The new logo...explained!

I love symbols.  Signs and symbols are plain, ordinary things that point to something bigger than themselves.  They are at times subtle,--easily missed if we don’t take the time to truly ponder what we see.  Symbols remind us that we are surrounded by more than what meets the eye!  As Lach’s Legacy is beginning to embark on the next 10 years, with a new 501(c)3 nonprofit designation of our own, it was the perfect time to re-create the branding to more deeply express what it is we hope to do!

This new logo shows the heart of what Lach’s Legacy strives to be.  A source of hope and an anchor in the stormy seas of grief.  Let me tell you more...


The dragonfly has been our symbol of hope from the day Lach died.  It has also been used as a meaningful part of the Lach’s Legacy logo from the beginning.  It was inspired for us by a little story book given to us in the hospital on that dreadful day he was torn from our lives.  The story was of the water bugs at the bottom of a pond.  Every now and then, one of the bugs would climb up the stalk of a lily pad and mysteriously never return.  The water bugs held a meeting to get to the bottom of this.  They made a promise to each other that the next one to climb the stalk would return to tell the others where he had gone.  Very soon after, the same water bug who called the meeting found himself climbing the stalk.  He reached the surface and found an expansive new world above the pond.  He found he had a new set of beautiful wings that allowed him to be freer than he had ever been.  As he was zipping around joyfully in this new form and in the new place, he remembered the promise he’d made before his journey.  He tried his best to keep his promise, but found that in his new form, he could not get below the surface and also understood that even if he could, his friends would not recognize him in his new form.  The others would have to wait until they’ve made the journey themselves to be able to know the glorious new form and place that was waiting for them! 

This symbol and the story speak to the heaven that I love to imagine our children are enjoying, and one that will be our ultimate destination as well.  It also alludes to how painful and hard to understand this separation is for those of us left behind.  While those of us below suffer from the separation, it is nothing but a joyful experience for those above the surface.  This change that happens as we die to one form and take on another is mysterious to those of us below, and completely natural to those who are making the transition.  The story leads us to hope that our ultimate fulfillment is brought about by our transition to other side. Our loved ones are there.  Alive, present, and joyful in a glorious new form. They remain very near to us…just above the surface.

As we begin this new chapter of Lach’s Legacy, we want to hold onto what's important in the old and bring fulfillment and clarity in the new.  The old of dragonfly mixed with the new of the anchor.  An anchor is a heavy weight that holds a ship in place, remaining firm and steadfast amid the uncertainty of storms and the elements.  An anchor symbolizes the concepts of firmness, tranquility, and hope. 

Some of the best comfort I found in my early grief came from exchanging experiences with others who had walked a similar path.  Those people who dared to share that vulnerability with me became anchors for me as I grieved.  By seeing them and hearing their stories, I knew there was hope of living wholly, fully, and joyfully again, though it was hard to imagine at the time.  Lach’s Legacy wants to be that anchor for other grieving parents.  A shared vulnerability, a connection to others who share a similar story, something solid to cling to when we are feeling as though we will drown in this ruthless storm of grief. Lach’s Legacy wants to offer a source of steadiness, tranquility, and hope that can bring some sanctuary in the depths of grief.

There's more. The symbolism of the anchor is two-fold.  When Lach’s Legacy was conceived, the idea was to be a secular organization offering comfort without ties to faith and religion.  However, I have learned through my own experience and in sharing the experiences of others that life in the wake of losing a child is inevitably a defining moment in our spirituality.  We are challenged to explore our beliefs on what is beyond this earthly life.  I cannot be true to my experience of grief and to share fully my sources of healing and comfort, without also acknowledging the one who is The Healer and The Comforter.

There is some great Christian history in the symbol of the anchor.  It comes from Hebrews 6:19: “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”  In a spiritual context, the anchor symbolizes the stable part of our being, the quality which enables us to keep a clear mind amid the confusion of sensation and emotion. It is hope in Christ amid a turbulent world and hope of heaven in the face of death.

The colors of the logo, too, symbolize more than what you see.  Green.  The color of spring, new life, and hope. It is the color of growth and transformation.  Grass green is a restful color. It points to the life force and the Healer.  Green is the great balancer of the heart and emotions, creating equilibrium between the head and the heart. It inspires our ability to love and nurture ourselves and others.  And blue. Blue is the color of the infinite.  It is the color of the infinite ocean and infinite sky and it inspires us to look beyond. It represents heaven. It is the color of the Virgin Mary, a mother who also held the body of her deceased child in her arms. It is the color of peace and tranquility.

I hope peering into the symbols of the logo has helped clarify what Lach's Legacy is about!  I am looking forward to the new and improved direction of Lach's Legacy.  I hope you are inspired to follow along and share with those who may find needed comfort and healing between the anchor and the wings!

To Be Like Sadness

You know Sadness, from the movie Inside Out? She knows something profound.

This morning, I read:
If someone asked you if you were compassionate, you might readily say yes. Or at least, "I believe so." But pause to examine the word compassion...For the word comes from the roots that mean literally to "suffer with"; to show compassion means sharing in the suffering "passion" of another. Compassion understood in this way asks more from us than a mere stirring of pity or sympathetic word. 
To live with compassion means to enter others' dark moments. It is to walk into places of pain, not to flinch or look away when another agonizes. It means to stay where people suffer. Compassion holds us back from quick eager explanations when tragedy meets someone we know or love. 
In some ways you might think such opening ourselves to other' pain would only intensify our own. How many people run to where others are suffering? Who easily hears someone weep or cry out or reveal a quiet sadness? Confronted with poverty or hardship or mourning, we say to ourselves, "Let's go where things feel a little more comfortable." Such is our natural logic.
In so many encounters we try to look away from the pain. We try to help our friends quickly process grief. We hastily look for ways to bring cheer to a child or ailing aunt. All the while, however, we act less our of genuine "suffering with" and more out of our need to stand back from the discomfort we fear we might feel. We secretly restlessly want to move from the place where it hurts. Our evasions do not help others, of course, but rather cause them to put up defenses and drive away those who need someone to care. 
One reason we react to others this way grows out of our skirting of our own pain. We resist getting near the suffering of another partly out of our unwillingness to suffer ourselves. For another's hardship suggests to us what can also hurt us. Such reminders unsettle. But our hesitation to look squarely at another's suffering, to sit or stand with someone in pain, weighs on conversations an obligation for the other to "act happy." Even worse, our persisting in denying our losses leads to mounting desire to control other people's lives. In his penetrating study, The Betrayal of the Self, the psychoanalyst Arno Gruen shows convincingly how "the actual source of our cruelty and callousness lies in the rejection of our suffering." 
For we may fall into the illusion that we own people, that we can use them, that we have a right to manage their feelings. By offering premature advice on how to cope, by rushing to reassure, by prodding with advice, we say much about or own needs for easy closure. When we barge in with such consolation, we make hurting souls into objects or projects. 
For all the ways this approach seems to insulate us from the hurts and needs of others, it ends up not helping us at all...We find relationships bending or even breaking under the weight of expectations we place on them in our discomfort with another's suffering. We end up even more alone and walled within our disappointments or sadnesses." 
-Henri Nouwen, Turn My Mourning into Dancing

By being brave enough to look deeply into our own suffering, we become able to sit with others in their suffering. By learning to show genuine compassion, to truly "suffer with" another, we will build gentleness, gratitude and even joy in our own hearts as well as meaningful relationships with others. Our hearts will be bigger and our world will be better if we can be brave enough to look into and understand the depths of our own suffering.

In the Wave of Light We Grieve Together

It's October 15...the night for the Pregnancy and Infant Loss wave of light! Lachlan, and all the other babies who have touched my life, have been in my thoughts and close to my heart in the last few weeks.

I just picked up this new book, "Turn My Mourning into Dancing" by Henri Nouwen. He says this about the dance of finding joy in our sorrow, "And as we dance, we realize that we don't have to stay on the little spot of our grief, but can step beyond it. We stop centering our lives on ourselves. We pull others along with us and invite them into the larger dance. We learn to make room for others--and the Gracious Other in our midst. And when we become present to God and God's people, we find our lives richer. We come to know that all the world is our dance floor. Our step grows lighter because God has called out others to dance as well."

This October, rather than the Capture Your Grief project, my dance has been to accompany a couple of other families as they have stepped into their new worlds of grief and mourning. Truly, in the gift they give by allowing me to be present in their sorrow, my life has become richer.

Nouwen says, "I realized that healing begins with our taking our pain out of its diabolic isolation and seeing that whatever we suffer, we suffer it in communion with all of humanity, and yes, all of creation. In so doing, we become participants in the great battle against the powers of darkness. Our little lives participate in something larger."

Tonight, as we all light our candles in remembrance of our infants and share that light with the world, we take our pain out of its isolation and we participate in something bigger than ourselves. By joining together in a wave of light, we battle the power of the darkness and as we suffer in the communion of humanity we also let our healing begin.

On the first day of school...I miss you

When a life changing grief becomes insignificant

After Lach died I read a book called Hello, from Heaven. It was a lovely little compilation of stories that people told of their "visits" from their loved ones. There must have been a chapter in there of people who had their visits in the form very vivid and vibrant dreams. I wanted to have that experience so terribly. I did have one dream about toward the end of that first year. However, it was not the peaceful hope-filled dream that I was yearning for. Instead, this one left me feeling the wound torn open and the ache of living without him feeling very fresh again. I definitely didn't want to have that experience again. 
I had a different kind of dream about a month ago and I'm finally deciding to share it. Sometimes things are too big for words and it feels like you are taking something away from a powerful experience by trying to make it conform to our language. However, in the case that it might bring a ray of hope to someone else, here goes: 
It began as I was parking my van in a grassy area of a park that was somehow connected to Nehemiah, a local high school boy that was killed in a car accident 2 years ago. This is a kid that I had some secondary connections to, but had never met myself. As I was backing into the spot, suddenly I could see Nehemiah through my rear view mirror and he helped me get parked. Then he playfully came around the car and greeted me with a warm hug as I got out. As I started to look around, I saw groups of people around the park. Some of the people had colors that were brighter and more saturated than everything else around them. I came to understand that those who were brighter were of heaven and everything that was more dull was of earth. I stood there in awe, slowly taking it in, and Nehemiah communicated to me without words that he'd see if Lach could come. I turned toward my left shoulder, slowing taking in the view in amazement, and as I got about 2/3 the way around, there was a grand piano sitting just off in the distance. Lach was sitting on the bench reaching toward the keys of the piano. He was still 10 months old, wearing the green and orange striped shirt that he wore both in the picture we used for his obituary and on the day he died. Everything is about him was bright and radiant. When I spotted him, he made eye contact with me and gave me a sweet and knowing little pursed-lip grin. I ran toward him and scooped him up, hugging him and kissing him. 
There was SO MUCH love and peace and joy. SO MUCH! As I held him, I came to understand our grief response as a teeny tiny completely natural response to being separated from something we are enjoying. In comparison to the joy of the moment, that all-consuming grief of losing a child dwarfed into an insignificant and temporary loss. It became more like the feeling that we have when something ordinary that we are enjoying comes to its natural end... The amazing movie that is now over, the fall of the leaves in autumn, the roller coaster ride that comes to an end...the faint "that-was-great, too-bad-it's-over" response.
At the same time as I was holding Lach and coming to understand the loss in a new perspective, I was also waking up. I knew that I would be waking up to continue living in my separation from him. I was SO ok with this! It was no big deal! It is so small and temporary and insignificant in comparison to the overwhelming love and joy that is to come. I woke up with tears in my eyes...Joyful tears that came from a delight at the glimpse of the what that reunion might be like, and the the peek at a joy, a peace, and a love that are so abundant they dwarf even a life-changing grief into something that is barely perceptible.

I don't dream often, and when I do, there is usually not much to make of it. This dream was something else. It was so clear and so vivid. It gave me new perspective to hold onto as well as hope and courage for the journey. It's a perspective could be applied not just to the loss of Lachlan, but to the rest of life's struggles too.

Hold onto hope all you grievers...as much as your hearts hurt now, they will rejoice a million times over!

Find him in the Joy

As bereaved parents we often cling to the pain of losing a child because it is the last thing we have of them. We feel like by even thinking of letting go of the pain, we are somehow also letting go of THEM. Yet at the same time it is such a burden to carry that weight and it can rob us of our joy if we let it. In meditating on how to live well in the wake of such a difficult loss, this was the guidance that came. It brought me some comfort and hope, I hope it does the same for you:

Lachlan is not found in the weight of the loss. He is not in the hurt or the pain. By laying those things at the feet of Christ and giving away the pain, you are not losing Lachlan.
Rather, find Lachlan in the life, the joy, and the love. He is in the gift of motherhood. He is in the laughter and happy memories. He is in your smile. By taking the heavy weight from your shoulders you are not losing him, but finding him by allowing more of the beauty and light from his life to shine.
Take courage and trust. Don't look for him in the ache, though you'll find shadows of him there too. Look for his fullness, instead, in the                                                                                                            things that bring love, joy, and                                                                                                            laughter to your days.

For His Soul was Pleasing to the Lord

The one who pleased God was loved, living among sinners, was transported--snatched away, lest wickedness pervert his mind or deceit beguile his soul; For the witchery of paltry things obscures what is right and the whirl of the desire transforms the innocent mind. Having become perfect in a short while, he reached the fullness of a long career; for his soul was pleasing to the Lord, therefore he sped him out of the midst of wickedness. But the people saw and did not understand, nor did they take that consideration into account. Grace and mercy are with his holy ones, and his care is with the elect.
-Wisdom 4:10-15

To be loved so deeply, to be spared the suffering and struggle of humanity, to be created perfectly in God's image and to remain always in that perfection. That is a blessing that has been given to our children who died so young.  It is a gift that is so easy to overlook in the midst of our grief, but if we dare to recognize it, it is a small source of comfort in the sea of heartache!

Finding the courage to reach out to "Other People"

I am reading "I Thought it was Just Me (But it Isn't)" by Brene Brown. I loved what she had to say about reaching out.  She talks about how we naturally want to protect ourselves from uncomfortable feelings and so when terrible things happen to people, our instinct is often to separate ourselves, to cushion ourselves from their heartache.  We find ways to convince ourselves that their tragedy is something that happens to "other" people.  We create ways to make "them" different from "us." As bereaved parents, we often feel that separation from the people around us. The moment our child took their last breath, we became "different" from everyone else. To be thrust from the false safety of "us" (whose children are living), to "them" (who have children who have died) all at once is hard.  It's hard to make sense of why the people that we believed would care aren't reaching out to us. It's hard to grasp why people in our lives are unwilling to hear or try to understand the amount of pain that comes with the death of a child. Brene Brown brings that natural response of wanting to insulate ourselves into the light and hopefully will offer something worth pondering for both those of us who are grieving and those of us who are struggling to find the courage to reach out. Here's what she has to say:

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From pages 149-151

Once we've convinced ourselves that "things like this don't happen to people like me," then when it does happen it means we've done something terribly wrong. We've been kicked out of the group that kept us safe--that mythical group that always escapes tragedy. That's why people who survive cancer, women who survive sexual assault, adults who were once homeless, parents who have lost children and families who have been affected by acts of violence, often tell me two things: "Before it happened I never believed it could happen to me--it only happened to other people" and "You never know--it can happen to anyone. I just want to be there for others who are going through the same thing.
It's hard. We don't want to connect with people who are in pain, especially if we believe they deserve their pain or if their pain is too scary for us. We don't want to reach out. It feels risky. Just by associating with them, we could either end up in the same "other" pile or be forced to acknowledge that bad things happen to people like us. I hear the same thing again and again from women who are willing to connect: It's not easy. The women who take the casseroles when people are gossiping and judging or the women who walk through their own fear to comfort someone else aren't superheroes. They are ordinary women who sometimes have to force themselves to do it. It doesn't always come naturally, but they all say it gets easier with practice.
My mom is one of those women... She still tells me the same thing every time, "you just go to the funeral. You just take the casserole when the neighbors are gossiping and peeking out of their blinds. Put yourself in a trance if you need to, but get in the car and drive over there. Write down exactly what you want to say, but pick up the phone and make the call. 
I think the most important thing she has told me about reaching out to others in crisis is this: "You do it because that's the person you want to be. You do it because that could have been me and one day it could just as easily be you."

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Sunset Reflection

As this project comes to a close, I want thank those of you who followed along. Your little encouragements with personal messages or post likes, comments, and shares are meaningful to me. Even though I don’t respond to most of them they are appreciated.

This is not an easy project to do…it takes time, it takes thought, it takes re-living some of those toughest moments of my life. However, by actually taking the time and making the effort to put my thoughts into words, somehow I seem to get new insights into some of my own thoughts and feelings, I come up with new ways to describe the experience, and I solidify some things that I’ve felt all along. I think journaling is an incredibly healing experience and these prompts are done very well. They encourage reflection in a way that brings hope and healing. I’d certainly encourage others to give it a try, whether it’s openly for the world to read or in your own private journal at home.

One of the helpful things in my early grief, was to read others experiences and to know I was not alone. To know that others could feel what I was feeling and still go on to lead a happy and fulfilling life brought hope. They could offer new perspectives that seemed to help calm the sea. By sharing this project shared on social media, outside the “safety” of support groups or closed circles of bereaved parents, I hope that others can get a glimpse into the mind of someone wrestling with the aftermath of losing a child. I hope that by “normalizing” grief to some extent that it won’t seem so foreign and scary when it happens to someone we love. I hope it will make it a little easier for us all reach out with gentle compassion and some sort of understanding when people we love are grieving.

I know I am not the only one to suffer. Everyone has their own personal experiences of struggle, loss, and grief. Not everyone’s struggles can be shared out loud. I hope that by telling my story and my path to healing that I am not the only one who gets something out of it. I hope that in some way sharing my experience, because I can, will touch someone else and help in their road to healing, too.

You know that feeling that you get when you actually stop what you are doing to watch and appreciate a sunset…there’s something like that in this project. To stop what I’m doing and give my attention to the journey of grief does something of the same. Grief, like joy and a beautiful sunset, are holy. Grief is love’s souvenir. It is our proof that we once loved—and that that love continues beyond death. When we watch a sunset, or look at a heart after loss, for that moment, we are stopping to notice that heaven has reached down to touch the earth. 

My Promise to You

Lachlan,
My promise to you is simple. I will not let your life go unnoticed. I promise to do everything in my power to make sure I am not the only one who remembers you. You were too important for that. You left your legacy on my heart and I will allow your legacy to touch the lives of others.
With love, always and forever,
Mama

Give Away Your Love

I figured out pretty early on that there was something beneficial for me in reaching out to other people. It didn’t matter too much what it was, it was simply the effort to make the day better for someone else that brought just a glimmer of light into my dark world. In fact, I had little “Random Act of Kindness in memory of Lachlan” cards made up. I didn’t end up using very many of those. I guess I found that the outward acknowledgement of why I was doing it was not necessary. It just felt good to bring a little ray of sunshine into someone else’s day.

Sometimes it was in purely random acts…dropping off a bouquet of flowers for a stranger, buying a coffee for the person in line behind me, or handing a $10 Target gift card to someone just walking in the doors of the store… Those things were good, but I found that they seemed a little bit awkward and forced. What brings more hope and joy and healing for me, is seeing a need and going out of the way to fill it. It is in doing more than what is expected. When I started building Lach’s Legacy, it was to reach out to other people, to support people in their grief, help them find some resources that may be helpful…however, in reaching out, I found excitement, joy and hope. By doing that, I was helping myself as much, or more, than I was helping anyone else. When I get to talk to a newly bereaved parent, I know it comforts them to share their story and to connect with someone who understands, but it also helps me. It gives me new perspective and fresh ideas and it helps me to remember how far I’ve come from the agony of new grief. I’m pretty sure I can feel my heart growing in those experiences.

I find joy…not necessarily a happy, giddy, smiling, laughing sort of joy, but a deep and peaceful joy, when we are able to offer a special kindness to a terminally ill child and their family, when I am able to help a new student feel a little more comfortable in their environment, and when I am able to connect with someone who is working through one of life’s struggles. I get more from those experiences than I give. St. Francis of Assisi figured that out before I did. He said, “O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.” He was right.

Self Compassion

Compassion for myself was something that I had to learn in a new way after Lach died. It goes very much hand-in-hand with the “letting go” post earlier this month. At first, I had to learn compassion in regard to the emotion that I was experiencing. I didn’t have much tolerance for the difficulty I had in holding myself together, especially trying to do routine things out in public. Shopping for clothes was one of those things that, for whatever reason, stands out to me. It was unbearable to look for the 3T size without needing one in the 12 month size. I fought back tears… no one needs to see this wreck of a woman standing in the children’s clothing department. Hold yourself together! Go do something else! I always seemed to lose that battle and the tears won anyway.

Eventually, I think I just got tired of fighting myself. I decided to let go of the fight and allow myself to feel whatever it was I was feeling. I allowed the tears to flow whenever they came. I had to acknowledge that I was going through every mother’s hell and I had to meet myself with the same compassion and understanding that I would give to others on this path. I had to somehow trust that it wouldn’t always be like this, and I needed to give myself permission to work through those things rather try to stuff them away. Not everyone will understand. I might get a few extra looks, but that’s ok. If they knew my story, they would say that’s ok too. Shopping and church were going to bring tears and I learned to let it be… and brought along the tissues I was probably going to need.

Developing enough compassion for myself to allow the craziness in my thoughts while I was working on picking up the pieces was the other part of that. At Compassionate Friends meetings, a group for bereaved parents, many people talked about how crazy you feel after the death of a child. I was glad to know that I wasn’t alone in that, and that just because I felt crazy, didn’t mean I was sure to jump off the deep end.

Even now, I have thoughts that I have to treat with compassion and just let them be, without giving myself a hard time about them. When I get a phone call at work, especially when I’m scrubbed in and can’t answer it, my first thought is “I hope nobody died.” If my phone rings again, I find myself running through the scenario in my head. I know, it’s irrational to jump straight to that, but it’s happened to me before.

I’m a little weird about pictures, too. Talia just had some professional photos taken. I’m excited to capture that cuteness that makes all the 3-year-old tantrums worthwhile, but I also get some sort of satisfaction in knowing that I’ll have those recent and beautiful images if she dies. It’s not in the budget to purchase all of the images, so I wonder how long the photographer keeps the files and I wonder if she would give them to me if Talia died …I know, morbid, right?! Things like that are regular occurrences in my head. They are not the average thought processes, but I suppose burying a child is not an average life event. I don’t bother other people with that mess in my head, I just try to meet myself with compassion, and acknowledge and allow the thought and then let it go. It’s not socially acceptable to think that way, so it’s not something that gets discussed much, but I don’t think it’s necessarily unhealthy to have those thoughts either. To be honest, I think we’d all do well if we spent a little more time considering death. Recognizing the finality of my own life and the life of those I love helps me to live a little more fully and to appreciate the people in my life a little more deeply—my life and theirs is a gift that won’t last forever.

I once heard this quote that I really loved: “Emotions are like small children—you can’t let them drive the car, but you can’t stuff them in the trunk either.” In sudden grief, it’s like unleashing a mindful of unruly and unreasonable toddlers. They are bouncing around EVERYWHERE. Ignoring the situation won't help. Sometimes you have to stop what you are doing, acknowledge the chaos, and grapple with them one by one to put them back in their proper place. Compassion goes a long way in calming the disarray of thought and emotion. It gives you the time, the space, and the understanding necessary to allow the healing process to unfold.

Family is Forever

One of the pieces for me to figure out after Lach died is how to acknowledge his place in our family without him here. I didn’t know other people who had pictures of their dead children on the wall. Is that poor taste? Is that clinging to something that I need to move on from? Should I hold on to him and his place in our family, or is that morbid? Am I honoring him by making a point to keep him as part of who we are, or am I a crazy lady who can’t let go? How do you integrate a deceased child into the life of your family in a way that is healthy?

Different people have different needs and will come to different conclusions on those things. The way I see it, even death does not change the makeup of a family. It may change the way a family looks and it may change the way the family functions, but it does not change who belongs. I wouldn’t think twice about a picture of deceased grandparents on the wall. It is an acknowledgement of people who were loved and a recognition of where we’ve come from. A picture of a deceased child is really no different. We keep Lachlan as a part of who we are by keeping his pictures up along with the rest of them, by openly talking about him in our day to day conversation, and by keeping him in our prayers at night. I hope that by doing so, it sends the message to my other children that they, too, are so important to me that not even death can take away their belonging here.

I do my best to honor Lach’s place without letting him run the show…just like I do with each of my other children. We have days and times that more attention is devoted to him, and other times when he falls to the backdrop. Sometimes there is more discussion of Lach, we stop to note his birthday and his angelversary, and he is included in our Christmas celebrations and twice a year we take a time-out in the other things we’re doing to put on what is often referred to at our house as “Lach’s run,” aka Run for Their Lives!.

Life is a balance of holding on and letting go. I hold on to Lach’s picture, but let go of the fact that he won’t grow with the other kids. I hold onto including him in our Christmas celebrations, but let go of not getting to see his eager smile as he opens his gifts. I hold on to the legacy that he left here, but let go of the fact he didn’t get to create that legacy himself. I hold on to knowing that he is part of our family forever, but let go of having his physical presence in our midst.

What Heals You?

Carly Marie, the woman who organizes this project, says “Turning the WHY into What Heals You? has been one of my greatest healers. Whenever I found myself asking “why did this have to happen. Why me? Why him?” etc etc I started asking myself what heals me?” She became aware that it was in intentionally turning to what was healing that allowed that process to unfold.

I’ve asked myself that similar question regularly, and I often ask it of newly bereaved parents too. What brings comfort? What helps? There is no ONE thing that is the mainstay of healing after the death of a child. It comes in tiny bits from many different places. The things that are the main pillars of my healing will not necessarily be what the next person needs. If you are close to a griever, you don’t have to just wonder what might help. If you ask them what you can do for them, or what they need, they’ll most likely come up blank. However, if you ask them what helps and what brings comfort, there’s a good chance you’ll get some ideas you can work with.

For me, the list of things that brought comfort and healing is something like this: talking with bereaved mothers, reading and journaling, building a legacy for Lachlan, planting a garden for him, talking with friends who weren’t afraid to hear, offering random acts of kindness to others. Being able to talk to the people at his daycare who answered questions about his last day. The steady presence of family. The people who reached out to us to offer their support whether by card, attending his services, donating vacation hours or cash to his memorial fund, or helping with household jobs was all very humbling and comforting. Finding ways to let my loss bring comfort to others who are on the same path. Knowing that Lachlan and his story has somehow made a difference in someone else’s life. Prayer and an intentional effort to grow my faith and deepen my relationship with God. My rainbow babies, who have brought more purpose, love and joy into my days. Being able to talk about it with my husband, the only other person on the planet that loved him and misses him like I do.

I’m not sure that true healing after the death of a child can happen without some sort of intentional movement toward that. Healing work is sometimes uncomfortable and difficult. I work in surgery, so I am reminded of the surgical wound that just won’t heal. Sometimes you have to intentionally work at getting a wound to heal and it doesn’t just happen automatically with the passage of time. It is uncomfortable, difficult, and time consuming, but you can’t ignore it. If you do, the skin might seal shut, but it leaves the perfect place for an abscess to form. The problem will not be laid to rest until it is dealt with. In order to get those tough wounds to heal properly, you have to pack it, debride it, and let it heal from the inside out. The loss of a child is like that. It is a wound that has to be healed from the inside out in order for wellness to be restored. Sometimes things like talking about the loss in a real way, or working through this project are emotionally draining, uncomfortable and take work, however, when you look back at it, you find that there is healing that happens on a deeper level and a lasting peace that comes from it.

I AM __.

I wish __. I wish with my whole heart that no one ever had to experience the loss of a child, that there was some sort of guarantee that parents get to die before their kids do. When I hear of another child who has died, my heart hurts most in knowing what the parents are in for…how hard, how long, how much struggle will come for them in the years ahead.

I remember __. I remember wanting and waiting to feel better. All the hurts I’d experienced before just seemed to fade with time. I wanted this hurt to do the same thing. It didn’t. This was a different kind of pain. Once I started looking at it as something like an amputation—a wound that forever changes the way you live—then I was able to start looking for ways to live well again.

I could not believe __. I could not believe that I, as a 26 year old kid, was having to choose a place in the ground to bury my baby. Walking through the cemetery, choosing a spot, was one of the most surreal moments and it was there that I was really hit with disbelief that this is what I was doing. It wasn’t fair. It didn’t make sense. Young couples who are just starting their families don’t choose cemetery plots for themselves and their children.

If only __. If only my loss were enough. If only my suffering could protect myself and everyone I know from having to experience those big trials that life brings. I want to think that I’ve paid my “dues” for myself and my loved ones, and that we are now immune to the tragedies life can bring. If only it worked that way…

I am __. I am braver than I believed, stronger than I knew, and smarter than I thought. I am more humble than I used to be and more graced than I deserve. I often hear people say, I don’t know how you do it, or I could never survive the loss of a child…I didn’t think I could either. Believe it or not, you too, are braver than you believe, stronger than you know, and smarter than you think. 

Consciously Becoming

Today’s prompt is meant to highlight the differences in ourselves before the loss and after it, and who we are becoming. I’ve said it before, and most bereaved parents will say it…I am different after losing a child. Before Lachlan died, I was able to somehow feel protected from suffering and tragedy. Bad things happened to other people. I could be sympathetic to the suffering of others, but I wasn’t touched by it in the same way that I am now. Their tough stuff remained separate from me. It wasn’t out of coldness or an intentional attitude to protect myself, but there was an innocence or a naivety that didn’t really allow me to feel the suffering of others very well. It was inexperience with how hard life can sometimes be. I was able to be happy and content in my controlled world.

Then Lach died and that innocence died with him. Suffering was real, it was personal, and it was deep. I guess when a heart breaks open, it is given room to grow. Now I am able to be more open-hearted to the misfortune of others. I can more quickly move beyond a sympathetic response to an empathetic one. I want to choose a heart that remains broken if that allows my heart the room to continue to grow. I want to consciously become better at living with hope, mercy, truth, and love…always striving to be a softer, richer, deeper, wiser, and better version of myself. 

Sounds, Seasons + Scents

On the day of Sacred Spaces, I touched a little on how Lach is a part of who I am and that thoughts of him are never too far away. He’s in the dragonfly that passes by, the sunrise, and the play of a group of boys. He’s in church, in every 10 month old baby, and in my nephews. He’s in the smell of baby spit-up, CeraVe lotion, and the stain of the chest that holds his belongings. He’s in the song on the radio, in the family of 4 boys and a girl, and in the question of “how many kids do you have?”

Spring is a notable “Lachlan” time. May and June are my special Lach months. We came home from his funeral to a tree bursting with beautiful pink flowers. Every year my chest aches and my eyes get leaky when the trees start to bloom. I find it fascinating that the ache of the season is knit right into my bones. I will FEEL the ache or the unrest often before I have really even recognized that it’s coming. It’s often only after I’m trying to figure out what my problem is that I remember it’s because the trees are blooming and May is right around the corner. There’s something almost comforting in that for me…it’s not just my head that remembers him, but my body does too. Lach’s birthday is in June, so naturally that is the time for special memories of the joy he brought to us. We use May and June to do the Run for Their Lives events to honor his birth and death.

There is something mysterious in the passing of seasons. When spring comes around, time can somehow both stand forever still and continue to move forward. It brings both remembrance and growth. An honor to what was and a nudge to keep moving. The picture is of my beautiful niece and the Kansas Lachlan tree. It is a striking reflection of that quirky way time stands still and moves by leaps and bounds all in the very same moment.

Pearls of Wisdom

My message today for the newly bereaved is simply this. You are going to be ok. I know, it doesn’t feel like it. When you are in that new grief and your body physically hurts, when every single moment and thought is entirely consumed by the torment of not having your child in your arms. Your world is shattered and nothing is ok. When you hurt so much that it seems your heart should simply stop beating in your chest. When the idea of living the next 60 years on this planet without your baby is unbearable, it doesn’t feel like it can actually ever be ok again.

I can think of numerous occasions where I’ve met with someone who just lost a baby. When someone asks me how they’re doing, my answer is often, “they are going to be ok, they just don’t know it yet.” There’s no timeline for getting back to good, but it takes a LONG time. You can’t really even perceive that it’s happening, but it does. One day, you’ll just look back and be able to say, “I still miss him, but I’m ok!”

Before Lach died, I viewed happiness and sadness as opposites. Two sides of a coin that can’t both be experienced simultaneously. I know differently now. I can be both sad and abundantly happy at the same time and because of the same event. I always miss Lach and thoughts of him are never too far away, but sadness doesn’t overpower my days anymore. Even on the days I really miss him, I’m ok.

Eventually, you can be even more than just “ok.” You will be happy, fulfilled, content with this life you’ve been given, and able to be joyful with life’s experience. That’s really an understanding that only time can give you. You’ll never be the same, but if you want happiness again, it is yours for the taking, just by making choices most days that lead you by baby steps in that direction.

Relationships

I was really fortunate that I didn’t have anything major that came up along the way that severed any relationships. However, after the death of a child, there is a noticeable shift in relationships. Several relationships simply dissolved. Many new relationships formed. These new relationships that were built out of the loss were built on things that leave a lasting mark. There is something unique about those relationships. They are people that I feel a meaningful connection to, people who I would do just about anything for, and people who are more than just casual friends.

I’ve spent some time in the last couple days reflecting on what makes those relationships unique. It isn’t time spent together, some of the people I feel closer to are people that I rarely get to see. It isn’t necessarily common losses. I do feel a special connection with many other bereaved moms, but not all of them, and I do feel particularly connected to several people who have not experienced any significant loss at all. So where is the difference made?

I think the key is vulnerability and the stronger relationships are with people I’ve been able to share my weakness with. When your child dies, you are suddenly thrust into an extraordinary state of vulnerability, whether you like it or not. You are charting new territory, emotions are big and raw, and your sense of security is torn. There is always a sense that you are being watched by those around you in the same way that people can’t help but stare at the train wreck as they pass by. There is so much vulnerability in that. No matter how much you try to guard yourself, you can’t entirely do it.

There are some people who pass by the train wreck, sympathetic and concerned, but who choose to keep moving. There are others who stop what they are doing, push up their sleeves and slip in beside you to help with the clean-up. Those people became vulnerable themselves by stepping into my nightmare. They chose to look this broken woman in the eye knowing that this tragedy could just as easily been their own. There was nothing I did to deserve or cause this. There was no way to prevent it and it could have been them instead of me. It takes courage to look that in the eye and not run the other direction. I think it’s exactly because of that mutual vulnerability that those special attachments were formed to those people who supported us through that loss, who looked out for us, helped us, and walked the journey with us. Vulnerability is not comfortable for anyone. It often means sharing the parts of yourself that you’re not very comfortable with, the very personal struggles, the fears, doubts, and imperfections that are part of our daily battle. However, as uncomfortable as it is, vulnerability is the stepping stone for meaningful human connection. When you can be truly open with someone and be loved and accepted anyway, there is depth in that friendship. There is strength in a relationship in which someone else has been willing to risk their own physical or emotional stability to be with you.

We have to be careful not to lose touch with what vulnerability brings to our lives. In our world of technology it is easy to let our interactions with each other take place on a superficial level. We enjoy the time together, but never really ask the tough questions and we aren’t very willing to really bear ourselves to others. It’s easier to send a text when you can calculate the response than accept the unknowns of what a real conversation might bring. On Facebook, we can share tidbits of our lives and feel like we somehow know what people are up to, but we only ever see one side of that coin. It becomes a place where we can present only the parts of us that we want to show the world. We don’t share the ugliness of our lives. We are never really vulnerable. Like the tree that needs to embrace the vulnerability of winter and let go of those last leaves in order to continue to thrive and grow, we also need to embrace our vulnerability in order to grow. It is In our weakness that our greatest strengths are found. When we can stop what we’re doing, push up our sleeves, and be courageous enough to be vulnerable, we open ourselves to meaningful relationships, and to genuine love, joy, acceptance, and fulfillment.

Gratitude

In this picture, Lach had just spit up all over David’s face. It was in his eyelashes and pooled in his ear. At the moment, David didn’t think it was quite as hilarious as the rest of us did, but oh, what he would give to be puked on by that boy again!

Gratitude changes everything. In the deepest grief, it softens some of the edges. Other people can’t coax you into an attitude of thankfulness, it has to grow from within. Gratitude is not really a natural first response in the days that follow the death of a child. It’s like standing in a bright room and suddenly the world goes dark. It takes some time for your eyes to adjust before you can start seeing the little lights of things to be grateful for. It’s thankfulness for the time we were given, for a peaceful death, for compassionate medical staff and funeral coordinators, for the abundance of support, for a few hours of sleep, for a Puff’s plus tissue that doesn’t hurt your nose, for the person who is there to greet guests and make coffee…

Finding gratitude as the griever is helpful, but it’s the gratitude of the rest of the world that I want to talk more about today. As a mother who has just buried a child, it is unbearable to hear someone complain about just about anything. Complaints from others about mundane ordinary discomforts will knock the wind out of a newly bereaved mom. When your child was just torn from your life, it seems heartless of others complain about having to clean up after their kids, the thing a spouse did to irritate them, the weather, a bad hair day, or a nasty cold that will be gone in a few days. It is especially maddening for a mother, who is missing her child with her whole being, to hear others complain about the frustrations of caring for children. When you would give anything to clean up the floor for the 100th time today, to have your child vomit on your lap, to argue incessantly about which coat is appropriate for the day, or to get another drink of water for the child that won’t go to bed, it becomes clear how thankful we should be for even grating moments like that.

Don’t get me wrong, I am guilty of voicing those silly complaints both before Lach died, and even now, when I know better. When I’ve teasingly thrown out the comment that I’m ready to sell a child, I recoil at my own words…I would still give anything to have a moment like this with Lachlan. With a topic today of gratitude, my challenge for all of us is to approach the day with a heart that remembers how fragile and temporary life is. Consider a newly bereaved mother or the mother who knows that her child’s days are numbered as you look for things to be thankful for. We all need reminders to step back and see the big picture, otherwise it’s too easy to take for granted the things we should be most grateful for. 
We all need to recognize the duty to be thankful for the simple and standard but most important things in our lives. In the wake of a death it becomes crystal clear that the single most important thing to appreciate is the presence of the people in our lives, imperfections and all. We also need to take the time to genuinely appreciate a healthy body, a warm house, a secure job, reliable transportation, and an abundance of food. These things are not guaranteed to us, and in one sudden tragedy those things that are so easily overlooked can be gone.

Lastly, we have to challenge ourselves to look for the opportunities to be thankful in the little irritations of the day. Let me be thankful for the opportunity to take my child to the doctor for a well-child visit--even if that means a long wait in the waiting room, for the opportunity to sit in the freezing rain to watch my child play a flag football game, to read the same story for the millionth time, to sweep the floor again. Let me remember to be thankful for the cozy bed and the child to send back to it for the 6th time that night, for the piles of homework, for the Lego I stepped on, for the laundry that is never done, for the little voice that says “Mommy!” and interrupts the task at hand.

Gratitude changes the world that we see. It dissolves the irritations and fills that space with joy. Who doesn’t want that?