ran swiftly to the end of the field! 

And. He. Did. Not. Fall. Off!

Greg and Christie

And, then Greg's horse Apache. 

I can still hear Greg saying "Apache" in his little boy voice. 

Why do I remember such things as this? 

In the end, it is only the relationships that we have with people that really matter. 

This is the time for love. 

This is the time for grace.

This is the time for peace and remembering and good memories. 

This is the time for healing. 

God’s light is in each of us who will miss the son, the brother, the daddy. 

Who is to say that the Light does not shine brighter through sorrow and death.

I believe it can. I believe it does.

I do not grieve for my brother who has gone to heaven. 

But, I grieve for his mother, his sister, his wife, his children. 

May their sorrow not be without hope. 

May their sorrow not be without peace and joy.

May the memories we have of the son, the husband, the brother, and the daddy be so joyous and precious that it will take away a little bit of the pain of losing him. 

Teen age Greg and me being Wild and Crazy Guys!

May God’s grace be so thick upon all of us that we can feel the Presence. 

The Holy Presence of God Himself. 

Greg, thanks for the happy memories, dear brother.

You will be dearly missed.

I love you.

**********************

Linking up today with Coffee for Your Heart and Three Word Wednesday

Dare to Be: Present with family {Day 26}

She told him, "Dad, it's okay to rest. You've worked hard in this life. You can rest."

She knew. We all knew that Henry's eighty-three years had been lived to their fullest measure. The hands that lay limp on bed sheets were once strong and hardly ever resting. 

Nine days had slipped their way through time between the dreaded call that he fell to when the angels took him home. 

During these nine days, there were many glimpses beyond the velum-like divide between earth and heaven. I saw this in laughter and in tears. I saw this while cooking pasta with two nieces to feed an army of family.

I heard this in hymns sung by the hospice bedside and scripture read to closed eyes and shallow breaths. I saw it in good-byes cried by grand-daughters who knew that they wouldn't see their grandpa again in his time on earth. 

Glimpses of the Divine were everywhere in the ICU and hospice where pieces and parts of a twenty six member family camped out for nine whole days. Sadness. Of course. Hope and joy. Without a doubt. 

*****************************************************

The snow is coming down gently around us as if on white pillows as we huddle together in the small unheated Veterans cemetery chapel. My two twenty-something sons and their dad joined hands with a couple of cousins and an uncle or two to accompany their grandfather's flag draped casket into it's prominent place in front. 

My mother-in-law, pulling her black coat around her cold shoulders is motioned to the red capped chair front and center. Her sons and daughters of two generations file in beside and behind her and sit down on cold plastic folding chairs. 

My pastor sister-in-law takes her place behind the wooden podium up front to lead us in the committal of her father to the ground.

I don't recall all the tear stained words she says on Tuesday morning. But, I think again and again how good and appropriate that this good man's daughter be saying these final words to honor him. 

As a family, we drew close and hugged a little tighter.

Brothers and sisters by blood and by Christ were drawn together during this time of grief in ways that had never been before to comfort, make life altering decisions and use their gifts to give to this special dad and grandpa and to each other. 

How can I say that this was the worst of times, but also the best of times? 



Have you lost someone special to you? Have you experienced the pain of loss, but also the love of God in the midst of your loss? I'd love to hear your story.

Click on my button to see a list of all 31 Days posts. Thanks for stopping by to visit!

This post is part of a 31 Day series on the topic Dare to Be and linking up with about 1500 other bloggers on hundreds of topics. Come on over to The Nester to visit!

Dare to Be: Present {Days 24-25}

How do you talk to someone whose eyes are closed tight? Someone who is not moving except for labored breathing and they may die at any minute? How do you talk to someone who will not give any indication that they heard what you said?

For the next few days in hospice, I knew my calling. My calling was to be present. 

To be present to my father-in-law during his last days on earth, whatever that would look like. 

Every chance I got, I touched his shoulder. I smoothed his hair. I held his hand. I counted it all a privilege that I will never forget.

His hands had driven a semi across many miles during his lifetime. When we had lived in a different state, his hands worked hard at doing whatever we needed done when they visited. His hands broke bread in church, and served in any which way that was needed. Now, his hand could not grasp mine.

I counted it a privilege to hold his hand in these moments. He was not aware of me being there. 

Or was he? 

They say that even if a person is not responsive, the last of the senses to go is hearing. And touch.

One by one, his children found a time to say their good byes. My husband said them to his dad with a few others in the room. One son wanted to say his alone.

I wanted to figure out a way to just say them.

He had been my father-in-law for 29 years. I wanted to tell him thank you for being such a wonderful father-in-law. I wanted to be able to thank him for welcoming me into the family. A girl not from Iowa, but from Nebraska. Someone not from their son's group of friends. A "foreigner". 

The room finally emptied of people. The chair was open next to his bed on the day before he died. I sat down. I held his hand. It was puffy and kind of red, except for the blue that was beginning to form on his fingernails. This was a sign there wasn't much time left. 

I held his hand gently, sitting next to him. And, I thanked him for all those things as if he was looking right at me. I told him through tears. I was present.

I am grateful for that chance. 

Being present is something I am daring myself to keep doing. Even when it might seem awkward or uncomfortable.

Being fully present brought indescribable blessing.

Click on my button to see a list of all 31 days posts. Thanks so much for visiting me!

This post is part of a 31 Day series on the topic Dare to Be and linking up with about 1500 other bloggers on hundreds of topics. Come on over to The Nester to visit!