Weeds & Wildflowers
When Logan died, I heard just about every comment you could possibly imagine.
The spectrum ranged from kind and compassionate to naive and ignorant. Some words instantly sent my blood to a boiling state, some made my eyes roll, some made me feel loved, some made me feel seen, and a rare few - made me feel understood.
The comments full of grace, the ones that didn't cause my heart to instantly put up its defenses, never made my pain subside but offered the support and validation I so desperately craved. In contrast, the comments that made my heart race and my face flush, caused me to walk away from conversations feeling even more misunderstood, isolated, and hurt.
Words didn't have the power to truly soothe my heart, but they certainly had the power to make it ache even more.
After losing Logan, I quickly learned that people over-complicate what bereaved hearts need to hear in the wake of significant loss. Prior to his death, I know I did it as well.
We come up with flowery condolences that sound great on the surface, but once deconstructed, hold the weight of a feather or are able cut deep like the edge of a blade. We try desperately hard to fill the space; put an unrealistic responsibility on ourselves to come up with the perfect thing to say, when in all honesty - no such thing exists. We rationalize with every "at least" statement our minds can conjure, with a genuine belief that our words actually have the power to heal.
We are uncomfortable with the silence and the pockets of the grieving process where our mere presence speaks louder than our words ever could.
At dinner with good friends and fellow bereaved parents, we started talking about this very thing. We shared stories of people's inability to just let a sad situation be sad and their constant need to search for the silver lining. We shared countless instances where well-meaning individuals unknowingly poured a gallon of salt in the open and bleeding space where our once-complete hearts used to reside.
By night's end, we all agreed the safest and most loving thing a broken heart can hear is, "I'm sorry"… and nothing after. We agreed that a heart, delicate and freshly laden with grief, does not need to hear countless rationalizations and justifications on what caused that grief in the first place. We agreed searching for “the silver lining” is something that can wait.
“I’m sorry” … and nothing after.
Could it really be that simple? Is it possible that fewer words could actually equal better understanding and empathy? Is it possible we have for too long misunderstood what support actually looks like? Maybe we have made it too complicated. Maybe the box we built and the definition we have passed from generation to generation needs to be deconstructed, rethought, and then very carefully - rebuilt.
In the wake of great pain, tragedy, and loss, our hearts and minds naturally gravitate to the good in a bad situation. "Look at the way the community gathered … look at the love that was displayed … look at the nonprofit that was born …"
It's so much more comfortable to focus on the positives and have the “glass half full" mentality, that we instinctively turn our eyes away from the portion of the glass that is still - “half empty.” It's those truths that make our faces grimace and our hearts bristle. "Look at children who are now without a father ... look at the family that is now torn apart ... look at the parents who buried their child …"
Is the price of the good worth the cost of the bad? If you ask the hurting ... the answer is more than likely - no.
To search for beauty in painful seasons is beautiful and often times very healing. But sometimes we lean SO FAR into what good was brought forth, that we completely neglect the pain that is still being endured behind closed doors. When appropriate, why can't the two coexist?
In one hand, we hold up and admire the transformation of darkness to light. In the other hand, we hold that which was lost - but we keep that hand low and hidden behind our backs where it’s out of eyesight and earshot. We don't want to see the uncomfortable - so we keep our eyes fixed in the opposite direction.
If only both hands could be held at eye level and equally balanced. Our eyes could then track from left to right, thanking God for His faithfulness in the darkness and also remembering those in pieces still in the middle of that very darkness.
I believe wholeheartedly, God has the power to take the worst of situations and bring forth light. I believe He is the Master Storywriter and can turn ruble into riches. The painful parts of our stories can be redeemed in this life; however, I also know our FULL REDEMPTIVE STORIES aren't found on this side of Heaven.
As believers, we take verses like, “All things work together for those who love the Lord …” as a blanket response for every sorrow or difficulty we could ever endure. I believe the words but think we sometimes misappropriate their meaning when using it as a means to comfort others.
God says He will work ALL things for good to those who love Him and are called according to His purposes. He never promised we would get to witness it happen firsthand. He never said it would be a soothing balm to a broken heart. I think sometimes we are able to experience beauty growing from the tragedies of our lives and I think sometimes that beauty grows - out of sight.
What if we lose pieces of our hearts and don't see that pain redeemed, restored, soothed, or tempered in this life?
Only in Heaven will our eyes see the full tapestry - not the mess of knots underneath that created it. Only there will we truly understand how the fully-shredded and torn pieces of our lives can translate into such a seamless and perfectly designed masterpiece. Only in Heaven will we truly be able to see the full manifestation of “All things working for good.”
I love my life and owe so much of it's beauty to Logan. I can look around at almost every piece of my world and trace it back to him. I can see so many things that never would have been. I know my life would look so different if my eldest had been born healthy (and I think that version would have been absolutely wonderful as well).
But that wasn't my story. My eldest died, and my world was flipped upside-down. My entire life changed in a moment.
In hindsight, I can look back and thank Logan for his life and for being responsible for so much of the beauty I now find in mine. I thank God for allowing us to see with our own eyes the beauty only He could create …
Our dearest friends - the ones you do life with and couldn't imagine your life without - are because of Logan. That is both immensely beautiful and profoundly heartbreaking. Our nonprofit's birth, the calling on my life to write, the building our home … MY LIVING CHILDREN … so much of my everything … is a direct offshoot of his passing. With Logan, I can see part of the tapestry, and it's exquisite. Logan is proof to me that broken can still be beautiful.
But try not to let those words deceive you - for the presence of beauty does not dispel the existence of pain.
My sorrow has not dissipated because a field once full of ashes is now covered in wildflowers. If I were to kneel in that field and dig my fingers into the soil, it would take minimal effort to find proof of the past. You see, no amount of beauty can make those ashes disappear.
Nine months ago I lost my dad and I wish his field was full of wildflowers too. But as I kneel there all that covers my hands is ash and soot. The remains of smoldering memories expand as far as I can see. The field in front of me is desolate and burnt. Maybe there hasn't been enough time for life to grow. Maybe the smoke is still too heavy and my eyes burn too badly to truly look at my surroundings. Or maybe …
Life is just hard and sometimes we lose people we love.
Perhaps, outside of the fact that my dad is finally whole and with his Creator, there isn't much beauty to be cultivated on this side. He has gained redemption from all the hurts he faced in his life, which is cause for celebration, but outside of eternity, I am struggling to find a silver lining from where I'm sitting.
My mom is in pieces and will grow old without her other half. She now sits alone in a home that was built for two. My children are young and their memory of him will eventually fade. My nephews no longer have the encouraging words their Papa always offered after a disappointing baseball game. My dad's best friend will ski alone this winter and I'm not sure if I will even have the courage to face the slopes without him. Who now will accompany me and my sister to admire the midnight mountain sky? His camera sits in its bag - no longer able to capture the beauty only his eyes could find. Fall was his always his favorite, and as much as I want to go explore it - I can't stomach the thought without him.
I think sometimes our hearts are trying so desperately hard to squeeze some good out of a heartbreaking situation that we twist, bend, and contort it with all of our might and in the end - yield nothing.
Right now, I don't see the death of my dad producing much fruit in my life. Right now, it's just a big, gaping hole.
My words are not meant to be covered in a rain cloud. Those who know my heart know how hard I cling to hope - but I also believe it's ok (and appropriate) for loss to be solely sad. No strings attached. No justification. No platitudes.
Sadness unaccompanied. Plain and simple.
I've learned this year to stop digging through the thistles of sorrow, desperately searching for traces of something beautiful. So far, it has only left my hands bruised and bloodied. I am learning to be still in this season and accept those thistles for what they are - weeds. We live in a fallen world full of them.
I’ve realized sometimes the lessons I learn about grief and try to teach others, are ones I first need to apply to myself. Today, as I miss my dad SO MUCH, I simply tell my heart, “I’m sorry” … and nothing after.
And yet … I know God made a promise. He will use our sorrow even if we never see it on this side. Even sitting in the midst of those weeds or in that desolate, burnt field, I can still hear Him whisper, "Redemption is coming." He then reminds me of the most stunning "beauty from ashes" story of all time - His son and the cross.
Jesus. The ultimate wildflower …
Much love to you all,
Jamie
