The Third Year After Child loss You Finally Begin to Walk Again

“This is what the third year of child loss looks like: A wobbly, wounded mama limping along, next to her new friend Grief.”

The second year is so terribly difficult and horrific that the third year after child loss feels so much lighter. It’s not that the pain has dissipated or is any lighter. It’s just that you’ve learned to carry the heavy weight just a tad better.

Instead of being shocked by the immense pain, you anticipate it. You know that it’ll be tougher before anniversaries and holidays. You’re prepared for the sharp pain you get when you see your child’s favorite article of clothing or when you pass the door to their room. When you’re in church and you hear the song played at your child’s funeral, you sit and allow the pain of the song to move through your body. You no longer fight the pain. Instead, you ask what this grief can do for you.

It can soothe the part of you that misses your child. If you close your eyes gently, the grief is like a lullaby reminding you of your child’s mischievous grin. You and he have an agreement, and you’ve learned it works so much better than arguing.

The third year after losing your child, you finally begin to walk. You’re wobbly and it’s painful. You don’t feel ready. You never feel ready. But, you know you can’t stay where you’re at. The weight of death is too heavy. So, with every effort of your being, you get up.

You’ll fall several times, but slowly you begin to walk.

Where to? Nobody knows, not even you. This is what the third year of child loss looks like: a wobbly, wounded mama limping along, next to her new friend Grief.

Here’s a glimpse into the third year after my child son, Josh, died.

Year 3 {The Walk} – The Third Year After My Child Died

---

This is part of a series of posts called A Grieving Mother’s Diary. Each post (representing a particular year) includes five excerpts I wrote during that year. May you find solace in knowing you’re not alone, Friend. Blessings to you. – Rachel

---

Day 719 – Getting Over the Guilt {The importance of Admitting It}

“Admit the thing the enemy keeps throwing in your face. Then, remind him (and yourself) that God already knows.”

One of the things I’ve had to do since the passing of my son was to admit my imperfection. I am not perfect. I could have done things differently. I’ve had days where I didn’t do my best. Some may find these phrases troublesome, but I found and continue to find healing in them.

I needed to say them and I desperately needed those around me to allow me to say them. I am a mom whose son died just a few feet below her while she slept. You see, as soon as I found him, in an instant, my imperfection began shouting at me.

I was barraged mentally with things that could have been done differently. Mistakes from years earlier, regardless how minuscule, rushed through my mind. Silly things.

Yet, almost each time I tried to share, I was told the contrary. “You did the best you could. There’s nothing you could have done differently.” And, the pain got worse. The burden grew heavier. The shame overpowered me, as I felt I was hiding the truth.

The truth was I wasn’t perfect, and no one seemed to believe me. There’s always something you could have done differently. Every single one of us could have put the opposite arm in our shirt first today. We could have dipped the cookie in the milk instead of drinking from the mug. There’s always something. And to someone who’s lost so very much, those things seem huge.

Things began to turn around when I was given the opportunity to admit it. — Admit the thing the enemy keeps throwing in your face. Then, remind him (and yourself) that God already knows. In fact, He knew before you knew. He may have whispered it in your ear. He knew exactly how you were going to respond in those crazy moments.

He loved you before.

He loved you after.

And, He still loves you.

Does it stop the sadness? The pain? No, but the shame, the heavy shame is released, and it is absolutely essential to your healing.

To the mom who fell asleep holding your child and now she’s gone. It’s okay. It’s okay not to be perfect, and it’s okay to admit it. You didn’t mean it. God knew before you and He loves you. Always has.

To the dad who buried his son. It’s okay. Yes, you guys argued sometimes. You were hard on him at the baseball games. You worked most weekends and now realized you could have spent that time with him. It’s okay. You only wanted the best for your son. It’s okay not to be perfect. Nobody is. No, not even me.

To the little brother who left the gate open to the pool and now your baby sister is gone. It’s okay, Sweetie. It was a mistake and we all make them. And, guess what? God loves you BIG! And… so do I. — (Get to the it’s not your fault part a few sentences later. He won’t believe you anyway. This is a process. Right now, just shower him with love, and help him address what he’s feeling. Don’t tell him he did his best. He knows he didn’t. But, none of us do on a day-to-day basis, and no one dies. This just happened. That gate’s been left open before, and no one died.)

To Rachel. To the sweet mother who found her son and instantly realized what she didn’t know before, it’s okay. “Forgive yourself for not knowing what you didn’t know before you learned it.“ God already knew. He knew exactly what you would and wouldn’t do and He still loves you.

Day 786 – Choosing to Get Up {The Word is a Weapon}

This is my front door. No joke.

Yeah, it’s a verse.

I was going through the hardest thing in my life and for some reason my husband was taping these silly verses all around the house. I was so annoyed each time I saw them. They just made it blatantly clear that he wasn’t grieving the same as me.

Soon, our arguments involved “my” son instead of our son. You see, everyone of his biological children were alive and well… my son was gone. We’d already lost my son’s father; a death you feel like is politically incorrect to grieve though it hurts all the same.

I felt like my entire past, everything I was, my deepest parts were being stripped away; erased like they never existed. And, I’m stuck with index cards taped to my wall.

“Greater is He who is in you.”

Do you really think I care? I don’t care who’s in me, and I don’t care who’s in the world. All I know is my son’s not here. Full of insight, excitement about tomorrow, flowing with fresh ideas, and goals… he had goals. So many goals. I wanted to rip those stupid cards down and throw them in his face. But, at the end of the day, I didn’t see the point in that either. Nothing mattered. Nothing.

What was the point?

Saturdays were the worst day of the week. I didn’t have work or church to get me up and dressed. I would wail aloud for no less than 3-4 hours each Saturday morning. I didn’t recognize the noise exuding from my body. It was pure pain. It just hurt.

Gradually, after lots of hard work and therapy, once I could look in the mirror, I began noticing the cards on the wall. They still annoyed me and reminded me of our differences in grief. In fact, a lot of them have been taken down. It still really hurts, but I understand. He grieves differently and it’s very common between spouses. Yet another complexity of the loss of a child.

Something happened. I wish I could say what, but I was ready. I wasn’t ready to leave Josh, wasn’t ready to live without him. But, I was ready to leave some of the pain behind. No one could make me. But, God let me know it was time to put my feet on the floor.

I still want Josh back. Saying that makes me tear up. I want Doug and Daniel [Josh’s dad and uncle who died the year before] back. I want everything to be back to normal. But, I can’t change that.

I thought this post was going to be a bit more feisty, but this is what came out. It’s the truth. There wasn’t any fight in me. Those index cards or people telling me to get it together didn’t make me move one bit.

You see, God knew exactly when to challenge me. Perhaps, that man lay there by the pool all that time because Jesus knew he wasn’t ready to move. I don’t know, but I know if He’d asked me one day earlier I would have said, “You’re out of your mind.” But, He knew that day I’d try.

When I placed those two wobbly feet on the floor it was painful. My emotions were all over the place. I made a few index cards of my own. Soon, I realized that wasn’t cutting it. I needed to specifically attack the lies that were being thrown at me. Each time one soared in, I’d identify it then attack it with God’s Word.

My steps strengthened. Sometimes, this is what getting up looks like. It’s taking God at His word. My child died.

God knows.

He patiently waits for me to come to the end of myself, catching every tear. He inhabits the praises I lift up to him, no matter how feeble they sound; knowing that they’ll get stronger as the song continues. At the right moment, the moment only He knows, He’ll challenge me to take Him at His word and get up. Then, He’ll equip me to fight.

Friend, fight! Fight with the Word of God.

Trust it.

Believe it.

Speak it!

Replace the fear with truth.

Pray into your circumstances the Word of God. Some of you are fighting a different type of battle. It’s a different thing to fight after you’ve lost something precious than it is to fight in order to keep something precious. Let me tell you, if it were the other way around, if I were fighting to keep Josh here, no one… no one could keep me down. Use your weapons. Don’t give up.

Day 801 – The Grandbaby and Niece {Bittersweet Visits}

Proud of us this year. Proud of me.

• 

• 

• 

Spending time with his nephew is bittersweet knowing he was less than a month shy of meeting him. Knowing he’ll never give us grandchildren, which he would have been so good with, hurts. It’s right there beneath the surface. Acceptance of all of this is something you do as you live through moments like these: holidays, birthdays, weddings, and other milestones. To a bereaved mother, the holidays are entangled with so much more than food and friends. Yes, I’m proud of myself this year. I did a hard thing.♥️

Day 812 – Telling My Story {One Day I’ll Do it Well}

One day I’ll know how to tell the story with the love I have in my heart. I’ll share it with grace in small, intimate spaces; perhaps over a cup of tea. I’ll tell the story of beauty from ashes and unlikely redemption, which I have faith will come.

One day, I’ll have enough practice. I’ll have the words, and I’ll spot the potholes from several miles away. But, for now, I’ll just breathe. I’ll breathe and know that it’s okay. I’ll remind myself that no one reading this has the perfect words, nor could they tell this story better than me. Though I feel ill equipped, I remind myself that you would be too. Neither of us have done this before, and I’m sure you’re grateful you don’t have to.

I have to remind myself that there was a day I couldn’t walk; couldn’t manage. But today, I am. I’m walking. I’m just not quite sure where. What do you want me to do with this, God? This narrow, dusty path embraced with overgrown, limber weeds; where will it end?

I feel my lace hemmed skirt gently brush against me as I appear to confidently walk this scarce path. Every now and then, I hear a slight crunch from the dry grass, beneath my feet, inching itself over the dusty way. I stretch my arms out, and I look to the sky… and I exhale. There was a time I couldn’t walk. But today, I can. And, I will continue knowing that God knows every hard thing ahead of me, and

He’s equipped me well. His plans for me are good, and He delights in me. He comforts me and prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies. I am not alone. And, I walk. Ever so gently, I trust that He’ll get me there. I trust that He will give me the strength and boldness to conquer unknown territory.

But, then I hear a crinkling; the familiar crinkling of dry grass beneath my feet. Listening closer, I hear quiet, delightful chitter chatter. I glance back, and smile at what I see. It’s Goodness and Mercy. Little did I know these sneaky girls had been following me this entire time. We embrace each other with a quick hug, and layout a blanket in the quaint field. Warmth and peace overflow my spirit. Loneliness retreats. I breathe, and I tell my story with Mercy leaning on my shoulder.♥️

Day 849 – A Stone of Remembrance {Walking}

When I look at this picture, I smile. I’m so proud of myself in this picture. Proud of us. Yes, I look a hot mess. I’d been crying most of the day. Silently. But, tears flowed down my face. It didn’t matter what I was doing, this sadness had simply decided to overwhelm me. Every now and then, I would get this piercing, sharp, warmness in my heart. Simultaneously, my brain would react as if I’d just realized Josh had died. It hurt, and it stunk. I felt devastated all over again.

Eventually, we decided to get out. The kids ecstatically wanted the house to themselves, so it was just the two of us. When I look at this picture, I see myself standing. I see myself walking on my own two feet to the car. I remember a time I couldn’t do that. Couldn’t find an ounce of desire to do so. We got popcorn, and I tapped a stranger on the shoulder and nicely asked for a picture. I hadn’t arrived, but I knew this was a good moment, and I wanted to remember. I was walking.

God tells us to remember a myriad of things. I remember early in this walk, I’d cry out to Him in the shower, asking Him to remind me who I was. What I saw was so hurtful, ugly, and unforgiveable. I needed this just to get my day started. Remember. Remember where you’ve been and take delight that you’re a little bit further. Remember who you are; who He’s created you to be. Remember who He is. He is your source for all things good, your healer, your sustainer, comforter. Eat the bread. Drink from the cup. Place a stone of remembrance. A marker. A picture. And, remember.

Be encouraged when you are hit by various trials. You can activate this mindset simply by looking back, choosing to see His faithfulness, and remembering it as you move forward (regardless how quickly or slowly that may be — no condemnation — Right?) God’s got this. He’s got you! And sometimes, the best way to learn is through a trial. Look back. Persevere. It will one day be your momentum; the reason you tap that stranger on the shoulder and ask for a sweet picture, a memory… even if you’re a hot mess. 😉

© Rachel Blado www.OnTheWayToWhereYoureGoing.com All rights reserved.

Year 2 <—-