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 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.

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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

Rabbits and Yogurt

I have a lavender stuffed rabbit sitting on the top of my mirror upstairs, I love this rabbit. He is old, faded, and has long since lost his sweet aroma, but still I love him. Normally I don’t notice him, but the other day he caught my eye, and I stopped for a moment, a memory flooding my thoughts.

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When I was younger, this rabbit used to sit on my bed. Everyday when I came home, I would find this rabbit positioned in comical poses by my mum, it would always bring a smile. Not the other day though, that day it brought a tear.

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Such a small thing to elicit such a reaction. Not unusual though, this happens to me all the time. Sometimes these moments of sadness are fleeting, I can be crying one moment, and 5 minutes later it has passed. Other occasions might descend into full on weeping and wailing! It is the nature of grief, it has a life all of its own, and so I generally just try to go with it. If I try to suck it up, stiff upper lip and all that, I am only putting off the inevitable. Grief has to be felt, it must be experienced, it has to be worked through, and it is hard hard work. But that’s a subject for another day.

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Back to the rabbit! So often it can be the most innocuous stuff that trips me up and triggers a reaction completely inappropriate for the time or place.

I remember being in Tesco Express, last year. Mum was in hospital after suffering a catastrophic brain bleed. (When doctors use the words catastrophic, the prognosis can be nothing but extremely poor)
So, there I was in Tesco, standing in front of the yogurts with my empty shopping basket. I remember feeling the colour drain from my face, I felt my shoulders drop, every ounce of strength seemed to leave my body and an audible heavy sigh escaped my lips. Powerless to hold myself together in a public place, the tears rolled.

Was I thinking about mum, the hospital, the doctors prognosis? No, it was the yogurt. The sight of row upon row of every brand and flavour simply overwhelmed. I felt the panic rising in my throat faced with this monumental decision. Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous, choosing a yogurt is hardly life changing, but it was a decision, a decision I was unable to make.

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I don’t recall many details of mums last month in hospital, or the subsequent months following her death. My friend remembers though. She recalls me being unable to make any kind of decision at all. I couldn’t even give a simple answer to the question ‘coffee or tea?’ and I don’t even really drink tea! It was simply an indication of where I was emotionally, the very smallest decision was enough to bring me to my knees.

My therapist, (yes I have one, not very British I know, but she has kept me sane, and alive!) My therapist gave me a really helpful illustration. Imagine your life is a glass of water. When life is ‘normal’, on an even keel, your glass is maybe half full of water. When situations in life arise, stress/worry, there is capacity in your glass for more water (more of life).
When you are in crisis, faced with extreme stress, your glass is already full to the brim. Your capacity is at its limit. Add the tiniest amount of liquid to the glass and it will overflow. Faced with the smallest amount of stress, and you are overwhelmed. You are permanently at the very limit of what you are able to cope with, which is why the little things can have such an effect. Hence, the rabbit and yogurt incidences.

Every now and again, I get a flashback to the feelings I had right after mum died. I’m able to recognise now, that I was in a permanent state of heightened anxiety. I used to feel like I was walking along a mountain ridge, maybe only a few inches wide. The very smallest thing could tip me off balance and send me tumbling down the mountain. Again, this goes back to the cup overflowing.

I had another Tesco incident (must start shopping somewhere else!!) I was standing in the queue with my shopping, feeling a bit low. I remember thinking, I’ll give mum a call when I get home. For just a moment she was still alive. Again, the weight of her death brought me to my knees. I abandoned my shopping and stumbled back to my car, broken again.

Our brains play tricks on us, I think this is because the magnitude of trying to process and accept a loved ones death, is just overwhelming. I felt like my brain was drip feeding me the information, very slowly letting a little more reality sink in. I’m not a psychologist, but I think it is a way of protecting ourselves. God created us to be able to grieve, if we had to deal with the weight of grief all in one go, we would simply die of shock, but it doesn’t happen like that. It happens slowly over time, gradually working through different areas. Slowly accepting our new reality. I’m not saying that it’s an easy process, it’s bloody hard, and desperately sad. But we can survive it, we were created to be able to grieve.

I’m gonna get practical now, because at some point we will all be bereaved, or trying to support someone else in their grief. I’m going to talk from the point of the bereaved because that’s been my experience, but it could be applied to another area of extreme stress.

After mum died, I remember a number of people saying ‘call me if you need anything’. It seems such a simple and kind offer of help, but here’s the thing, we are never going to call you. There’s a few reasons why, partly because picking up the phone takes more energy than we have, partly because talking on the phone is just too difficult at the moment, but the biggest reason that we won’t call if we need anything, is because we just don’t know what we need. Our minds are foggy and muddled, in fact, we are not in our right minds at all. We can’t think straight, so the question ‘What can I do to help?’ is impossible for us to answer.

It’s much more helpful to ask questions with yes/no answers. Even more helpful is for people to anticipate needs, and take initiative. Things like ‘I’m making lasagna for supper, can I bring a portion round?’ Or, ‘can I pick you up in an hour and take you for coffee?’ Definite plans are very helpful. We won’t always say yes to your offers of help, but answering yes or no is much easier for us to handle. If we don’t take you up on an offer, it isn’t personal. I can remember when getting out of bed, going downstairs and feeding my dog was my biggest achievement of the day. Things that we do automatically in everyday life have now turned into almost insurmountable tasks.

I know this makes us (the bereaved) seem very needy. Well, we are, in desperate need! Grief is selfish, because it consumes every single ounce of our being. This is not specific to me, all those who grieve will be consumed by their loss. If you haven’t experienced a significant bereavement, you won’t really understand, but take my word for it, because one day you also will enter a period of all consuming grief. You too will one day need those friends around you, who will love you and care for you, and put your needs, for a period of time, before their own.

I’m sure you’re all familiar with the song ‘His eye is on the sparrow’. I love the picture this song portrays. Not one sparrow falls to the ground unnoticed. If God can see the sparrows, He surely can see you and I! He even says in Matthew 10:31 ‘Do not fear, you are more valuable than the sparrows’.
The previous verse says ‘God knows even the number of hairs on your head’. Considering I’ve lost a good chunk of my hair 3 times since my mum died, if God can keep up with the amount of hair on my head, or lack thereof, then that’s quite an achievement!!

My point is, God isn’t only interested in the big things in our lives. He sees all the little things too. He knows all the small things that trigger your ‘grief moments’. He understands why a lavender bunny can reduce me to tears. He knows my thoughts, all of them, Psalm 139:2. Thank God someone understands me! More importantly, His thoughts towards you and I are precious, and more in number that the sand. Psalm 139:17.

So dear friend, next time you have a ‘Tesco’ or ‘bunny’ moment, or whatever your grief trigger is, know that right in that moment, God is with you. He is seeing all your thoughts and memories, and catching all your tears.
And know too, that in that moment, as in every moment, His thoughts toward you are innumerable and precious, because you too are precious.

I’m off to Waitrose!! 😊

Scarred

Have you ever wondered why dogs lick their wounds? Some studies have shown that it blocks their nerve endings, and gives a little pain relief. Dog saliva also has some mild antibacterial effect. They instinctively know how to help themselves.

It got me thinking about how we deal with our own wounds.
Now I’m not suggesting that we start licking our wounds instead of going to the hospital! I’m thinking more of our emotional wounds, what do we do, or what can we do to help ourselves, to begin to heal.

I’m a very visual person, I see life in pictures. I often learn lessons and get insight from nature and the world around me, it’s just the way my brain is wired.

A few months after mum died I was out walking my dog when I came across this tree. It’s a big old tree, and I recall standing underneath it, just looking up. You can see in the photo that this tree is badly damaged, it has a huge gash in its trunk. The gash is so deep that the inside of the tree is visible.

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I don’t know how this tree was damaged, perhaps it was the result of a storm, or maybe a lightening strike. However the injury happened, it was obviously the result of something violent and strong.

I stood looking at this tree for ages, absorbing the image before me. I began to look beyond the damaged area to the rest of the tree. It was summertime, so the branches were full and leafy green. High up there were birds nesting, and the odd squirrel was scurrying along its branches. This tree was full of life.

It had been severely damaged at its very core, and yet it was still alive. Not just alive, but alive and thriving. The tree had continued to grow around, and in spite of its wound. The thing that struck me, was not that the tree was still growing, but that it had grown around its scar. The wound was clearly visible, there was nothing growing out of the scarred area, but around the scar the tree was healthy.

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My life is full of scars, my body is full of them too. Some from accidents, others from surgeries. Some of them are so small and old that they are barely visible and I don’t notice them anymore. Others are more obvious.

I had major surgery a few months ago. It left me with one large and several small scars. These scars are red and angry looking. My body has healed from the surgery, my wounds have healed, but the scars are red, raw and tender to the touch. Over the years, these too will start to fade, but the large scars on my body will never disappear completely.

I am marked.

Each of them tells a story. The larger the scar, the larger the initial wound was.

For me this is such a powerful illustration of grief.

My grief is not just one scar, it is hundreds, thousands, millions of scars. Each one a memory, a moment in time, a place, a song, a flower, collectively they become a gaping wound in my life, and in my heart. The months after mum died my grief was so………………………….(I left a blank here as I was writing because I couldn’t find the word I was looking for) I still can’t. There is nothing to describe the pain, fear, heartbreak, devastation. There are no words.

I’m speaking of my own grief, because everyone’s grief journey is different. My grief broke me, utterly broke me. I thought it would kill me. I hoped it would kill me.

When we are physically injured our wounds are obvious, not so with grief. I can remember feeling so angry with everything and everyone. I was struggling to get through each hour of each day, and I remember looking at people going about their everyday lives. I just wanted to scream at them, ‘how could they be going on as normal, don’t they know what’s happened to me, can’t they see I’m wounded and bleeding?’ My grief was so consuming that I expected other people to be able to see my pain.

Some people WILL see your brokenness, they will see beyond the natural, they will see your heart. And some special people will be brave enough to put themselves into your shoes for just a moment. They will try to imagine what your grief feels like, they will try to understand.

These are the people to surround yourself with, the people who will tenderly care for your wounded heart. The ones who will protect you, who will be a buffer between you and the world around you. The ones who will very gently walk beside you and help you navigate your way through the darkness.

A dear friend came to visit after mum died. She is a lovely lovely friend. I broke down when she was getting ready to leave, it was one of those moments when the tears flowed and there was no holding them back.
Later she told me that as she drove away, she started to think about her own mum. She imagined for a moment how she would feel without her. She immediately started to weep. Overwhelmed by her feelings she had to pull over and call her mum, just to hear her voice, and to tell her she loved her.

These are the kind of friends you need around you. They are rare, but you don’t need many. I had only a handful, but these friendships have become much much deeper. That’s what happens when you share the intensity of the deepest of pain.

The wounds and scars of grief change who we are. They change how we live our lives, they change how we see the world. Life can never be the same again, nor should it be, nor would I want it to be.

If you are marked by a deep scar of grief, it is an indication of a great love. The greater we love, the greater we grieve, it is the price we pay. It does not mean that we are without hope though.

Just like the tree, slowly new life will start to emerge around your scar. You won’t be the same, your life will forever be marked by your pain, and it is likely that your scar will always be tender, but you will start to live again.

Your grief will have changed you though, it would be impossible to live through such a trauma, and come out the same on the other side. You may be wiser, richer, more compassionate and empathetic, or simply a better friend.

Dont misunderstand me, I still have desperately sad days when I wonder if I will ever be able to live without my mum. But sometimes, I catch a little glimpse of myself, whole, with hope for the future, and with a depth of character, and relationship with God that would never have happened without walking through such grief. And one day, I don’t know when, but one day, I will be able to support someone in their own grief and brokenness.

‘The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves those who are crushed in spirit’.

Psalm 34:18

He heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds (literally: cures their pain and sorrow) Psalm 147:3

There is hope for those of us who feel broken, for those who feel weighed down with sorrow, whose spirits feel crushed, for those of us who feel lonely, alone and afraid.

He (God) sees your wounds, He sees your scars, He sees your fear, and very gently He holds you close to His heart.
He sees the way ahead, even if you can’t.

He sees you.

 
“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”
― Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy