I think I'm past the initial shock wave of Oliver's death. I had thought that since we saw it coming the shock would be buffered, but that is not the case, as several grief-related resources have confirmed to me. I then had to acknowledge my drive to face it head on and deal with it and plow through it, strong and quick. But several close friends have assured me that it is not possible to rush grief, so I am resigning myself and settling in to ride out the storm - I will still meet it head on - you steer the schooner into the gale (I remember that, dad), but you can't make the hurricane move faster - they tend to slow down when they hit the shore.
The support and love that our community, both near and far, has surrounded us with is wonderful and we are so thankful. All the sympathy flowers have faded now, but I'm happily incorporating the potted plants we were given into our home.
It feels absolutely terrible. It feels like fear and confusion and a painfully empty stomach. Without warning it expands like a void swelling from the back of my neck into my cerebrum and I either permit my voice painful expression through my tears "Oh, my baby!" or to try to force it, if I can, to wait until a more appropriate time.
I read through Nicholas Wolterstorff's Lament for a Son tonight. One of my college roommates mentioned it to us, and I'm so thankful (Thank you, Bethany). It is not your typical biblical exposition on grief. It is raw and beautifully written and spoke directly to my deep ache, giving full space for the pain and wrong-ness of death. Wolterstorff contemplates the place of suffering not only in a Christian's life but also as part of the nature of our God. It is a short read, about 100 pages, (I am a fast reader and finished it in an hour), and I would recommend it to anyone who wants a better understanding of grieving for a child (or anyone), for themselves or to better understand someone they love who is grieving. Somehow it helps to have someone else give voice to my confused state of being.
The last week and a half has been very difficult. I am unfocused and disoriented, unmotivated, easily annoyed, short tempered, and living on tea and smoothies. It is good tea and they are green smoothies, but still. Having friends around and stopping to help or just have tea (I like tea) has been good because it gives me some accountability and keeps me motivated to keep the house functional.
I have a history of being prone to depression, which is one of the motivating factors for me to be open and descriptive of how I am doing. I do not want to force my grieving into a box, but I also want to be careful to not slip too far out of the normative process and into unreasonable depression.
We've been outside a lot now that spring is warming the air. I've been re-working our flower beds and establishing new vegetable beds in the greenhouse - projects that have been on hold for the last year. It feels strange intentionally letting myself mostly do what I want instead of forcing structure and chores in our day, but I think it has been OK for the last few weeks and maybe a short time more. Besides the grieving, I'm dealing with the fact that 75% of my daily job description has been wiped away. I have new daily routine mapped out, and we will slowly be adjusting our day into it.
There is suddenly new depth to 1 Thessalonians 4:13, " ...do not grieve like those who have no hope." This hope and grief are intimately twined together. My hope does not prevent the pain or even soften the blow, but it is much more than a silver lining to the story. Knowing that he is "in a better place" and "has been fully healed" does nothing to ease the ache of loss. It does inform my grieving, and gives depth and meat to the bones of my suffering - this world is not right - so there is a deep, appropriate mourning that cannot be seperated from the hope. It does gives my mourning an expectant quality. I wait in expectation for the New heavens and the New earth and to embrace Oliver in his redeemed body; until then I will be feeling the lament of his absence and pleading God for patience as I wait.
The support and love that our community, both near and far, has surrounded us with is wonderful and we are so thankful. All the sympathy flowers have faded now, but I'm happily incorporating the potted plants we were given into our home.
It feels absolutely terrible. It feels like fear and confusion and a painfully empty stomach. Without warning it expands like a void swelling from the back of my neck into my cerebrum and I either permit my voice painful expression through my tears "Oh, my baby!" or to try to force it, if I can, to wait until a more appropriate time.
I read through Nicholas Wolterstorff's Lament for a Son tonight. One of my college roommates mentioned it to us, and I'm so thankful (Thank you, Bethany). It is not your typical biblical exposition on grief. It is raw and beautifully written and spoke directly to my deep ache, giving full space for the pain and wrong-ness of death. Wolterstorff contemplates the place of suffering not only in a Christian's life but also as part of the nature of our God. It is a short read, about 100 pages, (I am a fast reader and finished it in an hour), and I would recommend it to anyone who wants a better understanding of grieving for a child (or anyone), for themselves or to better understand someone they love who is grieving. Somehow it helps to have someone else give voice to my confused state of being.
The last week and a half has been very difficult. I am unfocused and disoriented, unmotivated, easily annoyed, short tempered, and living on tea and smoothies. It is good tea and they are green smoothies, but still. Having friends around and stopping to help or just have tea (I like tea) has been good because it gives me some accountability and keeps me motivated to keep the house functional.
I have a history of being prone to depression, which is one of the motivating factors for me to be open and descriptive of how I am doing. I do not want to force my grieving into a box, but I also want to be careful to not slip too far out of the normative process and into unreasonable depression.
We've been outside a lot now that spring is warming the air. I've been re-working our flower beds and establishing new vegetable beds in the greenhouse - projects that have been on hold for the last year. It feels strange intentionally letting myself mostly do what I want instead of forcing structure and chores in our day, but I think it has been OK for the last few weeks and maybe a short time more. Besides the grieving, I'm dealing with the fact that 75% of my daily job description has been wiped away. I have new daily routine mapped out, and we will slowly be adjusting our day into it.
There is suddenly new depth to 1 Thessalonians 4:13, " ...do not grieve like those who have no hope." This hope and grief are intimately twined together. My hope does not prevent the pain or even soften the blow, but it is much more than a silver lining to the story. Knowing that he is "in a better place" and "has been fully healed" does nothing to ease the ache of loss. It does inform my grieving, and gives depth and meat to the bones of my suffering - this world is not right - so there is a deep, appropriate mourning that cannot be seperated from the hope. It does gives my mourning an expectant quality. I wait in expectation for the New heavens and the New earth and to embrace Oliver in his redeemed body; until then I will be feeling the lament of his absence and pleading God for patience as I wait.
