Struggle/Hardship

In the Shadow of the Giant: How to be a Glory Chaser

Posted by | Behold, community, courage, fierce flourishing, finishing well, laughter, running, self-care, Stories, Struggle/Hardship | 6 Comments

 

There is no gun to signal the start of this race. Just a voice bellowing “Go!” that echoes throughout the forest. I start up the trail. When I say up, I mean straight up. My trail shoes hit the rocky path, and I feel the strain. I lift my knees and pump my arms. My lungs burn for the first few miles because of the elevation, which soars above 5,000 feet.

I run today with a band of 10 mama runners (with 30 kids among us), who have become my tribe this year. We all run at different paces but we cheer for each other along the way. I’m not sure how it happened exactly. A few of us said we were going to try a trail race. Then several more signed up. And a few more stragglers registered at the last minute. And the rest is history. They remind me that I can do hard things in community.

This race is called the Shadow of the Giants, started in the 1990s by a notorious trail runner known as Big Baz. We’ve been told the now-75-year-old likes to harass runners out on the course.

This is my first trail 20k. I’ve run marathons and half marathons but this is the longest distance I’ve tackled on the trail. I’m a road runner. I grew up in the city racing 5ks and 10ks with my daddy and then eventually joining the high school track team when my soccer coach told me it would be good cross training.

The trail is different.

It taunts and charms me at the same time. The trail requires embracing the unknown. The trail experience is less about pace and mileage, and checking my Garmin watch, and more about lifting my eyes to drink in God’s glory around every curve.

I once heard a preacher talk about how we are called to be “glory chasers.” Pastor Mitchel Lee’s phrase sparked something deep inside me. He argued that we humans were put on this earth to discover God’s glory and reflect it back to God and those around us.

We have permission for ambition but not for personal glory. We are to live and work and run for God’s glory.

I pray for God to show me ways I can be a “glory chaser.”

I started this back in 2014 when I chose the word glory as my theme word. I had to train myself to notice His glory around me through the tragedy and the triumph. That was the year my husband was diagnosed with stage four cancer. That was the year I experienced God’s glory in sunsets and along the coast. That was the year He showed up for us through our community, who served us, fed us, collected money for medical bills, and lifted us. That was the year my lover leaped into Heaven – the ultimate Glory – leaving me a widow with three children.

Now three years later, I’m still a glory chaser. I’m still looking for God in my every day. I’m tracing his faithfulness through every piece of my past. I’m leading others up the trail to unearth His glory for themselves.

This trail through the famous Nelder Grove not far from Yosemite National Park is the perfect teacher. The first four miles of our race is uphill. The battle on the trail is always against the mind.

My mind zigs and zags as I fix my eyes on my feet. So many rocks and rivets to navigate. Can I do this? Will my knees hold up? Do I have enough water? Will they leave me behind? How will I finish?

I start to lift my head when I hear my running buddy say, “We need to remember to lift our eyes up from the trail.” She, too, is driven to see the glory.

My eyes can’t help chasing up the trunks of the majestic sequoia trees – each one pointing toward Heaven. I am reminded of a Creator God who took time to plant every tree in this grove and design every bird and beast and flower that call this place home.

A glory chaser lifts her eyes to see God’s glory even when the trail is uphill.

I am overwhelmed by the beauty of this view – miles upon miles of trees and sapphire sky. My soul is calmed by the sound of water dancing down little waterfalls below us. We are in the shadow of the Giants and the shadow of the Most High God.

My friend just read Psalm 91 to me. I meditate on these words as I run: “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.” I whisper a prayer of thanks.

Thank you, Lord, for the shade provided by these trees shielding us from the heat of the sun and strengthening us on this uphill track. Thank you for lungs that can breathe and legs that run. Help me not to take these for granted but to see them as part of your glory too. Amen.

Before long, we have been running 7 miles. We hear water rushing below us and we know the river crossing is near. This is the X-factor, the uncertain part of the trail I have been most anticipating. After a heavy rain fall this past winter, I have heard this crossing could be as high as my waist. I debated for days what to wear and how to carry my gear.

When we arrive at water’s edge, I look at my friend. “Well, here we go.”

A glory chaser runs through the water instead of around it.

I think about Moses in Exodus 15 and how he followed God’s command. He led the Israelites straight to the roaring Red Sea. They ran for the water and the rapids parted.

A voice sings through my ear buds: “Your grace abounds in deepest waters.”

I step into the ice cold and begin to blaze a trail. I am filled with laughter as the water rushes over my legs and splashes my arms. I anticipated this as a difficult obstacle to cross but it proves a refreshing and memorable part of the race. Baz is on the other side of the shore with his white beard and broad smile.

“You made it, darling,” he says, warmly. “What did you think of it?”

“It was glorious,” is all I can say.

My friend Amber is behind me. She catches up and we continue on the trail. We feel a rush of excitement that we have survived the river and we are almost finished with our 20k.

We can breathe again without burning lungs. We chat about books we’ve read and travels we hope to take one day with our families. The trail offers a mix of companionship and solitude. I am grateful for my friend on these long miles to keep me going.

Her knee starts to hurt. We walk a while. I try to encourage her. We give ourselves no pressure to make time goals like I might in a road race. We want to savor every step. The sun crosses our path in patches but just when I put on my sunglasses we have ducked back into the shade. The temperature is perfect – another glimpse of God’s glory today.

My watch tells me we have finished 12 miles. Amber urges me that I must go ahead. She wants to walk and insists I run to the finish. I concede. The solitude will serve us both well, I know.

A glory chaser always runs with the finish in mind.

The trail turns from a wide road big enough for a fire truck to a single track of switchbacks headed downhill. I can’t help it. My feet take me faster and faster. I jump over logs and duck under tree branches. I am chasing the finish line now. I don’t know where it is exactly, but I trust my legs and my God to show me the course step by step.

This is a lesson I have learned these past three years. If God had revealed the whole course – all the details of my husband’s cancer journey, his death and our grief, and even the redemptive pieces of my story like getting remarried to one of his best friends, I am not sure I would have survived. I would have been overwhelmed by His full glory. He ran just ahead of me and paced me with His presence. I always ran in the protective shadow of the Giant.

My sprinter’s heart is pounding. I want to finish well. I want to run for His Glory. I want to cross the line like my husband did with arms outstretched and hear Him say those long-anticipated words, “Well done.”

 

**Are you interested in hearing more about how to be a glory chaser? Join here for updates on my Glory Chaser book and bible study project! And please share ways God has shown His glory to you in the comments below!

A conversation about “Grieving Together” on the Kindred Mom podcast

Posted by | Behold, community, Compassion, death, family life, fierce flourishing, Grief, Hope, kids, relationships, Stories, Struggle/Hardship, Uncategorized, writing | No Comments

 

My new friend Emily Allen interviewed me a few weeks ago for her Kindred Mom podcast. I’m excited to announce the podcast just went live. I hope you will tune in to hear our conversation. I’m chatting with Emily about navigating grief with my kids after their dad died in 2014. She asked some really sensitive and insightful questions. In the podcast, you will learn more about my story, some tangible ways our community came alongside us in our grief, and the backstory behind my children’s picture book, Cora Cooks Pancit.

This podcast conversation was inspired by an essay I originally wrote for the Kindred Mom blog called “Grieving Together.” I hope this will encourage mamas and others who might be navigating grief with littles. It can be hard and exhausting work. Believe me, I know. That’s why I’m passionate about sharing on this topic to walk with others.

In the podcast, I mention a free resource I developed sharing tips on how to navigate grief with kids. The resource includes encouragement for parents, practical ideas on how to honor a loved one after death, and a list of books and movies I’ve used with my girls to stimulate conversation on our grief journey.

Listen to the podcast here or paste this link into your browser:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/kindred-mom-podcast/id1236598848?mt=2&i=1000385429230

Last month I did a series on “Navigating Grief When Life Moves Forward.” In case you missed it, I encourage you to check out some of the articles or share with a friend who is grieving:

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

When a Grandparent Dies – a guest post about how one mom is navigating her own grief and grief with her kids

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma color the journey

When You are the Caregiver – an article about navigating grief and feelings of guilt when you have a front-row seat to a loved one’s decline

When You Have to Say Goodbye to the Place Your Heart Calls Home – a guest post exploring the idea of “good grief” we experience when we are uprooted from a place or home we love

When You’ve Experienced Pregnancy Loss – a guest post sharing a first-hand experience with miscarriage and stillbirth.

Navigating Grief When Someone You Love Dies Suddenly – a guest post sharing about the sudden death of her mother.

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“?

I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope and glory. Let’s connect!

Navigating Grief: Soaring Above the Turbulence

Posted by | Behold, death, Grief, Hope, Stories, Struggle/Hardship | 3 Comments

 

By Dorina Lazo Gilmore

I am not one for window seats. As much as I love to travel, my Achilles heal has always been motion sickness. Let’s just say I always know the location of the nearest barf bag. Sitting near the window doesn’t usually help with that affliction.

But there I was, peering out the airplane window with such delight. I could not help but pause in wonder of the sapphire sky and the feathery clouds below us. My hubby squeezed my hand. You would have thought I was a kid on a ride at Disneyland.

Our destination was even better: the Big Island of Hawaii.

Shawn knows my heart for travel. He surprised me with a 5-day trip using airline miles to celebrate our first anniversary in Kona. This was a big deal for me. We had contemplated going to Hawaii for our honeymoon but it was the place I enjoyed my first honeymoon with my late husband Ericlee. A year before I wasn’t quite ready to lean into the joy and the pain of that place. I needed a new and different kind of adventure.

Now I felt eager to make new memories with Shawn. I was one year stronger. That blue sky outside the window beckoned me. The promise of ocean waves and time for rest with my love allured me.

Near the end of that flight, the tray table in front of me began to shake. Passengers grabbed for their plastic cups with jiggling ice cubes and devices sliding into their laps. The captain quickly came on over the speaker and warned us we were flying through clouds and there was a long spell of turbulence ahead. My heart sunk. My stomach dropped. I closed my eyes and tried to relax.

Those clouds that appear so beautiful when you are flying above them or looking up from the ground actually cause turbulence when you get too close. I have discovered this is the way it is with grief as well. Turbulence, you see, is normal on flights in the same way grief is an integral part of the flight of our lives.

Grief does not interrupt life. Grief is life. At some point, in some way, we will experience loss. This month we have traversed many stories of grief through my friends who have contributed to this series on “Navigating Grief As Life Moves Forward.” I have learned from these stories that every journey is unique but also holds threads of familiarity to my own story of loss. Whether losing a spouse, a grandparent, a child or a mother, there is turbulence. Even in moving away from a place or a ministry we love, there is uncertainty. There is longing for something we can never quite recover here on earth.

I have survived three Aprils now – the hardest month of my year – brimming with his birthday, our wedding anniversary, and Track and Field season full of memories of coaching together through the years. April is also a month of anticipation. I remember the uncertainty we felt three years ago. I remember the stage four cancer diagnosis that came in May.

Grief creates layers of depth, compassion and grit in us. Grief forever colors the way we see the world. Grief knows the contrast of suffering and grace. Grief can also give us a special lens to see God’s glory in a more vibrant and nuanced way.

From a distance, I can see the beauty in the storm. I can trace God’s glory lighting the edges of the clouds of my life. And certainly, my plane can dip and dive through the clouds but I choose to soar higher.

I love the example of the eagle. This unique and powerful bird flies higher than most birds. The eagle uses a soaring method of flying. She spreads her long, rectangular wings for hours and only beats those wings occasionally, letting the thermals of hot air carry her to great heights. Eagles actually lean into storms and high winds to soar higher and farther.

If you are navigating grief today, I want you to know you are designed to soar. This does not mean avoiding turbulence or running from the pain of grief. Those are important parts of the journey. It does mean choosing to fly higher. It means focusing our eyes on Heaven and the Glory to come. It means renewing our hope daily in the One who strengthens us and gives us wings.

Isaiah 40:31. “…those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

 

Don’t miss the other articles in this “Navigating Grief as Life Moves Forward” series. Feel free to SHARE with a friend who might need these words of encouragement.

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

When a Grandparent Dies – a guest post about how one mom is navigating her own grief and grief with her kids

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma color the journey

When You are the Caregiver – an article about navigating grief and feelings of guilt when you have a front-row seat to a loved one’s decline

When You Have to Say Goodbye to the Place Your Heart Calls Home – a guest post exploring the idea of “good grief” we experience when we are uprooted from a place or home we love

When You’ve Experienced Pregnancy Loss – a guest post sharing a first-hand experience with miscarriage and stillbirth.

Navigating Grief When Someone You Love Dies Suddenly – a guest post sharing about the sudden death of her mother.

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“? I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope and glory. Let’s connect!

Navigating Grief: When Someone You Love Dies Suddenly

Posted by | fierce flourishing, Grief, Guest blogger, Hope, Identity, parenting, Personal Stories, relationships, Stories, Struggle/Hardship, transitions | One Comment

 

By Kimberly Rose

Your mom lives forever. At least that is what I told my little girl self growing up. Or at least I was counting on that as truth since I was being raised by a single parent.

I grew up poor, and we moved a lot. I have three older sisters, but there are a dozen years between us. For many years, that meant I had my mom all to myself.

My older siblings were not able to break out of the poverty we lived in. They struggled with many of the same pitfalls and addictions that plagued earlier generations of our family.

I knew about the history of failure and defeat in my family. I was a watcher. I carefully watched the mistakes my sisters and mother made so I would not grow up and make them too.

My mom knew that I had a potential for greatness. She saw the fire and passion in my eyes when I talked about future dreams. My mom knew one thing for sure: God had given her another chance at motherhood late into her thirties. He had also given her what she believed would be a child she could pour into and push to higher ground.

And push she did. I almost buckled under the weight of her expectations. Always late, but never giving up.

I worked hard and earned my high school diploma. Mama cried uncontrollably when I handed it to her. Only one of my family members had completed high school up to that point. I told her that some people at church were going to help me get to college. We were both uncertain about how the financial aspect would all work, but we knew that even though we had economic challenges, I was smart and worked hard. Mom was supportive and inspired. We knew with God on our side it was possible.

Climbing the mountain of college, nearing the peak, seeing the summit of the very last semester, I got the phone call.

“Are you sitting down?” My oldest sister’s voice over the phone. “Mom’s gone.” I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. The air in my body was sucked out. My knees hit the ground. I couldn’t breathe.

My sister’s voice was shaking.

My mother was crossing a popular intersection in our town in the middle of the afternoon. A car ran the light, and hit her, killing her instantly. The car never broke, and never stopped. No one really saw what happened. Only a vague description of the car was reported. She laid in the street for all the world to see, and no one knew what to do.

I called her answering machine over and over to hear her voice just one.more.time.

It was not like terminal illness, where I had to painfully watch her die. I was never given the opportunity to say that one last goodbye. She was here one day, and gone the next, passing through me like the wind.

No more.

No more holidays, no advice on marriage, no one to call when I nervously held my crying newborn at 2 a.m.

I asked my professors for two weeks leave from school to bury my mother and take care of my affairs. I knew what I had to do. In my grief, I felt the push. The same push I’d felt all my life – to go on and to honor her with the one thing she wanted.

I graduated that spring earning my bachelor degree. Sitting alone in a crowded auditorium my eyes searched frantically for a sign, anything to symbolize her spirit. My eyes rested on the school emblem. “There you are,”  I barely whispered. The school I attended for four years was founded the same year my mother was born.

Sometimes a song, a smell, or someone in a crowd who looks so much like your loved one causes you to look again. Hints of grief are always there. But, we can move forward.

One day, one step, one breath at a time. The best way to navigate grief is to live.

 

 

 

Kimberly Rose lives in Central California. She teaches full-time and is working on a master’s degree in administration. She is a marathoner/ultra runner, chasing the Boston dream. Kimberly embraces grief today by finding the small moments that make life meaningful. 

 

 

Don’t miss the other articles in this “Navigating Grief as Life Moves Forward” series. Feel free to SHARE with a friend who might need these words of encouragement.

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

When a Grandparent Dies – a guest post about how one mom is navigating her own grief and grief with her kids 

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma color the journey

When You are the Caregiver – an article about navigating grief and feelings of guilt when you have a front-row seat to a loved one’s decline

When You Have to Say Goodbye to the Place Your Heart Calls Home – a guest post exploring the idea of “good grief” we experience when we are uprooted from a place or home we love

When You’ve Experienced Pregnancy Loss – a guest post sharing a first-hand experience with miscarriage and stillbirth.

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“? I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope and glory. Let’s connect!

 

Navigating Grief: When you have experienced pregnancy loss

Posted by | death, family life, Grief, Guest blogger, Hope, kids, newborn, parenting, Personal Stories, Stories, Struggle/Hardship, transitions | One Comment

 

By Sharon McKeeman

The wound remains.

Time has passed, is passing still, and I hold our long, awaited baby. The pain of the full-term stillbirth and two miscarriages has dulled, but three of my seven children are not with me. The pieces will never be put back together here on earth.

And now, as I hold this newborn bundle growing into a healthy, wiggling child my arms remember the shape of what I have lost. Grief has become tangible, abstract mourning swallowed up by tiny breaths upon my neck, grasping fingers and curling toes.

This is a time of joy—I relish it. But when I stare at her button nose and deep blue eyes, I also see the son I held unbreathing. Her eight pounds curled in my arms remind me of his nine, and I cry behind closed doors because I can’t bring back my child.

How do I tell of this? When everyone hugs and rejoices, how do I say that this precious little life is one more unexpected turn on my journey with grief? It is hard to navigate life as well as death, joy as well as sorrow.

The wound will always remain.

There is no new child that will replace the ones I have lost. There is no wholeness aside from Christ in this life. The only healing is in the One who blesses the brokenhearted, but even His scars remain. My mind presses into His nail torn hands and feels His tears upon my cheek. I take one step and then the next, breathing gratitude for every minute here and every loved one held. Still, I hold space for the precious little ones I cannot reach. I have no choice; the journey is a long one. The grief will not fall fully silent until we meet again.

This is my secret—how holding a new life brings healing, but also triggers memories and longing. I do not tell all the rejoicing onlookers, for fear they will think me ungrateful. Maybe they would understand. One thing I know, the grandmother with five of her own and more grandbabies on the way still drops tears like rain when she tells me of the two she lost.

We are spirit souls.

Holding, loving, ever reaching out.

And when a piece is cut away, the wound stays with us—a blessing, a message—a sign of just how deep our capacity to love, and how real the one we wait for is.

 

Sharon McKeeman is a homeschooling mama to three sons and a daughter here on earth, and three precious children in heaven. She is a Midwestern girl at heart who now lives with her family on the sunny beaches of Southern California. She is an author, educator, speaker, and photographer who shares more of her story as @sharonmckeeman on Instagram and at www.sharonmckeeman.com where you will find her blog, Writing in the Dust, as well as her newsletter, Mourning into Joy, which is filled with encouragement and resources for navigating pregnancy loss with hope.

 

Don’t miss the other articles in this “Navigating Grief as Life Moves Forward” series. Feel free to SHARE with a friend who might need these words of encouragement.

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

When a Grandparent Dies – a guest post about how one mom is navigating her own grief and grief with her kids 

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma color the journey

When You are the Caregiver – an article about navigating grief and feelings of guilt when you have a front-row seat to a loved one’s decline

When You Have to Say Goodbye to the Place Your Heart Calls Home – a guest post exploring the idea of “good grief” we experience when we are uprooted from a place or home we love

 

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“? I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope and glory. Let’s connect!

Navigating Grief: When you have to say goodbye to the place your heart feels home

Posted by | community, Culture, Grief, Guest blogger, kids, outreach, Personal Stories, relationships, serve, Stories, Struggle/Hardship, transitions | 2 Comments

By Melissa Ens

“Good grief, Charlie Brown.” I’ve sighed a lot these last few years and wondered what kind of grief, exactly, is the good kind? True, there is godly sorrow that leads to repentance, (2 Cor. 7:10) but what I’ve needed is sorrow that would lead to healing.

In December 2011, my husband, our 3 children and I moved to Peru, where we expected to live for the next decade. Less than two and a half years later, however, we moved back to Fresno, brokenhearted after saying goodbye to our friends, our dreams, and the best golden retriever in the world.

In California and in Peru, seasons come and go. Yet even years later, memories mixed with grief can surface. I still sometimes hesitate to feel and release the sadness they stir up for fear that releasing will somehow mean forgetting.

And that’s what I really don’t want.

I don’t want to forget the wonder I felt in the warmth of our first southern hemisphere’s holiday season. The wonder of arriving in a new country with dreams of a new life there. Our kids’ first Peruvian church service. The ladies spontaneously taking Mikaela and me to see Juanita’s amazing nativity display with hundreds of animals and figurines. (How I miss those mujeres!)

I want to remember Pastor George picking us up near midnight on Christmas Eve, driving us through the plaza to see the decorations on the way to his home to share Christmas with his family. (We still laugh about Timothy falling asleep in the car and then sleeping on the couch through the whole gathering. He was sure after that he’d never been to Pastor George’s house!)

I remember the oddness of seeing Christmas decorations – snowmen, Santas and wrapping paper – on display right next to swimsuits and beach towels for the summer vacation that was just beginning. We got our kids a pool for Christmas the next year and our dog barked in circles around them as they splashed the January afternoons away with our Peruvian pastor’s kids.

Maybe you’ve seen Panetón here. (It’s a sweet cake with candied fruit pieces that Peruvians can’t celebrate holidays without.) Walking through the supermercados there, I was stunned by the endcaps stocked and shelves sky high with boxes and boxes (and hundreds more boxes) of Panetón. Christmas “chocolatadas” for the neighborhood kid ministries meant gallons of hot chocolate made over a wood fire in a huge pot in the back of Anny’s house. (And more panetón.)

And the music… It’s the music I miss the most. I fell in love with Peruvian Christmas music at that first Christmas Eve service. There was even more music in the malls and markets, in restaurants, and the town plazas all decorated for Christmas with trees, trees and more (artificial, but huge and fancy) Christmas trees.

Melissa and her friend, Claudia, pose together in Peru where they met.

 

In 2013, suspecting it might be our last December there, I bought a couple recordings of the traditional Christmas music piped everywhere during the holidays. Two years later I was back in Fresno with those CD’s in my hands.

I had yet to listen to them.

I held them that morning in 2015 and read the titles of the songs wondering what kind of flood of grief would come crashing on the shore of my heart when I heard them. (The year before, I couldn’t even stand the idea.) Now would it bring a tsunami of tears that would wash me away? Or would I just laugh at how awful some of the music was?

I recalled the Christmas program at church our last December in Peru. The kids performed and I had recorded Toby’s class on my phone. As I held the CD’s, I was terrified realizing I didn’t know where that phone was, or if the photos and videos were backed up anywhere. No matter that if I played that song Toby would run away to hide from the grief it stirred up. He couldn’t handle it yet, but I needed to find it so I could hold it in my hands and listen to it again and not run away.

I think now that’s what good grief is. It’s whatever grief we don’t run away from but are willing to run to Jesus with. It’s grief we allow Jesus to carry us through. It’s grief we allow to rain down or well up and felt for what it means – that something or someone we love is no longer with us in the way they used to be.

Good grief recognizes the good that was and accepts the sadness in holding it as just a memory now.

 Dreams, hopes, and even places we held dear in our hearts become part of us. When we lose them or have to let them go, it hurts and we need space to grieve. In our case, leaving Peru meant we all grieved the loss of friendships, the surrender of dreams, and saying goodbye to a place, people (and even a dog) we truly loved.

I finally understand good grief.

Good grief trusts that even as specifics of memories fade, it really is the love that remains. I might not remember everyone’s names, but I will forever carry love for them in my heart. Good grief trusts that carrying love and being carried by Love will be enough.

I knew someday we’d look back and marvel at the fact that we really lived in Peru. I knew it would eventually feel a bit like a dream, but the sadness helps me know it was real. The ache helps me know we really did live there, and we really did love there. I am thankful for that.

Immanuel is still with us. In many ways, healing has come. Grief (and sadly, memories) will continue to fade. But love will always remain.

 

Melissa Ens loves Jesus, singing, words, learning, laughing, watching sunsets with her hubby of 21 years and playing games with her kids. She thinks praying with a pen and journal or talking with friends are the best forms of therapy ever. She used to blog at Musing Melissa, but these days is working on finishing and sharing her story. She’s excited about visiting loved ones in Peru this summer.

 

 

Don’t miss the other articles in this “Navigating Grief as Life Moves Forward” series. Feel free to SHARE with a friend who might need these words of encouragement.

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

 When a Grandparent Dies – a guest post about how one mom is navigating her own grief and grief with her kids 

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma arise

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“? I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope. Let’s connect!

Navigating Grief: When you are the caregiver

Posted by | death, Grief, Hope, self-care, serve, Stories, Struggle/Hardship | No Comments

 

Dawn crept through our bedroom window. I hauled myself out of bed and stumbled down to the kitchen. I ran the water in the sink and began to scrub carrots for his morning juice. As the water flowed, my own hot tears streamed down my face.

I wept, recalling the harrowing night before – his moaning, his struggle to breathe, and my own fear that if I fell asleep I might wake and he would be gone. I wept with heavy shoulders because I was staring down another day of serving when I was already past my breaking point. I whispered a desperate prayer to God to give me a seed of courage.

Somehow I walked back to the bedside of my husband to offer him the gift of hope. This went on for days and weeks. The memories are vivid for me even three years later. This is the work of the caregiver. This work is marked by physical, emotional and spiritual exhaustion. For some, the work lasts for years.

It is hard and holy work.

I now know the most difficult job I have ever faced is being a caregiver for my husband when he was diagnosed with cancer at age 40. I also would not trade that time with him for anything. It was my privilege to usher my husband to the throne of God.

Battling guilt

Caregivers often battle guilt. As I watched my husband’s health decline and the weight fall off his once-athletic body, I felt guilty.

Why him? Why not me? What had we done wrong?

I secretly longed for respite. I pined for time away from the house. I needed a break from the heaviness of it all. I also had a hard time accepting the relief when it came.

One weekend, my husband’s best friend offered to come stay with him and rallied some of his best college buddies to come visit. I was slated to take a group of mom leaders from my church to a one-day conference. I desperately needed the time but I was filled with such anxiety and guilt about leaving my husband behind. I knew he was in good hands, but it was difficult to step away.

If any of you have ever cared for someone with a terminal disease, you know what I’m talking about. Death seems to lurk around every corner. There’s no time for self-care when someone you love is suffering.

Now I know that’s not true. It’s pertinent that caregivers take breaks. We cannot care for others well when we are depleted of energy ourselves, when we don’t feel in our right mind.

Is it any wonder that the conference I attended that Saturday was entirely devoted to supporting people in times of crisis? Every word, every message, every song penetrated my soul.

Diving into anticipatory grief

I needed that time away to breathe, to process and to grieve.

I grieved the way things once were. I grieved the beautiful memories we had made and the adventures we chased in our life together. I grieved dreams of growing old together. I grieved a life my three young daughters would face without their beloved Daddy.

I understand now I was experiencing anticipatory grief. People rarely talk about anticipatory grief, but it’s the kind of grief that helps us to process the impending death of a loved one. Those days of grief were horrible, but they were doing important work in my heart. They enabled me to release my husband when the time came.

My mother-in-law told me it would happen. She told me I would feel the shift in my heart. For weeks, I didn’t want to believe it. I thought acknowledging death would somehow be giving up hope.

She was right.

One day my prayers changed. For months, I prayed fervently for the miracle of healing. I believed that my God who raised Lazarus from the dead could also revive my Ericlee. I still believe that. I also remember that one day my prayers became pleas for mercy. I begged God to take him home. I just wanted the suffering to stop.

I was able to whisper in my husband’s ear that we would be ok. Our community would care for the girls and me. He was free to go on to Glory. That day I gave him wings.

Pivoting away from haunting memories

Perhaps the most challenging part of grief when you were the caregiver is wading through the haunting memories. I watched my husband’s face become gaunt. I saw the tumor grow. I followed the bumps appearing all over his body as the disease spread. I heard the strain in his breathing as the cancer invaded his lungs near the end.

Try as I may, I can’t wipe away these memories.

I also have some sweet memories of serving him. I remember one Sunday when we had friends coming to visit I found myself fumbling through the bathroom drawer for his toothbrush. All the supplements, medicines and juices were staining his teeth. At the time, it felt silly – maybe even obsessive of me – but I wanted him to have clean teeth.

There was so little I could do at that point that brushing his teeth felt important. Looking back, that little act of service has become a savored memory. Did it matter that he had clean teeth? No. Would perfectly brushed teeth save him from death? No. It mattered to me because it was one of my last chances to give my man the gift of dignity.

It mattered to me because I saw the look of love in his hazel eyes when he could not even speak words of gratitude.

If you are caring for someone today who is battling a disease or nearing death, you are not alone. In the midst of it, you may not feel like it’s a privilege to stand by someone’s death bed, but it is. Caregiving is important work. It’s hard, beautiful, and sacred work.

 

 

 

Have you missed the other articles in our Navigating Grief as Life Moves Forward series? Check them out here:

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

 When a Grandparent Dies – a guest post about how one mom is navigating her own grief and grief with her kids 

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma arise

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“? I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope. Let’s connect!

Navigating Grief: When a grandparent dies

Posted by | Grief, Guest blogger, Hope, parenting, Stories, Struggle/Hardship, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

By Sue Concannon

My 3-year-old daughter awoke in the middle of the night sobbing because she missed Nana. After a long hug, we talked about what we missed most about Nana – her laugh and the way she sang songs to my daughter. We then prayed, and I laid down next to her until she fell back asleep.

This has become a regular occurrence for her. Throughout the day, she cries and says she misses Nana and all I can say is, “I do too.” She says it so much I’ve grown numb. The reality is she is hurting and grieving, and doesn’t know how else to express it.

My 6-year-old son, who was closest to Nana, can’t find the words to express his grief so he loses his temper and then sulks. His heart is breaking. Like so many, he tries to avoid it by filling his life with fun things as often as he can.

My mother-in-law died seven months ago due to complications from a routine knee surgery. Because my mom died 11 years ago, I now watch my kids grieve the only grandma they’ve ever known. Her death happened so suddenly it left all of us in shock. They are now trying to navigate life without Nana, while dealing with all kinds of emotion they’ve never had to experience.

When my mom passed away due to pancreatic cancer, it was just my husband and I without kids. I had time and space to grieve, which I now see as a luxury. It was hard, but oddly enough, I now look on that time as a fond memory of sweet moments with God where I could lay my heart out on the table and give him the broken pieces.

But now that I have kids that are still home with me, I no longer have long periods of time where I can sit and process my grief with God. I’m lucky if I can get out of bed in the morning before I must start getting the kids ready for school. Quiet time with God is rare. On the days my daughter is home with me, I find myself constantly trying to get time to myself. I become quickly irritated when that doesn’t happen. It’s like my grieving heart is so full it can’t possibly handle caring for anyone else – let alone myself. As a result, I’m noticing myself becoming angry all the time.

I’ve been speaking with a grief counselor, and she’s said a few times that I am not giving myself grace to grieve. I’m often hard on myself. I’m always demanding myself to function at an efficient level. I find it ironic because I’ve made it my passion to give grace to those who are hurting.

As a physical therapist, I often spent a lot of time with my patients educating them on their injury so that they could give themselves grace and time to heal. And yet, I’m refusing to allow God’s grace to come in and breathe healing on my wounded heart.

Zac, 6, and Hannah, 3, with their Nana in their backyard soon after they all moved from Indiana to Colorado.

 

The other day, I felt God impress these words on my heart: “Breathe in grace and breathe out mercy.”

It dawned on me that if I’m not taking in God’s grace for myself, I cannot give away His mercy for my kids because I’m too busy beating myself up for what I’m not doing well.

God seemed to say: “Take time for yourself to breathe in my words and my grace so that you can breathe out mercy to your hurting family. They need my mercy and you need my grace to grieve and feel and live.”

I realized that even though I don’t always have long periods of alone time to process my grief with God, I can daily breathe in His grace through prayer.

When I find myself getting irritated and short with my kids, I can breathe in God’s grace and ask Him to breathe out His mercy to my kids in that moment. It’s those breath prayers that can make all the difference because it’s inviting God into those everyday moments.

If you and your family are grieving or hurting in any way, I pray that you can breathe in God’s grace today. God’s grace may look like taking a nap, reading a book, ordering groceries online, taking time to visit with a friend, or playing with your child instead of getting your laundry done.

I pray you can breathe in His grace so that you can breathe out God’s mercy to those around you. Most likely, if you are hurting, there are people around you hurting as well and in need of God’s healing grace and mercy.

 

Sue Concannon lives with her husband and two kids in Littleton, CO. She is a Christ follower who has the privilege of being a stay at home mama to two children by the gift of domestic adoption. She loves running, hiking, reading and cooking. She has a passion to come alongside those who are hurting by offering them words of grace through her story and her writing at Daily Dependence.

 

FREE 5-Tips for Grieving with Kids

 

Have you missed the other articles in our Navigating Grief as Life Moves Forward series? Check them out here:

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma arise

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“? I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope. Let’s connect!

Navigating Grief As Life Moves Forward: The Garden

Posted by | community, death, fierce flourishing, Grief, Hope, parenting, Personal Stories, Stories, Struggle/Hardship, writing | 6 Comments

 

This month I’m hosting a blog series: “Navigating Grief As Life Moves Forward.” I am working to be more intentional with my blog to serve readers like you who are navigating the winding path of a grief journey.

This series was inspired by many conversations I have had with friends about the struggle to move forward after experiencing loss. There’s not really a finish line to the grief journey but it certainly changes over time.

One of the most powerful things I’ve learned about grief these last several years is that when we share our stories vulnerably in community, we are stronger.

There’s a Swedish proverb that says, “Shared joy is a double joy; Shared sorrow is half sorrow.”

This proverbs rings true in my life. I have been blessed by a community of friends who have shared in both my joy and sorrow.

The goal this month is to create a safe place to share our grief stories. I long to encourage you, to bless you, for you to say, “me too” deep in your spirit. I want to link arms with you and say, “You are not alone, my friend.”

I’ve invited several writer-friends to share their stories in this space during April. My friend Danielle will unfold her experience with anticipatory grief as her husband Kenny faced a cancer journey that last several years. My friend Sue will be sharing about navigating the death of a grandparent with her kids. My friend Sharon will give us a glimpse into her life dealing with pregnancy loss. I hope their diverse stories will be a reminder that while every journey is unique, there are a host of us who have walked the path of grief.

I think of my friend Janine. Her husband died in a cycling accident just a year before my husband Ericlee died of cancer. I remember standing at her Jim’s funeral reception and Janine squeezing my hands tight: “Cherish every moment,” she whispered. Ericlee and I wept with Janine. We had no idea what lie ahead for us.

Janine has walked ahead of me on the grief journey, modeling for me what it means to embrace life after loss and grieve well. She has also walked by my side, teaching me to trust in God to fill in all the holes and gaps. I’m grateful for her vulnerable sharing through the process. Janine and the other widows I know give me courage.

I hope this month you will read these stories and share your comments or pieces of your own story. You have permission to grieve and process here. I imagine us all as potted plants. We can sit in the sun and struggle to grow in our own little pots or we can be transplanted into a grand garden and nourish each other. We can offer up our stories and colors to flourish together.

 

Have you missed the other articles in our Navigating Grief as Life Moves Forward series?

Check them out here:

The Garden – an introduction to the series

Grieving Together – an article on grieving with children

Choosing Joy – a guest post about a spouse choosing joy even on a long cancer journey

 When a Grandparent Dies – a guest post about how one mom is navigating her own grief and grief with her kids 

Facing Triggers and Trauma – an article about steering through grief when triggers and trauma arise

Would you like a copy of my FREE resource for “Grieving with Kids“? I’m passionate about meeting people in their grief and sharing a message of hope. Let’s connect!

Grieving Together

Posted by | death, family life, Grief, kids, rest, self-care, Stories, Struggle/Hardship, transitions, Uncategorized | No Comments

 

Just in the nick of time, I dropped off my older two daughters at elementary school before they were tardy, and then continued on to my youngest daughter’s preschool. Green, yellow…slow red. Green, yellow…slow red. I followed the rhythm of the stop lights as my 5-year-old sang at the top of her lungs in the backseat. I smiled as I listened to another one of her off-tune, made-up songs.

Then I leaned in to hear some of her lyrics: “My daddy is in heaven. His leg was hurt. We need to pray for him. He’s with God,” she chirped. “I miss my dadddddddy.”

“What are you singing about, baby?” I asked her, trying to be nonchalant. It had been several months since she mentioned her daddy, who died from cancer two and a half years earlier. We pulled into the preschool parking lot. I reminded myself not to panic but to let her process.

“I’m singing about my daddy in Heaven,” she informed me.

“You know, he has a new body in Heaven now,” I said gently. “He doesn’t have that big tumor on his leg anymore.” Her face lit up with a smile, “Really?! I can’t wait to see him again.”

These conversations have become normal life for us now. Never in a million years did I imagine I would be helping my children navigate the death of their father at such a young age. If you would have asked me a half dozen years ago, I would have told you that skill just wasn’t in my wheelhouse. Then again, isn’t mothering about rising daily to learn new skills and praying regularly for God to cover our shortcomings?

{For the rest of this article, click over here to Kindred Mom. I am so honored to be a featured writer on their site today.}

 

 

**If you would like to read more about my grief journey, check out these articles.

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