When there is guilt in the grief

Three years ago yesterday my dad passed away.

It's amazing what three years can do.

My journey of grief looks so different today than it did during the initial shock of losing my 59-year-old father or throughout that first year of every first without him. First birthday, first Christmas, first anniversary of his death. Such difficult, painful milestones.

  
The waves of emotion use to come on suddenly, swift and strong. I felt totally unprepared for the torrent of tears that could take over a simple moment of watching my boys put together puzzles or seeing a pack of Necco Wafers at the pharmacy's candy counter. That first year my thoughts could be nowhere near my dad and yet if I was scrolling through contacts in my phone and came across his number I could quickly come undone.

But today, the seas of grief are kinder, gentler, like softly rolling swells. I may feel a pang of longing when I see Jude's sweet smile and think about how his grandfather never had the chance to meet this remarkable little boy. Or I can still get teary if Amazing Grace is in the slate of Sunday morning worship songs.

While the pain of losing my dad has faded, the guilt of my grief has also grown dim.

Yes, guilt.

And that's what is on my heart to share because that's the part that no one ever talks about.

You see, when I wrote the words for my dad's memorial service, I felt it was right to honor him by remembering the good. I wanted to celebrate his love for his daughters and the ways he did fatherhood well. It was heart-healing to recall the treasured moments my dad and I shared. And it was uplifting to share those treasures with all of you.

But that's not the whole story.

The rest of the story reads of a dad who was mostly unavailable. A dad who, while married to my mom, worked more than he raised his girls. After the divorce, a dad who loved showing up for the special events but didn't engage in the things of regular life.

Sporadic phone calls. Proud-of-me praise. Unpredictable anger.

Later in life the complexities of our relationship were accentuated by my dad's personal downward spiral. Laid off from a 20 year career. A second failed marriage. Business venture defeat. Deteriorating mental and physical health.

Not every factor was his fault. But naming blame doesn't always take away the pain. Whether my dad's demise was partly because of the deck he'd been dealt or primarily due to his own poor choices, the last five years of his life, especially, caused a significant stress on mine.

For many sad years my dad's life was marked by depression, addiction, despair. My sisters and I were the only ones there to try and help. So when crisis hit my dad and he landed in the hospital yet again, crisis would hit for us, too.

It was draining. No, draining doesn't really cover the toll that it all took.

And yet, in the last months of my Dad's life, after he had dwelled in the bottom of his life's deepest pit, he finally surrendered to God. Wealth, possessions, status, health...all gone.  Yes, finally he turned to the only source of life that he could never lose--relationship with his Savior Jesus.

Oh, how it strengthened my faith to see. To see answers to years of desperate prayers! To see that his life wasn't fixed but his heart was with the fixer, the Redeemer.

Yet, even so...

Even so, after my dad had passed, after the memorial was planned and his apartment was cleaned and his things were sorted and saved or sold, after the tasks of death were done, I was left with more than pain to keep me company.

I missed my dad. But I felt guilty for the missing. Guilty that I didn't miss him in life when days and weeks and months went by without a visit. In life he had often been a burden. So why should I be allowed to miss him in death?

Then there was the guilt for feeling relieved. I was actually thankful at times that we were spared from another episode in the hospital. Freed from another call that his finances had been flushed. Even thankful that I had escaped another dinner where he loudly smacked down a plate full of food that was surely damaging his diseased heart even more.

I was grieving the dad I lost and grieving the dad I never had.

I felt isolated in my grief from the start. (My friends loved me but not many of my 20-something peers had experienced the loss of a parent.) And this mix of emotions I didn't expect, couldn't explain, made me hide even further in my pain and guilt and shame.

But like my dad figured out before he breathed his last breath, there is one who always sees us, even in our hiding.

These last three years, I've learned that God can handle my emotions, even the ones I don't want to have. I've learned that not only can I rest in knowing my earthly father is living redeemed, free of his demons, but my Heavenly Father is doing a redeeming work in my life, too.

God won't change my childhood. I won't get back all the fatherly love, support, and nurturing I lacked. But those realities have shaped who I am. And there is no shame in wishing things had been different. I think God wishes they had been different for me, too.

But what do I get?

I get to live in this story. The story God is writing in my life.

The story where I'm learning that thankfulness and longing, relief and regret can coexist in one broken but rebuilding heart. 

 

Five Minute Friday: Encouragement

Salty tears ran down my cheeks and a huge grin spread across my face.

The smell of savory barbeque floated on the warm spring air.

A pedestrian passing by probably thought I was crazy--a crying, smiling girl with phone pressed tight against her ear.

But I couldn't help it. Waiting on the Firestone Grill patio for my tri-tip salad and my sister, I listened to a voicemail--not just a a voicemail--a message containing the most encouraging words my heart had ever heard.

Earlier that week I had the privilege of sharing what God was doing in my life with a group of women at my church. Several friends told me after that I did a wonderful job--words I appreciated hearing.

Now, another sweet friend had called to tell me the same. But more than acknowledging what I did, she affirmed who I was. Her voice reached through the recorded words and touched a deep place in my heart.

She was lavish with her praise. She used so many adjectives I started to giggle. Not for the sake of boosting my ego, but for the gift of seeing my soul.

Yes, one of the greatest gifts is being seen. Truly seen. And this dear friend gave this treasure abundantely.

Her words spoke truth in my life in a way that validated the very best parts of how God created me and spurred me on to live more fully out of the gifting he's given. Listening to her message made me feel loved. motivated. empowered.

Then my sister came back with a black tray of deliciousness, so I moved on to enjoying my meal.

But this gift of encouragement continued to stir my soul long after that first stream of awe and gratitude tears were wiped away. I feel silly admitting it, but I saved that voicemail and have listened to it many times over the last eight months.

That's the power of encouragement. Words that give life.

A couple months had now passed since I followed the automated prompt, pressed 9 for saved messages. Until this week. On Tuesday, for no real reason, I listened again to the most encouraging words I had ever heard. (Oh, I laugh, because God always knows the reason.) On Wednesday I was asked to share my story at a large event.

My heart pounded in excitement and fear.

Self-doubt threatened to choke my answer. 

But that's the power of encouragement: it. gives. courage.

I said yes.


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I'm writing with Lisa-Jo's Five Minute Friday community. We write for the sake of story, beauty, creativity, truth. The task is to write for 5 minutes flat on a single word prompt. In truth, I usually spend way more than five minutes. But whether it's 5 or 45, this exercise get's me writing, telling my story---God's story. And that's the best outcome for me.

The Truth about Discontentment

It's sneaky.

It's sly.

It can slither, creep, crawl, or tip-toe right into your mind and then burrow deep within your heart. Before you even realize it, something pure and innocent can transform into something dark and ugly, while never changing out of its pretty package.

At least, that's how it happened to me.

That's how discontentment took root in my life again.

It surprised me. Shocked me.

I mean, how can something other than gratitude take hold of my heart when I've spent the last six months counting gifts and choosing joy?

But there in the middle of Target, between the florescent-lit aisles of picture frames and home decor accents, it hit me. And I had to admit it.

Out loud. To my husband. "I am discontent."

From the evidence of the last few weeks, he was quick to agree.

It started right after our move. We unpacked boxes and found new homes for dishes, toiletries, and clothes. My husband hung hooks by the front door and my calming lily canvas over the white chunky mantel.

As we found a place for everything in our new space, we saw a need for a few new things. A basket for shoes so we can attempt to keep the beautiful wood floors clean. Curtains to fit the long window in the boys' room. A welcome mat to wipe our feet.

Then the oven we inherited was broken so we invested in a stainless steel stove. And for the last eight and a half years we've crowded around a small hand-me-down's hand-me-down table, so we also put some Christmas money toward our first new dining room table--a purchase with a purpose--a heart for hospitality, future gatherings of family and friends.

And there was the adorable shelf my husband surprised me with. He knew I wanted something for the void on the bathroom wall and this was the perfect fit. Hooks for the boys' towels. A spot for some added decor. A shabby-chic finish. I loved it!

Oh, and maybe some place mats for the new table and mats for cold bathroom floors.

Nothing too extravagant. Not overly excessive.

But the problem wasn't in the things. The problem was in the seeing. My seeing.

Because I started to see only the holes.

A blank wall that needed art. A bare floor that needed a rug. An empty nook that needed an overstuffed chair. Each time I identified a hole in my house, I allowed one to fester in my heart.

The blessings I once saw faded another shade each time I focused on my longing, my lack. Soon all the pictures of thanks were too faint to see.

And going to amazing places like Home Goods and Target infected the wound further. At every turn I saw another basket or mail organizer or wall hanging or pillow or whatever other artfully-rusted, chalkboard paint-painted, burlap-embellished I-gotta-have-it accessory for my new house. "That would make this room so much more functional and that room so much more inviting," I thought to myself.

And while browsing didn't turn to buying, I was still selling myself out.

Letting my joy slip away.

Instead of keeping my eyes fixed on God's grace-gifts, I allowed greed and ingratitude to steal my focus. That wasn't my intention. But that is what happened.

And then I remembered the very words I chose to frame and perch on that new rustic shelf:

 Yes. My heart remembered, too.

The cure for discontentment? Giving thanks.

The antidote for ungratefulness? Gratitude.

And the echo of Ann's words from the storehouse of truth in my mind became a balm for this self-inflicted wound on my heart.

"You can have joy any moment you turn hidden greed for more into honest gratitude for now."

I can still have joy.

The truth is, discontentment snuck into my life even when I thought I was doing everything right. 

The truth is,  I don't have to stay in this discontented place. 

My attitude, my outlook--my choice.

Yes, instead I will choose gratitude. I will keep learning the secret of being content in any and every situation. (Yes, Paul says contentment is learned. So discontentment must be unlearned.)

I will do both by giving thanks.

Thanks for the hands that hung the shelf. Thanks for the silly smiles peering down at me. Thanks for a work of art, beauty, Truth. All clear pictures of God's gifts of grace.

Ahh, yes, and always thanksgiving for his Amazing Grace.


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Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee for the first time to #TellHisStory.

Visit The Pleated Poppy to get this free Give Thanks printable...a beautiful, needed reminder for every heart.

What I'm Able to See

Some days it's easy.

The winter sun casting brilliant rays that illuminate a simple garden leaf, transforming something plain into spectacular.

The perfect curve of my middle boy's pouty cheeks. Cheeks that get all rosy flushed with bed-jumping joy or sleepy heat after a long snuggled nap.

The way steam rises up in swirly mist off my morning cup o' jo. The way the littlest one squeals in anticipation of our newest tickle game. The way my friend looks in my eyes because she really knows me.

 

 

I can see it all. See how each tender moment is an intentional gift. Given from God's heart to mine.

Our heater goes out and within minutes I've collected four space heaters from three sets of neighbors we just met. My biggest one is big-boy brave as he gets his five-year immunizations and he chooses to share his lollipop treat with his brother. Breath in. Breath out.

I can see.

"From the fullness of his grace we have received one blessing after another."  -John 1:16

 I can see the truth of God's Word in the realness of my life.

Some days.

And other days it's hard. There's a veil over my eyes, a low cloud, a thick fog. Piles of laundry and stacks of dishes are blocking my line of sight. The light of childhood delight has dimmed and all I can see is the disobedience. 

Discouragement. 

Self-doubt. 

There are days I can only assume that all the God-gifts, all his grace, are hidden in the dusty corners of my house or in the disheveled toy boxes where nobody can find what they're looking for.

Some days it's hard. Today is one of those days. I'm having a hard time seeing God.

But I look back to his Word.

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." -2 Corinthians 4:18

And I'm thankful.

Thankful that my days aren't meant to be dependent on what I'm able to see.


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I'm writing with Lisa-Jo and the Five Minute Friday community. Today's word is See.

Advent Joy

I had the pleasure of writing this reflection piece on Psalm 145 for the Advent Devotional my church presented this year. So I thought I'd share it here with you, too. May we each take a moment today to savor, reflect, and remember the joy gift of our Savior King!

 

“They will celebrate your abundant goodness 

and joyfully sing of your righteousness.” (v.7) 

In the midst of all the merriment, sometimes the Christmas seasons stirs awareness of our longings, our lack. Maybe you are still looking for that job. Maybe that Christmas bonus didn’t come through. Maybe spinning your wheels to secure the best department store deals has left your soul spinning, too. Maybe the strained relationships in your life have left you feeling separated from your Savior. Maybe all that feels abundant is your need.

Scripture assures us that the Lord is “loving toward all he has made” (v.13) and that he satisfies the desires of every living thing (v.16). What amazing promises! But what if that doesn’t just pertain to the desires you are waiting for God to fulfill? What if his abundant goodness is being poured out in your life every day?

The key to experiencing God’s awesome works is not to wait until life feels good. The key is to exalt him, praise him, and celebrate him today! When we take God’s Word as Truth and believe that, regardless of how we feel, he IS good, his ways ARE faithful, and his works ARE wonderful, then we can begin to see the evidence all around us.

A message from a friend with just the words your heart needed to hear. The sound of raining thrumming a winter symphony on your roof. A flickering candle, light dancing on the wall, apple spice aroma filling the house. The assurance that every failure and regret has been wiped away by the Savior’s atoning sacrifice—the Messiah born in the manger. These are all gifts from the perfect Giver, just a few reasons to sing joyfully to the King!

Ponder:
What evidence of God’s abundant goodness can you praise him for today?

Prayer:
“Holy God, you are so worthy of my praise and adoration! Please grow in me an awe of who you are and how you are working in my life so that my heart may overflow with joy and thanksgiving. Amen.”

Mud for My Selfishness

I don't want to admit it...

But some days, my kids feel like a burden. Some moments, mothering feels more like a chore. I feel irritated, inconvenienced, put out.

I don't want to admit it, really I don't...but some days the the overflow of my heart is not love and kindness and joyful training for my boys.

I like to rationalize these icky feelings. I mean, who wouldn't feel weary after six days of solo parenting while your husband is out of town? Who wouldn't be a little downtrodden from the demands of meeting the constant, unrelenting needs of three rambunctious boys? My feelings of wanting a little space, a little peace and quiet are valid, right? Plus, fill a tank that's depleted of patience with a healthy dose of PMS and who's gonna blame me for feeling like a I just want to play hookie from this mothering gig for half a day?

I just want an easy day. A day where my 4, 3, and 1 year old will all play perfectly, peacefully, without supervision so I can sit and just be. (If you have even one small child, you know that's not gonna happen, let alone with a trifecta of tiny testosteronies.)

These reasons may be understandable, even justifiable. 

But the real reason for my icky feelings about motherhood today is because I am selfish. 

As soon as I acknowledged this truth, the root of my struggle, I knew the way out.

The way to combat selfishness is to choose an act of selflessness.

 So with a small huff and a sigh, that's what I did.

And today selfless meant mud.

 

Letting my boys be boys. Down and dirty.

Mud squished between fingers. Caked in every crack.

I had to let go of my desire for control, convenience, ease. And as I laid down my desires for the sake of their delight, I found myself delighting, too.

Instead of feeling stuck in my weariness, condemned by my selfishness, I started to feel the warmth of the sun's shining rays.

I began to feel joy for the boyhood discoveries my little men were making.

I knew there would be clothes and shoes and toys, not to mentioned three filthy little boys, that would need scrubbing and demudding. But maybe there was beauty to be found even in dark dirt crusted on denim, ground into soles.

Yes, my soul was stirred with new life at the lavish boyish love for nature's gifts: an avocado, a tree, a root.

Maybe the mud was exactly what their precious souls needed today.
Maybe exactly what mine needed it, too.

From Blah to Blessed

My autumn mantel is still in tact. We're moving in a week and a half, so it just doesn't make sense to pull out the Christmas decor. I'm longing for my sweet evergreen and holly berry wreath, but I guess there's an upside to being stuck in a decorating holding pattern...

Because I'm still seeing this every day:

 

Yesterday was a blah day. Ever have one of those?

I just felt blah. Bluck. Stuck. In a funk.

I felt blah for the constant raucous noise of boys. Blah for changing yet another diarrhea diaper. Blah for the broken garbage disposal and clogged up sink with breakfast oatmeal floaties. Blah for people I love going through seasons of deep pain. Just blah.

And then I read these words. "In everything give thanks." 

Everything...it's so vague. I see it every day. Say it every day. But sometimes the meaning gets lost on me.

So what would it mean if I replaced the vague with the specific?

In the chaos give thanks.

In the sickness give thanks.

In the mundane mama tasks give thanks.

In the broken appliances, small set-backs, temporary inconveniences give thanks.

In the seasons of praying for the seasons of pain give thanks.

Yes, making it specific makes the difference. Giving of thanks for specific things helped turn my blahs into blessings. 

But what's so blessed about a hum-drum-bummed kind of regular mommy-in-a-funk day? 

Blessed because every day is a gift! Every moment is a gift, if I choose to see it and GIVE THANKS for it. I'm NOT perfect at it. But God IS perfecting me through it. 

And living in the center of God's will is ALWAYS a blessing, isn't it?

(Did you know that to Give Thanks IS the Will of God?!)

"In every thing give thanks, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." -1 Thessalonians 5:18

So I gave thanks.

Gave thanks for this little munchkin whose clothes I had to change 4 times.

Thank you, God, for Jude's smile!

 

Thank you, God, for a little boy and his big bucket! 

Thank you, God, for eyes that shine and crumbs on lips! 

And I thanked God for my pirate and my super hero. 

For the grace to let three boys eat lunch on the couch.

 

Thank you, God, for brothers. 

Thank you for not leaving me in my blahs, 

but helping me see what "everything" is:

Gift. Beauty. Grace.

Everything is Your unfailing love. 

Jesus in my bathroom

I sat on the edge of the cold porcelain bathtub. Hot water pounding out of the shower head into the empty tub. Steam slowly filled the bathroom.

I rocked Jude and prayed the warm misty air would soothe his lungs and offer some relief.

Why does croup always hit in the middle of the night? Why does it have to steal my sleeping babe and replace him with a barking seal imposter?

My 17 month old fussed and fidgeted on my lap. He held my hairbrush and his brother's lime green squirt bottle until he chucked them on the floor in protest of being sick and tired.

My heavy eyelids begged to close, but Jude needed a few more minutes of steamy therapy.

So I began to sing.

The usual soothing bedtime tunes...Jesus Loves Me gave way to Gentle Shepherd which ushered in a chorus of As the Deer.

Then without a conscious thought or decision, I found the words of Silent Night pouring from my lips.

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright.

Jude's little jammied body snuggled into mine and his breathing settled.

It was barely November and Christmas was hardly on my radar. But there in my steam-filled bathroom with dingy grout and a pile of little boys' discarded dirty clothes crumpled on the floor, the words of this classic Christmas carol washed over my heart.

I imagined how the air in that stable where the Christ child was born might have also been thick and steamy from the sweat of labor, the hot breath of animals, the stench of manure. I thought about how this sweet melodic song was really depicting a story that, to the mother living it, could not have been nearly as picturesque as our postcards and nativty scene figurines might make us believe.

I have given birth three times in a hospital (twice with drugs) and, let's be honest, it was not a pretty picture. How might my new mother horror have been magnified had I been laying on dirty straw instead of a sterile hospital bed with my virgin-delivery husband catching my babe instead of a seasoned doctor?

Silent night. Holy night. 
All is calm, all is bright. 
Round young virgin, mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace! Sleep in heavenly peace.

After the chaos and confusion of birth there was this Holy child. A Holy child whose presence must have masked his mother's pain, who made that smelly stable holy, too.

Heaven's peace filled that otherwise ordinary space. 

Glories stream from heaven above
Heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah

And God whispered to my heart,

I love you. I am here, filling THIS musty, ordinary room. My heavenly peace is available to you, too. I am Holy. Praise me for my holiness!

I didn't want to be pulled from the comfort of my cozy bed and restful slumber to care for a sick child. But, oh, what a gift it turned out to be!

Because there in my steamy bathroom, Jesus showed up.

And my heart was filled with joy. Not happiness for circumstance. But joy for Christ.

Silent night! Holy night!
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace
Jesus, Lord at thy birth.
Jesus, Lord at thy birth!

Wiped Away

Do you ever feel like an entire day of good parenting is wiped away by one bad mom moment?

The homemade wholewheat and oatmeal chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast—erased.

The living room fort you built, the sprawled-out jigsaw puzzles you guided, the choo choo train you constructed—voided.

The way you kept your cool when you discovered the four year old had stolen gum out of your purse and distributed the sweet and sticky treats to his brothers—undone.

The wrestling and cuddling, the singing silly songs while dancing delirium until little boys wrapped round your waist squealed in delight, the lunch making and floor sweeping and diaper changing, the giving children quiet playtime so they could see you quiet your soul to commune with your Savior—ever feel like ALL of it was negated by one negative moment?

If you have, you're not alone.

Because today, that's how I feel. 

I feel like it was all for nothing because in one moment where the baby was screaming because I wouldn't let him stand on the arm of the couch and his biggest brother was sulking over not being allowed to watch another show and then the middle one tried to pick up the screaming baby around the neck and he wouldn't release his headlock vice grip when I sternly instructed him to LET GO, in that one moment, I lost it.

The yell vibrated from my belly and the anger shot fiery darts from my eyes and I put the child with the big deer eyes roughly on the couch and told him over and over how bad and dangerous and mean that was until hot tears were pouring down his satin pillow cheeks all flushed with shame and fear.

And then I cried, too.

Cried I'm sorry, please forgive me.

Cried it to my son. Cried it to the Son.

Elias wouldn't let go of his brother quickly enough. And I was too quick to let go of my God.

...Recently I wrote about grace. How all the sweet and meaningful blessings that fill up our days are God's sweet grace in our lives. But the thing is, grace is not just about the blessings. It's also about the belonging. 

Grace is God never letting go.

  
I felt like all the good and fun, precious and purposeful moments in my day were wiped away by one moment of rage.

But thankfully how I feel isn't always what is true.

Because the truth is, what's really been wiped away is my sin. And He remembers it no more.

Five Minute Friday: Grace

It's seeing 49 pop up on the airline scale when 50 lbs is the checked-bag limit.

It's dying to read her story because you couldn't get it out of your mind, and then finding the divine tale among the treasure loot in the best swag bag--the perfect airplane reading for the twelve hour journey home.

It's being convinced that the red and black stowaway crayolas ruined an entire load of laundry and then finding a post about how to get the crayon out and the crazy method actually worked!

It's your husband coming home early on the one afternoon he had to himself because he knew that boys smashing raw eggs under the dining room table made you come undone.

It's tears of joy over an ordinary trip to Costco turned extraordinary.

It's losing your mind to brothers bickering and then catching the biggest one cuddling the littlest.

It's praying for two years for the perfect house, the bigger house, while trying to be content in the smallness where the baby has to sleep in the bathroom because there's just no other room... and then once content, receiving the home long desired.

It's hearing the raspy words birthed from the three-year-old's soul that "You're my bestest mommy ever"--words that don't remember you lost your patience at all things boyish and yelled at those sweet boys.

It's clear blue skies and warm October breezes. 

It's baby eyelashes long and dark. It's afternoons swinging with friends in the park.

It's hot peppermint tea and the Word in a quiet house.

It's a friend who really knows even though you're just getting to know her.

It's hot showers, water pounding calm down your back. It's Jesus standing in the gap for everything you lack.

It's every time He makes beauty out of the mess, every time He gives more when you deserve much less. It's the light when you thought there would only be dark. It's the gift that gives joy's fullest spark.

Grace is cream in my coffee. Hugs tight around my neck. It's being okay with being a wreck.

 Fall leaves in every autumnal hue. Forgiveness for me. Forgiveness for you.

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This post is part of Lisa-Jo's fabulous Five Minute Fridays. Come check it out.