Sometimes I hear prayer requests and have the guilty thought that I’m thankful whatever happened didn’t happen to me. If you’ve never felt like this, congratulations — you’re a better person than I am. Over the past couple of years, however, the major prayer requests seem to be mine.

Experiencing tragedy often prepares us to comfort others who face the same. I appreciate how certain aspects of my personal story enable me to connect with other women and the readers at (in)courage. Still, I never would have chosen to identify deeper with those who’ve experienced the death of a child.

Yet here I am, muddling through the stages of grief as I process our oldest daughter’s recent death while adapting our home to raise her three young children permanently — enforcing naptime with a stubborn toddler, enrolling a child in camp for kindergarteners, and marking the first day of school on the calendar (again).

I’m not only mourning my daughter, but also the loss of freedom and uninterrupted writing time I had gained as our children aged. Perhaps this is a natural response, but these feelings leave me weighed down with guilt.

All of us will experience periods of grief, or times when we hope to comfort someone who’s grieving. As someone in the midst of it, here are some helpful things that people have done to help me and my family:

• Organize a meal train
• Set up a GiveSendGo or GoFundMe if there’s a need
• Lend vases and picture frames for the funeral or celebration of life.
• Text your friend when you think of them, but don’t expect an answer. (I’ve hearted a lot of messages when writing a response felt overwhelming.)

When you want to help, be specific. If you offer to babysit, I may never take you up on it, even if I believe you’re sincere. But if you say, “I’m available to watch the kids on Tuesday or Friday night if you need a night out,” or if you volunteer to take the kids to get ice cream and hang out at the park (like the text I received today), I’ll probably take you up on it.

If you’re the one grieving and people want to help, let them. A friend delivered a set of stackable cups because the chaos in my cabinets was more than I could handle. Another left a pack of chip clips in my mailbox so I could close all the open bags. They brought these random things because I asked for them, and they made my life easier.

Every little bit helps when your life has spun out of control.

Find someone you can talk to honestly and openly, who can handle anything you say. My sister, a therapist, and my future son-in-law have been especially helpful in this regard. Grief is lonely, and the emotions aren’t just messy; sometimes, they’re downright ugly.

You won’t sleep well. You’ll make stupid mistakes and forget things. Give yourself grace.

Permit yourself to grieve in your own way. Someone donated a bunk bed with a twin on top and a full on the bottom for our grandkids, which is a better option than a seven-year-old girl, a five-year-old boy, and a two-year-old boy sharing a queen-sized bed in our guest room. Three days before our daughter’s celebration of life event, I bought new bedding and paint to make the grandchildren’s room feel fresh, welcoming, and most of all, permanent.

My children urged me to paint the room later, since we had a house full of company, and our grandchildren would spend the following week out of state with our son’s family for some time with their cousins. But I wanted to save those quieter days for grieving our daughter’s death and processing the sudden changes in our life with fewer distractions. Not everyone understood my decision, but for me, it was the right call.

Because I’ve been through it myself, I relate to women who’ve miscarried a baby or suffered the pain and loss of freedom from broken bones and surgery. Someday, maybe I’ll be a sympathetic ear for those who are experiencing what I’m going through now, like a few women who’ve reached out to me. But not now; it’s too fresh.

Not all pain is relatable to all people, but because Jesus came to earth in human form, He has an intimate understanding of grief, suffering, and loss. None of my emotions are too big or unwieldy for Jesus. Whatever I confess, He can handle. He comprehends my pain. He understands this unyielding loss.

Sorrow sneaks up when I least expect it. It’s embedded in photographs, pieces of clothing, a familiar expression on a child’s face. I don’t feel angry with God. He never promised me a life free from suffering. But I believe He’s the security that will keep me from bending until I break. May God bless you all.

 

Listen to Dawn’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast anywhere you stream.

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