living without mum – Good Grief God

Letting Go

I remember looking out the window, my eyes following the gutterline, tracing the outline of the roof. A view I had looked at repeatedly over the last few days, staring mindlessly into the space, fixated on nothing.

Who knows what I was looking for. Perhaps my mind needed a momentary escape from that hospital room.
We’d been there for days, holding vigil, we’d laughed, cried, we’d all had our own separate moments of overwhelming emotion. For me though, this day was different. I couldn’t seem to get it together. I remember biting my lip, holding my breath, trying to contain the dam that was threatening to burst out of the already cracking walls. I remember pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, clamping my hand to my face, and blinking repeatedly as I began to feel tears prick my eyes.

I felt a hand on my shoulder as a stared out into that dull day, the tears now falling. My sister was at my side as no longer able to hold back the depth of my fear, I blurted out, ‘I’m not ready to let her go’. With her hand still on my shoulder, my sister very gently said, ‘mum’s been gone for a long time’. I’m writing these words with tears streaming now, such is the power of that memory.
She was right of course, whether I had let her go or not, mum, as we knew her had left us, long ago in fact. I suppose what I was really saying was that I just didn’t want her to leave.

I’ve noticed that as Christians we often tell people to let things go. We say that horribly trite saying ‘let go and let God’. Excuse me, but what the hell does that mean? We ask people to put absolutely enormous situations into Gods hands like its the easiest thing in the world. It’s not easy, it’s not easy, it is not easy. Trusting God is not easy. If you think it is easy, then with all due respect, you have probably never had to actually trust him for anything really life altering. That Disney song has suddenly entered my brain, oh if we could all be like Elsa skipping up that mountain singing ‘Let it Go!’

Now I can see how some things might be simpler to let go of, perhaps a job comes to an end, you let go and move on. But when it comes to people and relationships, surely the same principle cannot be applied?

We’ve just had Mother’s Day weekend here in the UK, and for the weeks preceding this weekend, from every angle I have been bombarded by Mother’s Day advertising. I’ve found this very difficult to cope with. Why? Surely I’m over it already, after all, it’s nearly 3 years since my mum died, isn’t it getting easier, haven’t I let that go? In short, no, it’s not easier, it’s very very sad, I have no mum, and I will never be a mum, it’s a day filled with unbearable sorrow. I wish I could say I’ve laid down my dreams of motherhood, I’ve given them to God, I’ve let them go……guess what, I haven’t! I’m not perfect, I struggle, I get bitter and angry and jealous, and I don’t understand why. And here’s what I have to come back to, you can’t ask the why questions, because there will never be any answers to those questions. All I come back to, all I can ever come back to is the person who is Jesus. When I have no answer, He is my answer.

There is a simple song that I love, I will link it below. I listen to it when I feel broken, which is often at the moment. I’m recovering from major surgery so my body is broken, my finances are broken, my future looks broken, and I have no answers, but this song reminds me that I am not alone.

Next time we ask someone to let go of their ‘whatever’ and give it to God, I think we should ask ourselves another question. Why are we asking them to let something go? Is it for their benefit, or for our own. Is it so they will be free of pain, or so that we will be free of listening to their pain? You see, sometimes people just can’t let go. The pain/grief/whatever, is part of who they are, they cannot detach it and give it to God, they are dependant on God just being with them in the pain. They are dependant on Him not letting them go in their most desperate hour.

Now I’m not suggesting for a moment that we all forever wallow in our problems. There is a time for everything. But equally, I do not believe that there is ever an exact time to let go. Grief is not a science, thank God. My mum died nearly 3 years ago, and today I took her clothes to a clothing bank. Yes, it has taken me that long to be ready, and even then, there were tears. I am not ready to let my mum go, and I don’t believe that I ever have to let her go. I carry her in my mind and in my heart, she is a part of who I am.

So, dear one, are you carrying a burden that you feel under pressure to hand over to God? Are you struggling to ‘let go’? My advice…….stop struggling to let go, and just let go of that struggle. Let yourself off the hook dear friend. Just play this song below, and sit with Jesus a while, no pressure, he’s big enough to sort things for you.

The Eye

Many years ago, I was on vacation on the east coast of the USA with some girlfriends. While we were there, a hurricane was moving up from the Caribbean. Thankfully it never made landfall, but we felt the effects of it none the less. It was dark and stormy, the ocean was incredibly strong, and the winds were like nothing I’d experienced before. We were only seeing the edge of the storm, but even so, it was rough.

I was watching hurricane Irma on the news last weekend, and heard something very interesting. The radar imaging showed dots that were actually flocks of birds caught up in the eye of the storm. Apparently this often happens. They cannot escape the storm as the raging winds around the eye are too violent for them to fly through, so they are stuck within the eye, travelling with the hurricane until the storm dissipates.

Hearing about these trapped birds reminded me of grief. My experience of grief was the mother of all storms, violent, raw and raging. Like the birds, I was trapped at the centre of my storm, at the mercy of the elements, surrounded completely by unrelenting wind, rain, darkness and death. No way out, and powerless to help myself. Yes, powerless. Now for those of you that are more spiritual than I, you may be thinking that is such a negative statement, after all, we can do all things through Christ right? Well, I respectfully beg to differ. Grief, depression, despair, loss, trauma can leave you absolutely paralysed, unable to help yourself in any way. The birds couldn’t escape the storm, and neither could I.

It’s been 2 years now since my mum died, and I have had periods where I have been lower than the lowest place possible. I’ve been repeatedly plagued by passively suicidal thoughts (I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable) I have been alone in the dark, afraid, terribly afraid, and have felt cut off even from God.

You know, not all of those trapped birds will survive the hurricane. They have to keep flying within the eye as the storm follows its course. They cannot rest until the storm ends, and they become exhausted. Grief is exhausting, utterly, utterly, I’ll say it again, utterly exhausting. If you are in a dark place, this may be hard to hear, but you have to wait, you just have to wait. I was talking to my therapist this week, and she said ‘it takes faith to wait in that dark place’.

I’d never thought that before, and honestly, at no point did I feel that I had any faith at all. I still don’t think I’ve got much faith if I’m totally honest. But whether you feel it or not, you are being faithful in waiting, and showing immense bravery.

It’s sad, but very few people will understand your grief, and even fewer will want to be there for you. It’s hard to see someone struggling for a long time, we naturally want to ‘fix’ people. Sometimes that’s because we genuinely want people to feel better, but sometimes it’s because we just don’t want to look at their pain anymore.

My therapist asked me recently what would have helped me when I was in the very depths of depression. My answer? I just wanted someone to say ‘I see you, and I hear you, and I’m with you’.

It reminded me of a situation that happened not long after my mum died. I was extremely low for a number of reasons on top of my grief. I really was in a desperate place. I sent a text to a dear friend who lives far from me, saying something like ‘I wish you were here’. She replied that she was heading out, but would call me the following day. At the time, I was sitting on my couch with a bottle of wine in one hand, and about 150 antidepressants in the other. When I say I was desperate, I really mean desperate. Well only a few moments after my friend had texted, she called me. She was just heading out the door but felt that calling me back couldn’t wait. I couldn’t speak through my tears for about 10 minutes, but she stayed with me on the phone. She……..Stayed…….With……Me. In that moment, she was my connection with humanity, my connection with life. In that moment she shared my grief, it was a raw, and profound, and holy moment, and I will forever be grateful for that moment in time.

If you’re struggling right now, let me tell you, I know where you are. I’ve seen that place, and I think you’re incredibly brave. Know this, at some point the storm will abate. Please just hold on. I’m not permanently in that terrible place anymore, but I do still find myself there sometimes. It’s just the nature of grief, it’s life altering.

Those birds that survive the storm end up displaced. Maybe they started out in Cuba, and ended up in Georgia, the storm has carried them far from home. They are alive, but their lives are completely changed, and so is mine. Grief is for life. I don’t mean that I will forever be grieving with the intensity of those early days, or that I will be depressed and despairing forever. I simply mean that grief has changed the very core of my being. I see things differently, I have learned valuable and painful lessons. I have experienced the best and the worst in people. My world is different, there is a part of me that will always, always be sad, and I’m ok with that. Grief is for life, it’s just an indication of how much I love my mum, and how deeply I miss her.

Despite all this, I now know, that in the darkness of my storm, I was seen. Seen by my closest friends. Seen by God.

In the eye, I am seen, and you my friend are seen too.

The Jigsaw

My family loved jigsaw puzzles. When I was younger we’d often get a big family jigsaw for Christmas. More often than not, the table in our conservatory would be covered with a partially finished puzzle. Some of them were impossibly difficult, even the picture on the box didn’t help much. We’d all dip in and out from time to time, gradually working away until it was done. How satisfying it would be to see the picture gradually emerging, and what a sense of achievement after that final puzzle piece was slotted into place.

But how different the scenario was, when we’d get to the end of the puzzle, only to find one or more pieces missing. So very frustrating, We’d be on our hands and knees, desperately searching for the missing pieces, and hoping against hope that they hadn’t been chewed up by the dog!
When the first year anniversary since mum died came around, I remember writing a post on Facebook. I can’t recall much of what I wrote, and I have no desire to look back and relive that day. However, I do remember saying that I was desperately trying to put the pieces of my life back together, but somehow the puzzle pieces just didn’t fit anymore.

Life is now divided into ‘before’ and ‘after’ mum died. It is for the moment, how I measure time. The reason that I can’t piece together my old life, is because it has irrevocably changed. The picture has changed, and is still changing, that’s why the puzzle pieces no longer fit.

For me, there is a reluctance to move forward and figure out this new life without mum. I just long for life to return to how it was before she got sick. I am well aware how foolish this sounds, but it is because I am afraid. I am a motherless daughter, and I’m not sure where I belong anymore.
I feel like I’m a different person, correction, in many ways I am different.

Someone said to me a few months ago, that underneath, I’m still the same Jenny. I understand what they are saying, but to a certain extent I disagree. Grief has changed me. My perspective is very different. I think about death a lot, not in a morbid way, it’s just that death has touched me and become part of my life. I am now more aware. I have empathy and compassion in greater measure than before. There is a depth in my relationship with God, that has emerged, and in some areas of my life there has been a reordering. Some friendships have shifted, become closer, or more distant.

It is a tough lesson to learn, but not all your relationships will survive your grief. Not everyone will or should walk this dark road with you. You and your grief will likely be misunderstood by some. Pretty early on it became very clear who I could and couldn’t talk to about my mum and my grief. It made some people very uncomfortable. I would find myself guarding my words, and sometimes almost apologising for my grief. Then I would end up being annoyed with myself and feeling that I had dishonoured my mum.

I felt and still feel very precious about my mum, and my grief, and so when people didn’t treat it with the same respect I found that very hurtful. It felt like they were sweeping my mums death under the carpet because they couldn’t handle facing it, tossing it aside as if my mum and my grief were nothing more than rubbish. It made me very sad, but it was a valuable lesson. Most people will not behave in a way to deliberately hurt you, in fact they want to fix you. They want you to feel better, partly because they love you, but also because your grief makes them uneasy.

So, here’s the thing. We are not expecting you to cheer us up and jolly us along. We do not expect anyone to try and make us feel better. We already know that nothing, absolutely nothing you say, is in any way going to fix our shattered hearts. All I wanted was for my friends to show up, to be there. Make me a cuppa, bring their babies round for me to cuddle, be kind.

I was watching the 80’s movie Footloose yesterday, I remember mum and I going to Southend and watching that film when I was 14. Quite unexpectedly I had a complete meltdown, I suddenly had an ache, a yearning, a longing for a simpler time. A desire to turn the clock back, to a time when mum was young and well. To a time when I didn’t have to make any decisions, to a time when I was part of a family, where I felt safe, where I wasn’t alone. Of course I am still part of a bigger family, but my sisters have their own families now. Things are not the same, and that is how it should be. The picture of our lives are constantly changing, but I find that hard, very hard.

The last few weeks I’ve been up and down, very unsettled. Weepy, angry, fearful, I don’t know where I’m going. I’m sure God has a plan for my life, but it doesn’t seem so at the moment. I look around and am surrounded by people who have it all. Husbands, children, houses, money, jobs, security. Of course it’s easy and dangerous to compare ourselves with others, everyone has their struggles, but through my clouded vision, it does seem that some people have it tougher than others.

The other day in a moment of despair, I randomly opened my bible and stuck my finger in (as all very spiritual people do!’) It landed on Psalm 78 which was headed ‘Gods continued guidance in spite of unbelief!’ In verse 72 it says ‘He (God) shepherded them according to the integrity of His heart, and guided them by the skilfulness of His hands.

I cannot see the way forward in my life, but I have to hang on to the fact that there is bigger picture, that somewhere in the big jigsaw we call ‘life’, somewhere, there is a place for me.

When my Grandpop died, I remember my mum reading the poem ‘footprints in the sand’. It talks about a man walking with God along the beach. It paints a beautiful picture of how God cares for us, especially in the tough times. I’ve linked a song below which is based on this poem.

My friend, I don’t know what you have been through, or what struggles you are facing, and I don’t know why. But (and I write this to myself as well) I do know that there is a place for us in the jigsaw. We are not surplus to requirements, we haven’t been left on the shelf, forgotten or deliberately overlooked. We all have a purpose, it’s just that some of us don’t know what it is yet!

We are needed, and very much wanted. The puzzle is just not complete without us.

Psalm 31:14 I trust in you Lord, my times are in your hand

Once Upon a Time

Our lives are full of stories, some long, short, happy, sad, and many that we simply don’t understand. I’ve loved books and stories since I was a little girl. I loved the wonder and the feeling of expectation and hope that came with reading a story. Of course, most of the books I read as a child would eventually have a good ending, and be wrapped up with some kind of a ‘happily ever after’. Some of our own life stories have that same happy ending, but others have endings that are messy, complicated, and can be impossibly hard to understand. Life does not always turn out as we expected or hoped. It can be a hard lesson to learn.

‘You never know what’s round the corner’, that’s what my mum would say. She was always one to look for the positive, to make the best of life no matter how bleak it appeared. Her life had not been easy, but she was ever hopeful for better things to come. I recall one Christmas when everyone was leaving to go home. I said goodbye to mum with tears in my eyes. She didn’t need to ask why, she knew, and she gently said ‘you never know what’s round the corner, things can change in a moment’. So true, but sometimes so hard to believe.

During the last year, those words, along with ‘things can only get better’, have been said to me numerous times. I must confess, that I have not always received those phrases very graciously. Why? Because they can come across as trite, and at times like a blatant lie. I don’t say this because I’m a pessimist or wallowing in self pity. I say it because the facts are, no matter how bad life gets, no matter how low you sink, things can always get worse!

My latest story has been an especially difficult one. Over the last 20 months it feels like I’ve faced enough trauma to last me a lifetime! I had a serious accident and needed major orthopaedic surgery, which left me unable to work for the best part of a year. My mum had a massive haemorrhagic stroke and died 4 weeks later. My business collapsed, I had massive financial stress. My hair all fell out, 3 times. (Excuse me while I pause for breath) I’ve had severe anxiety and clinical depression, and suffered a nervous breakdown. A close friend betrayed me and I had a serious cancer scare. I had major gynaecological surgery, with complications, which, along with my age, put the kibosh on any hope of having children. I’m not looking for pity, I’m just saying that sometimes life can be really really shit, and just when it can’t get worse, it does!

Now at this point, you might be expecting me to say that even though I’ve been through a crap time, God is faithful, and He has created something beautiful out of the mess (or some other kind of annoying Christian/spiritual phrase) I’m not anti Christian, I’m anti ‘patronising spiritual Christian’isms’, I’m anti slapping a scripture on a weeping wound like a plaster. It is ineffective and insulting. I may sound annoyed, I guess I am a little. It’s just that I’m only interested in Christianity that is real, and brutally honest. Christianity that means something, Christianity that is a true example of Gods love in action.

There is no doubt, this year has been the toughest I’ve ever experienced. I’ve questioned God, been angry, hurt and utterly utterly broken. But amid the awfulness, there has been hope, and reasons to be thankful. I’ve been held up by a small group of precious friends, both near and far. Friends that have not only supported me emotionally, but in practical ways. I’ve had financial gifts, been taken out for many coffees, and probably a bit too much cake! I’ve had help walking my dog. A dear friend with a young family and a new baby included me in family life. She invited me to help with the children, and feeding the baby. Things that made me feel wanted and useful. Another friends husband sorted my car out when it needed an MOT. None of these things are particularly ‘holy’, but I think they are Gods love in action. Yes there is place for prayer, teaching and encouragement, but without action they can be empty words.

At my church they sometimes have what they call ‘God Stories’, in essence, stories of what God has done in people’s lives. It’s good, and can be a real encouragement to others. The thing is, it’s easy to thank God when we can see what he’s done, it’s easy to look back over situations and see Gods hand. I recall a couple who had been trying to get pregnant, they told their story of how tough it was, and how disappointed they were every time a pregnancy failed. They ended their story with the fantastic news that they were now 5 months into a healthy pregnancy. Their story ended in good news. So often we hear the end of people’s stories, when everything has worked out, when all is well. When babies have arrived, jobs have been found, money has been provided, and life has been wrapped up in a big pink bow. We don’t very often hear from people in the middle of their stories when everything still looks really crap.

I think we should have less focus on the final outcome of our stories, and more openness in the middle of them. That’s when we need the encouragement, when we might need a helping hand to keep going. When we need a friend to cry with. It’s ok to recognise and be sad about tough situations that we face. It doesn’t mean we don’t have faith, it doesn’t mean we don’t trust God, it is simply an indication of our humanity. For too long, some churches have been so focused on ‘having faith’, that they have swept ‘feelings’ under the rug. Should we be ashamed of how we feel? Should we be afraid to say we are disappointed. What’s the point in putting on a brave face, if underneath we are broken. Why keep up the facade, who are we fooling? Certainly not ourselves, and I’m pretty sure Gods not fooled either. If we cannot be completely open and honest with each other, then we simply perpetuate the lie. The lie that we have it all together.

This particular story of mine is not over yet, on the face of it, things still appear pretty rubbish. I don’t have the answers, and I don’t know how things are going to end. A happy ending seems far off, but, I am convinced that not one part of this story has been for nothing. Tough? Yes very, but difficult circumstances often become the greatest lessons, and produce deep rooted change, and profound growth.

If you’re in the middle of a tough or sad story, please don’t despair. Things may not be turning out as you expected or hoped, but you’re not at the end of your story yet. I pray that you have faithful, loving, and kind friends to support you. Most of all though, know this, the ultimate storyteller knows the beginning from the end. You are precious, loved, and never alone, and as my lovely mum would say, ‘you never know what’s round the corner’. Hold on.

The Crying Bench

I love that moment upon waking up, the moment when you are neither awake or asleep. That brief moment when, for a split second, all is well. I love it, and also dread it, because I know what follows.

It hits with a violent and crushing blow, assaulting my soul, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

It is a pattern that happened most mornings since May 25th 2015, the day mum died. In those early days, the words ‘my mum died’ used to play over and over in my mind, as if the subconscious chanting of those words would at some point become my reality, and I would accept that she had died.

It makes no sense, I knew she had died. I was stroking her hair when she breathed that last whisper of breath. But the magnitude of her death, and the complete devastation it left in its wake was almost unbearable. I say ‘almost’, because I am still here, somehow I have managed to bear the unbearable. How do you cope without someone who has been in your life for 46 years? How do you accept that they are gone forever? How do you live with the utter despair, sorrow, and gut wrenching pain? There are no words to describe how it feels, if you have lost a parent perhaps you understand.

I wish I could tell you that I have all the answers. I do not. All I have is my own story, my own messy journey through the complexities of grief.

The day after mums funeral, I recall someone asking me ‘have you cried yet?’ In fact, in the three weeks between mums death and her funeral, I had hardly cried at all. Naively, I thought I was coping quite well with the whole grief thing. In reality, I wasn’t coping at all. I was numb. Most of the time I felt as if I was watching a movie, like I was an outsider looking at myself from afar. As if it wasn’t really my life. I think it’s because the reality was just too horrific to grasp.

Although I’m sure it hadn’t been their intention, the question ‘have you cried yet?’ felt flippant, as if the monumental circumstances that I found myself in, could be fixed with ‘a bit of a cry’. Oh if only that were so.
Yes, tears are part of grieving, but they are only one outlet. One weepy outburst does not fix the unfixable.

There had been many tears in the 4 years prior to her death. The grief began long before she died. Such was the damage in her brain, that bit by bit, the mum that I knew started to leave. Each time a little more distant. It was 4 years of utter heartbreak, 4 years of silent tears, 4 years of grieving alone. I thought I had done much of my grieving before she died, I was wrong.

Somehow, after mum died, the preceding years melted away, and I found myself grieving for the mum I had before she ever got sick. The question ‘have you cried yet’, was jarring to my soul. It was simply a reminder of all those tears I had cried alone, when mum was sick, all the pain that had gone unnoticed by most, all the sheer agony of seeing mum so very poorly, but holding back my emotions because mum just wasn’t capable of understanding anymore. It was a desperately lonely time.

In the months following her death, I would often walk my dog with a dear friend of mine. A friend who had become like a sister. She was not afraid of my grief, neither did she try to fix me. She simply walked with me. We would often rest on a bench at the top of a hill. That bench became the crying bench. On numerous occasions the flood gates of my heart would open on that bench, and my lovely friend would listen as my grief poured out, over and over again. You see, grief doesn’t happen neatly, you don’t work through each part until you get to the end. It’s a bit like a washing
machine, you go round and round over the same thing, until finally, at some point, you reach acceptance. But only acceptance for that one area, then it happens again, and again, and again, on each area of grief. There is no easy route out of it, you have to just stay on the road, and endure. I wish everyone could have a friend like mine. A friend who would listen over and over to the same conversation, a friend to walk with me through the horror of my grief, a friend who like Jesus, wept with me.

Yes, even Jesus wept, such was His compassion for His friends. He knew how it felt to grieve.

Now, one year on, mums death can still deliver a crippling blow. It is the sudden realisation that I can’t call her for a chat, or after major surgery recently, I simply wanted to hear her voice. The child in me wanted my mum to make everything better. The one who could always wipe away my tears is not here, and my heart longs for her. Where do you turn when the person who wiped those tears, is the person for whom you grieve?

I love that verse in Psalms that says, ‘You (God) keep track of all my sadness. You have collected all my tears in a bottle, you have recorded every one of them’. Ps 56:8.

I love that our tears are precious to God, even in our darkest moments, not one tear falls unseen.

It’s reassuring knowing that even in the loneliest of times, none of our tears go unnoticed, not one of them is wasted.
There is healing in your tears, and there is no hurry, or time limit on the amount of tears you need to weep for your loss. Again, weeping is only one part of grieving.

I still visit the crying bench. Sometimes I walk there with my dog, sometimes I visit the bench within the confines of my mind and the safety of my home. The tears still come, sometimes as a flood, sometimes with a gentleness. The tears will always be there, because I will always grieve for my mum. I am not stuck in my grief, it’s just that I will love her forever, and miss her forever, and because of that I will grieve forever. Perhaps not with the same rawness, but it will always be there.

As Washington Irving said.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.