Friday, January 27, 2012
When Someone You Love Grieves
Recently, someone stumbled across my blog and sent me an E-mail. They said within the last few days, they had lost their son. I'm not sure how. What matters most right now is that they are hurting.
I can't stress enough how important it is to reach out and love someone who has lost a child. And if it's by suicide, then that can matter more to everyone involved: you, family, friends, acquaintances.
Here's where the problem lies.
Some people are so afraid to say something wrong they do nothing at all. Noticed I said do, and not say, for to say something helps little, but to do something is a gift. The hurting parent or sibling can barley think let alone ask for help.
Don't kid yourself, they need help.
People from our neighborhood showed up with food. They didn't ask, they showed up. I so appreciated them. Friends called and wanted to know what time to drop by a meal. I needed that, because it showed they weren't afraid to associate with me. The taboo of a suicide, in my home even, didn't stop them from coming around.
These are the people I will always remember and love.
Send the hurting one a living plant, a card, a book on grieving.
We received the sweetest, heart-felt cards and I've kept them all.
One friend took over a month to come to my house. When she did, her sorrow for me oozed. I could tell that was one of the hardest things she's ever done. To visit me. I loved her all the more, and I found myself acting strong, so she wouldn't feel worse.
It's what we do when we love and we're able. If she had caught me on a horrible, no good, bad day, nothing could have stopped my tears.
Another dear friend had just lost her father. She could not go to Joshua's memorial. What she did do? Met me for lunch over a period of six months. I cried during our lunches, and she listened. I drew strength from her, and we talked about our losses.
What I want to say to the person that contacted me by E-mail after her son died?
Know that I am praying for you. Every day. That I care about you. That I've walked in your boots, am walking. There are no words, just that I can listen if you wish to call.
When you're ready.
And just because it's been over seven years since my son died, it feels like yesterday and I still remember.
God bless you, Dear Mother, and I hope you come back around to read this.
Until next time . . . breathe . . .