Posts Tagged ‘grief’

May 2nd, 2012

Of Ripped Canvas and Thankfulness

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About a year ago, I finally painted a long-bare canvas. I inscribed on it a poem I’d written. This art piece was in memory of our heaven-dwelling babies. I’ve had this canvas in my office at school all year. It’s precariously balanced on an electrical outlet, waiting to be more securely attached to the wall.

Today, that canvas fell, not for the first time, but this time, it met the corner of my desk, resulting in a gash. I was meeting with a student at the time. At first I was bewildered, then angry, then deaf to all that Beka was saying. And then I started crying. I don’t think poor Beka quite knew what to do. I wanted to show my broken canvas to Mari Ellen—she’d appreciated this piece of memorial lament—but she wasn’t there to sorrow with me.

That canvas is the most personally significant memorial I have of my kids. Seeing it abruptly torn, jerked to the surface my hibernating sorrow. For the rest of the day, I was exhausted and slow-moving. It’s funny how such a small thing can summon the heavy, familiar weight of grief. I didn’t expect this small incident to cause such a strong reaction.

Tomorrow, I’ll be participating in the Senior Transition Seminar. It’s a time for Seniors to process saying goodbye to BFA and transitioning to college life. I’ll be talking to the girls about relationships in college. Tonight, while thinking over what to say, my thoughts turned to all of the girls who I’ll be interacting with.

I like these 30 girls. A lot.

I have one month left with them. One more month to enjoy their smiles. One more month to hear their thoughts. One more month to laugh until I cry at their quirky humor. One more month to hug them. One more month share their lives while I can touch and see and smell and hold them. And then they’ll be gone. Off to places all across the world. I may never see them again. And that makes me so very sad. I don’t want BFA sans them.

I was thinking, just before writing this post, about that torn canvas and how sad it made me, how it affected my day. And I rather surprised myself by saying, “Thank you God that I’m sad about that canvas.” I had to consider why I was thankful.

Thank you, God, that I loved, and love, my children. Thank you, God, that I remember them through art. Thank you that these things are meaningful to me because these people are meaningful to me. Thank you that my life is filled with people I love. Thank you, God, that I care about these senior girls, who will soon be moving on to bigger and better things. Thank you that I will miss them. Thank you, God, that my hurt comes from deep love. Thank you for filling my life with things so good, people so good, that I miss them when they’re gone.

April 16th, 2012

Invisible Things

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This morning I found myself dazed while attending an all-staff meeting. I sat. I stared. I payed no attention to the conversations going on around me. At one point, I thought how familiar this felt. I felt this way all of last year.

Grief is like pea soup. It’s thick, it’s heavy, and, Israel would say, it tastes like dirt.

A little over a week ago, a friend and BFA colleague passed away unexpectedly. Mari Ellen Reeser had worked at BFA for over 20 years. Most recently, she was BFA’s sole counselor.

Mari Ellen was my friend. We lived in her house last year, and I was terrified of her. That year was incredibly difficult, and I felt so very guilty about the state of our home. It wasn’t clean, and we’d managed to break more things in those few months than I had in my entire life. But Mari Ellen was gracious. She wrote in an email, “PEOPLE are always more important than THINGS!! It’s the invisible things (like souls!) which are eternal. The visible is passing away!!”

When Israel and I finally met Mari Ellen in a local cafe, I was shocked by how very loud she was and by how often she laughed—loudly.

Over the past year, Mari Ellen has been my safe place, my sanity. I’ve had a lot of conversations with girls about things I was required to report. I hate reporting. It feels like a betrayal. But I can’t think of a better person to report to than Mari Ellen. She was ever gracious. She was always loving. She was always patient. She did was what necessary, and she did what was best.

Most of the “reported” girls didn’t like Mari Ellen. They felt threatened by her. She was the bad guy. Apart from their one or two required meetings with Mari Ellen, they usually chose to see me exclusively. But Mari Ellen didn’t seem to mind. She was never jealous, or petty, or unkind. She wanted to work through the avenues that God was using, whether that was me, her, or someone else.

Mari Ellen was the only person I could talk with openly about my girls. With her, I didn’t have to disguise identities, talk around an issue, or be vague. I could express my confusion, and hurt, and heartache about the pain and suffering these girls experienced. She always offered advice on how to proceed. She always encouraged me in the ways that God was working in and through me. She always prayed for me and for our students.

I’ve only really felt the loss of Mari Ellen once so far. It stills seems unreal that she’s not here. I expect that it will begin to seem very real tomorrow, while attending her memorial service. And the next day, when I meet with the students she cared for. And in a few weeks, when someone tells me something I’m required to report.

I am sad that Mari Ellen is no longer here. I am sad that she’s no longer here to care for our students. I’m sad that she’s left a hole in so many of my friends’ lives. I’m sad that she’s no longer just a few steps away, when it seems like all of my questions have meshed into one great knot that I’d like her to help untie.

But I’m not sad for her. She is dancing with the Holy Trinity now (an idea she once told me passionately about). She is holding my Blueberry and Beatrice until I can. She knows the complete healing and wholeness of eternity. As she referenced all those months ago, her visibleness has passed away, but her soul is eternal.


I wrote this poem over Christmas Break. Now seems like a good time to share it. Unfortunately, I couldn’t copy the formatting without hours of work, so you’ll have to read it as is.

 

A Boxing Day Reflection
By Dani Jernigan

There are moments
and days
and years
that are shot through
with such exquisite sadness
that they must be strings to somewhere else.

They must be threads
that tie the shattered and murky
to the solid and clear,
where there are answers to the
why? and
how long? and
how come?

Where every heartache
and teardrop
and bloody heart-spasm
is perfectly reflected as a glorious groan
that sings forth
honor
glory
redemption
love.

For when we are huddled
in masses on the ground,
alone and aching and raw,
there must be a holy reflection on the other side,
that shows someone beside us,
whispering words of comfort,
weeping tears of heartache,
giving embraces that don’t let go
until we awake
to see the arms that have been holding us
all along.

Surely,
each empty seat
twinkling light
hug from father to daughter
and belly swollen with promise
that makes my brittle heart creak
connects me to a pool
of longing
and hope
and expectation
that is millennia old
where ancient souls come
to remember their sadness
and rejoice
at their joy realized.

Surely,
each empty womb
branded cheek
bruised body
and whimpering child
flies to a bottomless pool of compassion
that forever hides in our Father’s heart,
where he comes
to remember his children
and their great cares,
where he weeps tears of
compassion
brokenness
love
that mingle with our own
to form a sadness so rich
it can only be holy
and precious
and meant for a place
where we are loved
and never alone
and always wanted.

May the balm of that place reach us even here.

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March 11th, 2011

Goodbye, Baby

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Several of you have asked how the High School Retreat went. Unfortunately, we can only tell you what we’ve heard from others, because we didn’t go.

We had another miscarriage.

 

I don’t really know what to say….

 

We were seven weeks pregnant. I’d known I was pregnant pretty much since conception. I’d felt better about this pregnancy because I’d had morning sickness. I’d even looked at names, which I didn’t do last time. The one that kept running through my head was Beatrice, which means “bringer of joy.”

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October 2nd, 2010

A Day in Holzen

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In case I haven’t told you lately, I love living in Germany.

It’s beautiful. I’ve never lived in a cleaner place. Every building has delightful flowers and gardens. I believe that over 25% of Germany is set aside as green space.

It’s simple. Every few days I walk three minutes to the grocery store to buy a couple (reusable) bags of groceries. We walk to school almost every day. I can buy a big bottle of mineral water for 19 cents. Doing official things (like bank transfers, car registrations, and even surgery) is so much less complicated than it is in the States.

It’s nostalgic. Every time I drive past a swath of forest, I’m reminded of looking at the same forest as a child. Today, I saw a booth of puppets and stared for several minutes while I remembered the puppets of my childhood. Last week, I played on a fantastic wood and rope play ground. It was so much more fun and imaginative than the plastic and metal contraptions that fill the States.

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September 22nd, 2010

In the Valley of the Shadow of Death

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Please read this entire post. Thanks.


This post is my heart. It is raw. It is bloody. It is desolate. But I want you to see it anyway, because this is real. We are going through a deep hurt. We are walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I’ve never understood what that meant, but I do now, because I can see death looming up next to me.

I’m sharing this with you because you are important to us. I want you to know what is going on in my heart. I want you to share in our sorrow, so that you can one day rejoice with us too. I feel like I should ask something of you when you read this, but I don’t know what that would be. I’ve found great healing in being honest and vulnerable, perhaps this is a part of my healing, or yours.

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December 9th, 2009

Grief

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Hopefully you know by now (unless you’ve just stumbled across our blog) that we are planning to work with missionary kids at Black Forest Academy. As part of our preparation, I’ve been reading (rather slowly) Third Culture Kids by David Pollock and Ruth Van Reken. Missionary kids are third culture kids (TCKs), which means they’ve spent a significant period of their formative years outside their passport countries. I’ve also been going to counseling for the past few months. One of the things that keeps coming up, in the book and counseling, is grief.

I moved a lot growing up. I believe I moved 12 times in my first 14 years of life. I don’t know if I technically qualify as a TCK, but I do relate to some of the aspects of TCK life. One thing I’d never realized is that there is a grieving process to moving. Let me tell you, that was an eye-opening chapter. According to the book, the transition cycle for moving is Involvement, Leaving, Transition, Entering and Reinvolvment. Okay, in and of itself, that doesn’t really mean much. The wow moment for me was reading about the Leaving stage, which isn’t talking about getting on a plane and heading to your new home, although that’s part of it, but about emotionally removing yourself from your home. You begin to loosen emotional ties, back out of responsibilities and refrain from taking new ones, and stop making new friends.

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