10 Things I Wish People Knew About My Grief

It’s been almost 11 months since the worst day of my life. That’s what I call it. The worst day. Maybe because plainly stating the reality is just too hard at the moment. Maybe it’s just a form of protection for my shattered heart. Maybe it’s simply denial. Whatever the reason, that’s where I’m at.

I’m learning so much in this unthinkable season of life. Many things I never wanted to learn. Many things I still don’t understand.

Probably never will this side of heaven. Some things here will not make sense in this broken and tattered world we live in. It’s all upside down.

I’ve thought many times about sitting down to hash out all the thoughts and feelings swirling around in my heart like a raging sea after a terrible storm. Wild and unpredictable. Terrifying and overwhelming. But maybe, just maybe starting to drag some of those things out from under the rolling waves and examining them will bring a bit of clarity. I don’t honestly know what to expect to finally begin writing again. I’m just going to dive in. I think it’s time.

I know one primary reason I’ve held back is because I don’t want to come across as a know-it-all. Or worse, viewed as being passive aggressive because I’ve been hurt and want to school some people. In fact, much of what I’ve been grappling with I know I’m guilty of. I know I’ve responded poorly or with insensitive remarks trying to help a grieving and wounded soul. If we’re honest, we’ve all failed each other in this way at times.

However, that doesn’t mean we can’t learn. That doesn’t mean we can’t do better. We must do better! Our Western culture has a long way to go in caring for broken people. And I am trying to examine what is wrong, what is unhelpful, what is damaging, and why.

I can attest that I certainly don’t know it all, far from it. In fact, this grief journey has shown me how much I really don’t understand. How many things I used to think have now been challenged. But I thought it could be helpful to explore some of these things together. To get conversation going about the things we don’t like to talk about. So here goes:

1. Grief is not a sickness or disease to be cured or healed from. There is no solution to take away my pain. No pill concocted you can give me that will help me feel better in X amount of time. No advice or well wishes that can relieve the ache in my heart. I am mourning and don’t need to be fixed! I need love and support.

2. Just because something is true doesn’t mean it’s helpful. I think as Christians we are especially guilty of this. I am guilty of this. Sharing some doctrinal truth with a hurting soul is probably not what they need at the moment. Throwing out some general statements about God’s character or timing or working things out for my good has mostly been more hurtful than healing.

I’m already struggling with my thoughts about God, my beliefs, my faith, and what happened. So saying these things, even though they are true, have further complicated my already shaken soul. It’s like adding another layer that piles on to the grief I’m already experiencing.

3. Trying to put a positive spin on my suffering can feel like you’re trying to dismiss my pain. Have you ever heard the expression, “read the room?” Before sharing something you believe will be helpful, think about where I am in my grief journey. Is this something my hurting soul needs at the moment?

Of course no human can fully know exactly what someone needs. Only God is omniscient. But if you don’t know where I’m currently struggling, maybe you shouldn’t say those things to me. Truth is best received when it’s carried over a bridge of trust that’s been built between two people. The wise and persevering friend will know what is needed in the moment, and when.

4. Don’t tell me how I should be feeling. That comes across as insensitive and makes me feel misunderstood and judged. My feelings are often erratic and confusing. Most days I feel like I’m losing my mind since my whole world was blown apart in an instant.

For me and my family, it was like a mega bomb was dropped out of the sky from nowhere on May 8th. Everything blew up in a bazillion pieces. We’re just trying to catch our breath and put one injured foot in front of the other right now. We are exhausted! We have been traumatized sort of like a soldier coming back from war. What we need most is compassion, not correction.

5. I will never be the same. The loss of my husband has changed me in ways that no one can fully understand. The worst day, when Keith physically left this earth, was a definitive point in my life. It brought me into an unfamiliar and terrifying world I didn’t expect and can’t make sense of, no matter how hard I try.

My life will always have a distinct line between the me before and the me after the worst day. I was one with Keith. God joined us together on June 9, 1990. And when that relationship was suddenly snatched away, there’s no words to describe the ache and devastation that it has had on me. It seems to grow even greater the more time passes with some of the fog beginning to lift. Most days, I still can’t believe it and it can literally take my breath away.

6. Death is not something we need to make “nice” with. In fact, I find great comfort in what the Bible says about death. It tells us that not only is death an enemy (pretty strong language) but it’s the last enemy to be destroyed, thrown into the lake of fire. Done away with. Gone. No more. Praise God! Check out 1 Corinthians 15:26 and Revelation 20:14

Death is not how things were supposed to be. We were not originally created to be ripped apart from people we love and share our lives with. Every cell in my body and fiber of my being screams how wrong this all is. I hate it and you should too. I hate what it’s done to me. I hate what it’s done to my girls. My family is broken. We are missing our leader. Our husband. Our daddy. Our protector and provider. The way God created a family to be. It will never be whole again on this side of heaven. I despise physical death. It sucks in every way so please don’t try to make it sound nice.

7. You can and should offer hope. But I get it. This one is tricky. I don’t even fully understand it myself. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why some words feel like a positive spin while others feel more like hope. There’s all sorts of variables (this may even require a whole other blog). But here’s just a few of the main ones that come to my mind:Our relationship. Are we close? Do we have some history together?

* How much have you been there for me in my time of grief?

* Have you sat by my side and wept with me?

* Have you given me the freedom to express my heart without judgment or correction?

* Do I know for certain you are for me?

* What do I need at this moment? Words? A hug? A listening ear? Someone to say they hate what I’m going through?

8. I am fragile. That’s actually quite an understatement. I feel like an egg with a shell that’s been severely damaged – hairline cracks all throughout. If you barely tap it, the shell falls apart into a million pieces. It shatters so easily. I am sensitive. Hurting. I know that makes me kind of scary. Unpredictable. No fun to be around. I am not myself.

9. I need grace! Because I’m often so fragile, I’m responding to people and life in ways that are out of character for me. I’ve withdrawn somewhat from being around people. Sometimes I don’t answer my phone or respond to texts. Sometimes I make plans and then cancel them. Please be patient with me! I’m really just trying to survive and so some self-preservation is needed. My exposure to normal life and activities is very limited for now.

10. It may seem like I’m okay when you see me, but I can assure you, I’m not. I’m grieving 24/7. My sadness is constantly looming in my mind and heart. Even if you see me smile or laugh, I am not okay. I have cried every single day since the worst day. Some days more than others. I can’t tell you how many boxes of Kleenex we’ve been through in our home.

From the moment I open my eyes in the morning, to the time I crawl into my empty bed at night, I am sad. The past 10 ½ months have seemed like one long, sucky day. Like I’m just existing. I lost the love of my life of 33 years.

My home is so empty without him. Holding my daughters while they not just weep but actually wail because they miss their dad has taken me to a depth of pain I never knew existed. I am sad. Sadder than I’ve ever been. It’s the cost of love.

Sometimes I wish we would go back to the time when widows (still hate that word) wore all black for an entire year to remind people of this. To remind people that while their life has gone on like normal, mine has been forever changed.

So there you go. 10 things. I thought maybe it would be hard to come up with that many, but actually, I feel like I’m barely scratching the surface. I have a bunch more swirling around my mind right now. Maybe I’ll wrestle through more at another time.

But please know that my intention in sharing these things is not to shame anyone or act superior. Like I somehow understand grief so much better than everyone else. I don’t. Actually, the opposite is true. The more I walk through this dark valley, the more I realize how much I don’t understand. But, I’m clinging onto what I KNOW to be true, even though I may not feel it right now.

I know there is hope for my life still. I know that Keith is in heaven with Jesus and I will be reunited with him again. I know that the further along I get on this journey, I will be able to breathe a little easier. Learn to live a little more fully. But until then, whenever that will be, there is great mourning going on in my life and my girls lives. But please don’t give up on us! We need you more than you know!