The Grief Onion: Getting real

I hugged him tight in a mummy-hold, speaking the words over and over: "It's okay. It's okay. All done! No more hurts." Who knows if any of my meant-to-be-reassuring words actually made it into his head and heart, between my {very} broken Spanish and his incredibly limited English. I do know that he looked up into my eyes with crocodile tears running down his cheeks. As my school clinical day came to an end, I could almost read his thoughts. It's okay? It's NOT okay! It's all done? How do I KNOW it's all done, when you just scooped me up in your lap like we were gonna be the best of friends, then stabbed my finger with a needle? THAT'S not okay!

***What I'm about to share is not meant to elicit pity or even words of advice. I share it to be transparent in a grief journey that is long, rocky, and layered. I share it to encourage and walk alongside those also experiencing grief over the loss of a loved one, whether that loss is recent or years ago.***

I feel like that little guy I wrapped tightly in my arms. I hear Jesus whispering into my broken and battered heart, "Trust me, child...I've got you. It's okay." Meanwhile, my heart screams back, "It's okay?!? It's NOT okay! You've got me?! Well, where were you THEN?" I realized recently that I have never fully allowed myself to be real with God about the pain and hurt I have experienced over losing my dad...Feelings I may even describe as anger and a corroding mistrust in Him. I know it's not healthy to stay in that place. I also know it is not healthy to bury those feelings without ever carrying them to the cross. I have to admit, both to myself AND to God, that I am ANGRY.

It's not FAIR that my little brother doesn't have his dad in the stands at his soccer games, cheering for him and yelling at the refs like all the other dads. It's not FAIR that all my friends will have their dads walk them down the aisle at their weddings, while my sisters and I will walk alone. It's not FAIR that my mom, by no choice of her own, has become a single parent. It's not FAIR that I rarely get through a day without thinking about death or cancer. It's not FAIR that I have forever imprinted memories of my daddy, my knight-in-shining-armor, gasping for breath and slowly losing control over all bodily functions in the last days of his life. It's not fair that my dreams were shattered in one day, with one phone call. It's not FAIR that I am doubly broken and hurt with every new relationship loss and change, simply because I am reminded, once again, that everything on this earth is temporary...especially relationships with the people I have allowed myself to love. It's not FAIR, and there is a part of me, deep inside, that wants to know how God could have thought this was a good plan.

In my opinion, grief is like an onion--layer upon layer must be peeled back and revealed. I'm on the "get-real-with-God" layer. {It's only taken me 2+ years to get there.} Just as I had to hold and rock and whisper comfort into that little boy's heart in order to earn back his trust, I am praying that, as I deal with this layer of the "grief onion," God simply holds me in His arms and reminds me of His forever and unconditional faithfulness. I'm ready to find a new level of wholeness in my relationship with Him as I learn to trust, once again, in His perfect sovereignty.

And for the person reading this who is feeling the same way--Wherever you may be, I am praying the same thing for you. Find healing at the foot of the cross...where Jesus invites us to dump ALL our baggage.

The Day the World Stopped

My Daddy and I two weeks before He saw Jesus

To be honest, I don't really remember the day I found out my beloved grandmother was dying. Brutal honesty? I had wondered when it would happen for quite some time. Gruesome, I know, but she was pushing 97...and she was oh-so-ready to leave this earth. July 2009. Pancreatic cancer, the devil of all cancers, claimed her earthly body less than a week after she was diagnosed.

Two months later, my dad was diagnosed with the same devil. I do remember that day; I remember like it was yesterday. I remember the terrifying anticipation, knowing that tests were being performed and suspicions had been raised. I remember the tears I wept, against my stubborn will to maintain all composure, as I sat in class waiting for my mom to call with the results. I remember the annoying sympathy, the he'll-be-okay looks and the i-have-no-idea-what-to-do-with-you hugs. All the while, I just wanted to scream, "You have no stinkin' idea the kind of abyss my world is slipping into!"

Then the call came. It was weird. As the words, words I already knew and had rehearsed in my head, came out of my Mom's mouth, an eerie peace sank over me. Resolution gained control over out-of-control emotions. I had to go home, to face the beast head-on. I had to save my Dad, because I knew he was dying.

Ten incredibly short--and yet, brutally long--months later, my Daddy went to be with Jesus. My world stopped. I didn't know how to live, how to have passion and dreams again. I just got out of bed and did meaningless things, watched meaningless movies, said meaningless words. All the while, I wondered why the rest of the world kept going. Didn't everyone else see what had just happened?!? The greatest man I ever knew had left the world, and people were still laughing, still going to the grocery, still saying and doing the wrong things while neglecting the right things.

Sometimes I forget that feeling. Sometimes I forget what it is like to have your world crash while everyone else seems to be living on a bed of roses {even if they are fake}. Today I remembered. Today I remembered, because today I read THIS. A sweet little girl, living on the other side of the country, found out that her respite from a silent evil that had taken root in her head was over. The devil has returned, and although she must cling to hope because sometimes hope is all one has, the odds are not in her favor. Today I remember that feeling...while she and her family are FEELING that feeling. I am sad for them.

While I am sad, I also can't help but wonder if we have it all wrong. You know, we dread death, avoid it like the plague...sometimes avoiding the plague itself with research and drugs and body-disfiguring surgeries. I just wonder, if we saw eternity through God's eyes, would we be working so hard? Probably not, but right now we don't have God's eyes. So tonight I am pleading for God to give this little girl His eyes, or to heal her physical body so that her Mommy and Daddy can blossom under her love a little bit longer...or to do both. All the while, I long to remember that there is always someone around me whose heart has been smashed...could I be the one to take him or her to the Comforter, the Heart-Healer?

The Mingling of Life and Death: The Day My Daddy Went to Heaven

My dad and I shortly before His Heaven birthday

I rarely write or talk about the day my dad died. I try not to even think about it very much. There is a song, though, that plays on the radio every once in a while...and reminds me of that day.


I have not yet had the experience of birthing a child. I can only imagine that it is an incredibly spiritual experience...to take part in bringing life into the world, what a privilege! Even so, the pain cannot be bypassed.

The day my Daddy died, I thought of the painful process of childbirth. Just as a baby slowly lets go of his home in the womb, my Dad was slowly letting go of his home on earth. It was painful. It was heartbreaking. But the presence of God in that room was almost tangible. My Dad spent a lifetime walking with Jesus and praying, "Be still, my soul...He is." For the first time, as he was painfully birthed into the realm of Heaven, he was face to face with the One who was, is, and is to come. His soul was quiet.

As I sat by his side that day, reading aloud scriptures from Revelation describing the new creation, tears trickled down his cheeks. He had been unconscious for many hours by that time, unresponsive to our voices whispering "I love yous" in his ear. I don't know if those tears were merely another sign of failed control over bodily functions, or were truly in response to what I was reading. Either way, we sat and cried together for the last time. My Daddy was literally hours away from experiencing the glory of the new creation. I could almost HEAR the world fading away and the soft whisper of Heaven calling as my Dad was ushered into the presence of Jesus, leaving only the shell of his body for those of us who loved him so much.

Thinking about that day hurts. I don't like to dwell on it, mostly because, at the end of the day, I sat on that bed without a dad. But the experience of watching life mingle with death, of FEELING the world fade away as the presence of God consumes a place and takes one of His own HOME...there really is no way to explain or describe it. At the beginning of that week, LH was a husband, a father, a friend, a brother. As his physical body faded, and as he painfully breathed his last breath in the womb of this earth, he was birthed into Heaven...where he was simply HIS.

Life out of death...Be still, my soul...be still. He is.

Beautiful Things

Two years ago, I had just moved back home after the devastating blow of my dad's diagnosis made its way to my heart. I couldn't allow myself to be a newly independent college student exploring the world anymore. I was torn apart, yet unable to understand or piece together my "new" life--a life marked by visits to doctors and dreaded scan results. Days of watching my dad lay in bed, his body failing him as he tried to survive the "healing" chemicals dumped into his veins. Two years ago I was breaking.

A year ago, I had just started school and was overwhelmed with grief--emotions I had no built-in "equipment" to handle, no past experiences to guide me as I attempted to traverse the waters of my life without a dad. I was sitting in a counselor's office, sobbing as I tried to put words to the storm inside me. I was sitting at a table beside other men and women facing the ugly effects of death on their once happy lives. I was trying to find the "new" me--the me without my dad, the me who would never be a normal 19 year old again. I was broken.

Today, I am listening to the words of this song...and my heart finds rest, knowing my story has finally found a way out. The jumbled pieces of my brokenness have found expression in these words:

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

By Gungor

Today, God has made beautiful things out of my dust. Two years ago I was breaking...A year ago I was broken...Today, out of the broken and dry, barren and cracked soil of my heart, beautiful things are sprouting. Because God makes beautiful things out of dust. God makes beautiful things out of cancer. God makes beautiful things out of death. God makes beautiful things out of loneliness and grief. God makes beautiful things out of gut-wrenching tears. God makes beautiful things out of BROKENNESS.

So today, as I begin to discover the loveliest of things sprouting out of my brokenness, my prayer is that you will begin to understand the power of God to not only create galaxies out of nothingness, but also to mend broken hearts. To create beautiful things out of US. To make beautiful things in YOU. Do you believe it?

Finding Rest in the Rhythm

Do you ever wonder at the rhythm that is life?  Summer...fall...winter...spring.  A baby is born, grows up, has babies of her own, tends to them, then ultimately dies.  The sun rises high into the sky and, just like clockwork, sets in a glorious array of colors.  Everything seems to follow this God-made rhythm.  

It makes me wonder how I can be so incredibly grateful for a myriad of blessings that abound in my life, and yet still be overwhelmed with grief and sadness as I consider the part of the rhythm we all long to avoid...death.  Brokenness, pain, suffering, heartache.  I am confronted with this beat again and again: A beautiful woman whose face is bruised at the hands of someone she trusted, an incredible man whose life story ended long before it seemed to reach a conclusion, a young girl ridding herself of the terrifying unknown of an unexpected pregnancy, even a family struggling to gain a hold on a vermin that has invaded their sacred space.  And just when we think the world should stop spinning on its access in somber recognition of the death that haunts us all, the rhythm continues.

Babies are still born.  Spring still comes.  The sun still rises.  And life marches on, seemingly oblivious to the fact that some have not marched with it.  While I do not understand the rhythm, I can choose to fight it with dissonant clangings of my own, or I can rest in knowing that the God who is sovereign over all things NEVER changes.  As the summer fades into fall, as the sun rises in the sky, as I mourn over death that surrounds me, as I revel in the delights that bring me joy...HE remains. Unmovable, unshakable, unchanged.  If life follows a rhythm, He is the steady beat of the metronome, guiding the entire rhythm: "Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta, ta......."  

So today...I will find rest in His gentle whisper: "Be still and know that I am God..."

I hate death

After finishing my favorite fiction book last night, still crying like a baby even though this was my third time through it, I decided something.

I hate death.

Granted, it is a little more raw this time. But these words gripped me, and nailed it right on the head: "Cancer is the ultimate identity theft. It's a vulture--it doesn't care how old you are, where you're from, who your daddy is, how much money you have or how important you think you are. It is no respecter of persons...Cancer hurts beyond the pain. It is a cycle of diagnosis, prognosis, and scan. We live not paycheck to paycheck, but scan to scan. Every time we stand in the doctor's office and hear the scan results, we think, It's getting bigger and I can't do a single thing about it. That may be the single worst feeling in the world...We feel as though we're always just one scan away from hearing the words metastatic, which is often followed by, I'm going to miss you..." (from Where the River Ends)

Charles Martin hit the nail on the head. Reading those words delivered me straight back to a year ago...to that doctor's office, where we did exactly what he describes. Hoping, praying...and then trying to catch our hearts as they sank below our knees.

Death is ugly, and I hate it. I told God that last night as I lay awake into the wee hours of the morning, and He said to me,

"ASH, I hate it too."