Friday, February 26, 2010


I liked this post I read on a blog I frequent. It is so honest.

"Give me a Break"

And I LOVE this comment that followed by "broken":

"And like you mentioned so aptly, there is beauty to be found in the shards of broken lives and even dreams. The Lord is picking up our scattered pieces every day, placing each one delicately into a brilliant stained glass version of ourselves, perfectly suited to the warm touch of a smiling sun.

Stained glass is stunning, even though the glass itself may never come to that realization. But those of us looking on thank you for the beauty we see through you.

We are all windows, transmitting ever more brightly the passing light. And as our broken pieces are lifted up into a better frame, the glass becomes a more beautiful mirror of our perfect selves, waiting for us just on the horizon.

So broken is a miracle in progress."

So beautiful and poignant. I would like to put a stained glass window in my house somewhere to remind me of it. Maybe there's my miracle??? Its me. The fact that I am broken, but still alive and breathing and sometimes happy. That is indeed a miracle.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010


A few months ago I finally got my "zinger" comment, and it decreased my desire to share my feelings here like I used to. It stirred up thought patterns and feelings I had long ago worked through, and it took months to get anywhere near the progress I had previously made. Its still shocking to me how one, single, judgmental comment can utterly destroy you when you are grieving. I still tried to write often, but didn't end up publishing a lot. I would be so stressed out and frustrated, trying to make it censored and unoffensive, and "okay".  And finally I'd just forget it because I was too afraid of being judged, misunderstood, or criticized.

It added a layer of difficulty to my writing was, and still is, a source of healing for me. Being able to write down the feelings that plague me, somehow helps to free me from them. I've also gained some great friends and confidants through my writing. It helps to not feel so alone. And one of the tiny, tiny positives of this experience is being able to express the things that others cannot, and helping them to heal, too. However, I finally realized I had been writing for all the wrong reasons, or should I say to all the wrong people?

At first, I started writing to try to help my friends and family understand what I was going through. I thought that if I could somehow make all my senseless thoughts and feelings make sense to everyone else, then it would be easier to accept them myself. If I detailed the grief process and quoted books and proved that this was all normal, then everything would be okay. I would be okay. So whenever it seemed like other people "got it", I felt validated. (If they get it, then I must be normal, I must be "okay"...right???) But then I'd get one of those judgmental "zingers", and I felt like a failure. Like all the things I feared, and everything I thought everyone else thought about me, must be true. (If I can't make them see it, then I must be the problem, there must be something wrong with me...) And all my progress would come crashing down.

This week I discovered how my writing truly helps me, and strangely it wasn't through writing, it was through reading. I was on a friend's online journal reading about the night her daughter died, and some parts of it were so similar to the night Gavin died. It was like stabs of pain into my heart to relive it through her words. But somehow, even through the hurt, I felt an overwhelming gratefulness that she had shared it. I was about to comment, "Thank you for sharing your story..." when I stopped and thought "Why am I thankful when it brought up painful reminders for me?" I eventually realized that through sharing those details, she was allowing me to share her most sacred experience. She was allowing me to connect with share our pain, our loss, our grief. I felt love for her...this woman I've never met, never spoken to face to face. For a moment, I didn't feel quite so alone, and with that came a small amount of peace...and for that I was truly grateful.

I realized this is why I write...not for those curiously peering in from the other side of the looking glass, but for myself and others who are grieving a loss. That's where my real healing comes from. I write to validate our thoughts and feelings through our shared experiences. To create connections. To make friends. To heal together.

It has lifted such a heavy weight from my shoulders. I don't need to prove to anyone else that I am actually doing quite well in processing my grief and that, yes, its "normal". I don't need to make anyone else "get it". Those who love me, will love me whether they "get it" or not. They don't need to know why, they just love me anyway. And if others are judgmental and unkind, its not because I am failing or because I didn't quote enough sources, or because I haven't made the grief process quite clear enough for them. 'Cause, you know, I'm a bit busy grieving over my son, and that's what books are for!

So, going forward I hope my writing will again be a source of relief for me, without all the added stress. I'm writing for me. I'm writing for my angel baby mommy (and daddy) friends...those I already know and love, and those yet to come. And if it happens to help anyone else, then that's just icing on the cake.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Through the Valley of the Shadow...

I've never heard this perspective from someone who actually did get their miracle. It was so refreshing.

Through the Valley of the Shadow...

more thoughts on it later...