Grief

5 Things You Should Not Tell Your Struggling Friend

images-151. Cheer Up

Really? Cheer up? Thanks. Because I never thought of just “cheering up”.

2. You shouldn’t feel that way

That’s so weird. Because I DO. So. One of us is wrong. Feelings are NOT wrong or right. They just are. It’s what we do with them and what actions they illicit or inspire that give them dynamics. You are allowed to feel what you feel. You have wide and varied reasons for feeling what you feel. You do not need to defend them or explain them. Period.

3. Here’s what you should do…

Big. Heavy. Sigh. Thanks. I know you mean well. Really. But your suggestions for fixing my life are unsolicited and not helpful. And, whether or not I’ve already considered your solution, it’s usually not that simple. And if you’re a Christian and you proceed to tell me what the Bible says when I am smack in the middle of my pain and my process…Lose my number. There might be a delicate time and place for that– this is not it.

4. You think THAT’S bad….

I know. I KNOW what you went through. I get it. I get that your situation is/was/will be ten times worse than mine. But pain is relative. Your pain doesn’t make mine better or worse and vice versa. Pain is pain. And it hurts.

5. I thought you were over this.

Great. Now I’m not even struggling right. My timing’s all off. Well I’m not over it.  And I wish I was more than YOU wish I was.  Sooooo….when I get over it, I guess that’s when we can be friends. If you don’t hear your phone ringing, that will be me. Not calling.

Believe it or not, I’m smiling as I type this. There’s no resting bitch face, there’s no animosity or bitterness regardless of how snarky I sound. (Um. Okay. Maybe just a teeny bit. Working on that…) I have been guilty of ALL of these and I hate myself for it– but I’m human. We all are. It’s just that I know so many people struggling right now who just get railroaded and corrected and shamed for their personal process of grief and recovery. Which is kinda like pouring salt in the wound. It hurts.

What would YOU add to this list?

Next Up: 5 Helpful Things to Tell a Struggling Friend

 

Life Lessons from the Kindness of Strangers

Recently during the course of my day, I was in a medical office where the doctor’s name seemed vaguely familiar. As I went about my work I kept tossing the name around in my head and started flipping through my mental files. And then it struck me. Nearly 15 years ago, just a month or two after losing my first husband, my son [Dylan] had been sick and was referred to an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist. As it turned out, he needed to have his adenoids removed. I vividly remember sitting in that doctor’s office crying. I knew the outpatient surgery for Dylan wasn’t serious. It wasn’t that. It was just…everything. I was already feeling fragile and this just felt like too much. Too hard. Too overwhelming. It would be the first major life thing I was going to have to face without my husband by my side. As this young doctor looked at me with compassion and concern, trying to reassure me that my son would be okay, I could no longer hold it together.

“We have no health insurance”, I sobbed through ragged breaths. While my little boy   quietly sat next to me, I began to tell this virtual stranger some back story to my tears. “I recently lost my husband and everything hasn’t been sorted out yet.” I told him that I was worried about the cost and details of the surgery. That I was scared. And sad. (And then I apologized profusely for my complete meltdown and tried to pull myself back together…) Without a moment’s delay, he told me that I had nothing to worry about . He went on to say that he would take care of everything, adding that while he could only speak for his own expenses, he would personally talk to the anesthesiologist and the hospital, as well. I was floored. To say I was relieved; touched; comforted: all MAJOR understatements. The kindness of this stranger sustained me that day. Would I have figured it out? Yes. But instead of having to wade through all of that fear and uncertainty, this doctor immediately offered what he could to lighten my load.

It all came rushing back as I stood there in the same office. A nurse walked in and I told her I couldn’t leave without sharing my story.  As I described what had happened all those years ago, she didn’t look a bit surprised. “That sounds just like him”, she said. “That’s just how he lives his life.” When she asked my name, I told her it didn’t matter–there was no way he would ever remember. “Oh no!” she answered quickly. “Doctor never forgets these things. They leave an impact on him too.”

This was the second time I would be leaving that office with tears running down my face. This time, the words ‘That’s just how he lives his life’ racing through my mind. And a burning question: What do people say of me? What WILL people say of me? It’s not a question you can answer for yourself. But I want to be known the way this doctor is–for kindness and generosity, compassion and grace. I have a long way to go but I hope I’m on my way,  stumbling and failing forwards. We’re all on this crazy ride together–if there’s a way we can make it easier for someone else, let’s do it.

Running Through the Pain

This is not a post about running. I mean, it is. But it isn’t. Running is so metaphorical with life that it’s hard to avoid using it as a continual source of inspiration.  So many of my blogs formulate while I’m running that it can be hard to disconnect. Unfortunately, I  haven’t been running as much lately because I’ve been sidelined with a little injury known as Plantar Fasciitis. This is code for “super intense foot pain especially when you get out of bed in the morning.” If you’ve gone through PF, you feel me right now. Because you remember how totally sucky it is. Thank you for feeling bad. It helps. And so I have spent the past few months on a seesaw of trying to find the balance between resting and running.  Trying to manage the pain. Half-heartedly doing some of the prescribed therapies that supposedly help heal and lessen the symptoms of PF.  But it’s been super frustrating. I am a horrible patient. And my foot was seriously hurting even when I hadn’t run in over a week! I was getting discouraged. And feeling chubby. And feeling jealous  of other runners and runner friends working toward their goals while I sat out. And yet every time I got back out there, the run itself would feel so good–mentally, physically, emotionally–that I got to thinking: Maybe it’s time to just keep running through the pain.

Predictably, this got me thinking about life. And what it means to keep running through the pain. What it means to keep going when you want to quit; when everything feels too hard and hurts too much. And how tough it can be to find the balance between giving yourself tons of slack and tons of grace and time to heal from painful circumstances– or just forcing yourself to get up and get out there, kicking ass and taking names– knowing that life goes on. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into years.  Life is happening right now, whether or not you participate. 15 years ago when my first husband was killed in a car accident, the ocean of grief was deep and dark and frightening. Life with two small, now fatherless children seemed utterly insurmountable.  My first thought when I woke up every morning  and my last thought when I went to bed at night was that I wanted to die. That life was too hard. That I couldn’t face this kind of pain everyday and survive. A year later, that type of thinking  had taken its toll.  I was only 26. I had a whole lifetime yet to be lived. And so did my kids. Something had to change. This was still my life; this new normal. It made no difference whether or not I chose it, liked it, wanted it, loved it or hated it. I needed to learn to run through the pain.

And so here I am again. In life AND in running. It’s not exactly where I wanted or planned to be at this point. And now I’ve sat around with this injury for a while, really feeling bummed about it. Disappointed and sad. Crying. Lots and lots of crying. But truthfully, I hadn’t really followed the advice I was given BEFORE the injury– and then it took several more weeks and bouts of pain until I decided to follow the NEW advice I was given to heal the injury. (I’m a slow learner. I like to take my time with my mistakes and make them repeatedly. You know, just to be sure.) But when I was out there running today, feeling like a rock star in 45 degrees and sunshine, I decided, once again,  it’s time to run through the pain.

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The Fault in Our Stars and Everything That’s Right With my Heart

I’m right in the middle of reading The Fault in Our Stars by John Green and it is achingly beautiful and tragic and painful and funny and everything in between. Every single time I pick up this damn book there is a lump in my throat and tears well in my eyes. It undoes me. It presses a bruise inside my heart. But like a million books before this one, I wallow in it and I drink it in like a person who is dying of thirst because somehow the pain resonates. I keep reading and I almost weirdly enjoy that emotional tidal wave that threatens. This morning as I snuck in another 10 minutes of reading with my coffee and pumpernickel toast and egg whites, I had the most personally profound thought: All of these tears–these frequent tears– these tears that so closely associate with pain and loss and heartbreak–do not mean I’m broken, as I have always suspected. As I have been led to believe. As I have been told. And that I have been ashamed of. They mean I’m human. And I feel. And I have a big, warm, sometimes complicated heart . And this is not a fault. It is actually quite a beautiful thing.

Like the rest of the human race, I have known tragedy. I have known heartbreak and heartache. I have known my own personal suffering and therefore tears come easily. But I have long said to myself, and more so recently, that this was some sort of indication of my brokenness. A defect of sorts. And I have been told this, as well. And while there may be some partial truth to this- that there are broken parts of me, isn’t this also the human condition? I don’t believe this makes me unique or special in any way–but I have now come to realize-neither does it make me defective.

And in fact, could it perhaps actually be a gift? Not like in a cliche way that makes you want to slap someone who refers to suffering as gift– but could this fragile, tender-to-the-touch heart of mine be a gift for myself and the people whose paths I cross, instead of a burden to bear? Because it means when I say I feel your pain, I really do. Because sometimes I can’t help cry when a friend is crying. Because compassion and kindness and empathy are important-and it hurts when they’re not extended generously and often and without judgement or measure.

And though I do feel life deeply and cry easily, I also laugh easily. And a lot. And did I say easily and a lot? Despite the fact that one of my favorite things to do is be by myself with a book that is undoing my heart and mind (I know, I know…I sound like a real party in a box), I’m actually a truly happy and optimistic person. Is it possible that the heartache makes the happiness easier to recognize and perhaps that much sweeter? “So this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.” (John Chbosky) But I do know this: I’m okay with it.

A Kindness Countdown to Christmas

Somehow I’m always a week or two late with this post– but not this year! Thanks to Snovember and all of those days we were trapped inside, The Kindness Countdown to Christmas is happening right on time! I asked my girls if they were up for this again and got a resounding YES! We hope you decide to join us for what ends up being a very fun and thoughtful way to count down the Christmas season.

Every year I have such mixed emotions about the holidays. Of course I want to enjoy them with my kids and family and friends, but sometimes there’s a sticky gap between expectation and experience. The busyness and exhaustion of the season and all that it requires gets all jumbled up with the ghosts of Christmas past, loss and grief (December was the month I lost my first husband…and then buried him on New Year’s Eve), stress over broken and tricky relationships…and the holidays can feel like The Hot Mess Express. Bleh. Skip to January. PLEASE?

And I regret this. I hate it, actually. Because in the deepest parts of my heart and soul,   Christmas is all about the birth of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Advent, the 25 days leading up to the celebration of the birth of Christ, represents the darkening of winter and the whole world as it awaits a savior. A yearning. A recognizing of the ache for something more that what this life has to offer. And then He came. On a glorious star-filled night. And nothing would ever be the same. Including my life. Surely, this is a reason to celebrate, rather than dread.

So. A few years ago I stumbled upon a simple, fun and creative way to help nurture more happiness during December. I will forever wish I had thought of this myself, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery… so it’s on! 25 Random Acts of Christmas Kindness. Yep. Everyday in December, the girls and I perform a random act of kindness accompanied by a card that says, “You’ve been RACK’ed”. The card has an explanation of what we are doing and why. The sentiments are small–so far they’ve included candy, fun trinkets (think Target dollar aisle) and $5 Tim Horton’s gift cards, paying for the car behind us in a drive-thru, doing little favors and chores for neighbors…But the return for us has been priceless. It feels good to give, but it feels even better to see how happy it makes the other person. Kindness. Just. Feels. Good.

In a season when children (and adults) spend a lot of time thinking about their own wish lists, intentionally planning a daily way to think of others is now a precious pause we take. I know there will be days we accidentally forget, but that means we get to do it twice the next day. And right from the start of this, my kids caught the concept: Kindness matters. Even teeny tiny acts of kindness matter. And what if the people we surprise decide to do it too?  Now we’re part of a kindness chain. And what if we do it every day, instead of just at Christmas time? Then what? Could we change our little part of the world with our little random acts of Christmas kindness? Well actually, I think we can.

And in reality, we ARE part of a kindness chain. It started with a baby born 2000 years ago. In the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season, may my exhaustion come from kindness. I will gladly work full-time to keep that spirit alive in my heart and in my family.

It’s perfect timing to participate! Click here to find the link for free printable cards.

Life Doesn’t Have to be Perfect to Still be Wonderful

Life doesn’t have to be perfect to still be wonderful. Woah. I don’t know where I saw this quote, but it’s having a big impact on me. Huge. Because I want life to be perfect. I’m pretty sure everybody does. But we all know it’s so not. Even on really, really good days it’s so not perfect. And sometimes when its not perfect, it can feel like its not good at all. That because of those things that continually scratch up the picture, the whole thing is a toss. And when I read this quote I am reminded of just how untrue that is.
At the risk of sounding cliche, I know that I have so much to be thankful and grateful for. So much more than I deserve. So much more than so many others. But there are still things that I wish were different. There are still things in life that I can’t change, that make it unperfect- and that just bugs me. And when I say “perfect”, I’m not talking about a bigger house or a better this or a better that- thinner, richer, blah, blah, blah. I’m talking about those things in our lives that we just wish weren’t so. Or were different. Or had happened. Or never happened. There are aches in my heart over parts of life that I have no control over. And no control is a very hard place to be.
Now, if you know me at all, you know I’m a Jesus-girl. (If you don’t know me, I’m a Jesus-girl) So I’m not talking about having no hope. I mean really, hope is all I have, with my biggest hope being that this earth and this life are not the end- that heaven is a real place with no more sorrow and no more tears. But this side of heaven, there is life. And life is so not perfect. There is a lot of joy and a lot of sorrow. A lot of ups and a lot of downs too. But I want to embrace it all as parts of a whole that is still really good. And I want to fully understand that it doesn’t have to be perfect to still be wonderful. Because some day, in heaven, it will be perfect. And that will be wonderful too.

An Open Letter to My Daughter’s Bullies. Including, But not Limited to the Mean Girls.

On my best days, I pray for you. I feel bad for you. I wonder what your home life has sown into you that is now reaping such ugliness. I wonder if your mom and dad know the things you say and do.  Maybe you only have one or the other? Maybe they are the ones you have learned this from? Or would they be shocked and disappointed?  I work hard not to judge them. Would they say things like, “This is not how we have raised you”?

I wonder who’s been mean to you. Have you been bullied too? I remind myself that hurting people hurt people and you are simply acting out of your own pain. I feel a spark of compassion for whatever pain you carry and I feel strangely curious about your internal life–Are you mad? Are you sad? Do you know you’re being mean? Is it on purpose? Do you ever feel guilty? Do you ever feel bad? Do you ever think of my daughter and wonder how she feels? Ever?  You didn’t have to be her best friend–just friendly would have been enough. But either way, it’s your loss. She would’ve had your back. She’s loyal. She’s kind. She’s true. She’s brilliantly clever and creative. And funny. But apparently those qualities aren’t trending these days.

On my worst days, I hate you.

I hate what you’ve done to my daughter.

I hate the way you’ve made her feel.

I hate the things you’ve said and done– all the eye-rolling, the smirks, the huffs and the knowing looks between you and your friends. The outbursts of laughter at her expense. The way you have excluded her. The way you have made someone so beautiful and shiny and precious feel so ugly and dull and worthless. The school day memories you have stained with a thousand tears. Hers and mine. It’s petty and wrong and right on your level-but it’s human:

There are moments when I want you to be bullied

and excluded and hurt the way she has been.  

I don’t understand you. I don’t understand how on earth you have been tricked into thinking your behavior is okay. I wonder where your parents are. I think things like, “The apple must not fall far from the tree” and I wonder if anyone has ever told you, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” And I think about karma. About what comes around goes around. And I think, I hope  you get what you deserve. And then I stop. Because I wasn’t raised that way. Because that isn’t the person I want to be. Because I can’t be the mom I need to be if I’m too busy being bitter and wishing you pain.

But truthfully, most days I don’t have time to let you take up too much space in my head.  The day my daughter came home from school sobbing, literally falling through the door and choking out the words, “I can’t do this anymore”, we decided to home school her. That’s right–even though we pay school taxes in one of the most highly ranked districts around, we home school her. You go. She doesn’t. You’ve made the price not worth the cost. The suicide of a local boy last month and the deaths of other kids your age are stunning reminders that for now, we have done the right thing. We have made the right choice.

We are not hiding our daughter from the reality of life–we are protecting hers. I know you are not the first or last mean person she will meet, but we are giving her a reprieve from you.

The school can potentially keep you from being mean by imposing rules and consequences, by  initiating expensive anti-bullying campaigns and promoting clever anti-bullying rhetoric, but they can’t make you be nice. And there’s a big difference. They can’t make you like her. It’s not their job to sow love and kindness into your heart so that your life will reap goodness and mercy and grace towards others. But along with reading, writing and arithmetic, that is my job. And I take it very seriously.