Words Matter

Words have the ability to both hurt and heal. All of us know that, and yet we find ourselves saying hurtful things that we don't mean, often to the very people we love the most. We had a month long challenge at work last week,  and each of us choose something we wanted to improve on in our own lives. My challenge was not to "complain" at work or at home, for the entire month. I forced myself to think through everything that I wanted to say and decide both whether or not to say it out loud, and also whether or not it was kind, unkind, or even necessary. To say it was an eye-opening experience is quite the understatement. While I NEVER intend to be hurtful, I realized during the course of the challenge that my directness often comes across as complaining and can be perceived as unkind by the recipient if I'm not extremely careful. I learned all over again that "words matter", especially in the way that they are delivered, both in good ways and in bad.

After successfully finishing this challenge on Thursday, I was reminded again on Saturday that words matter for a very long time, albeit in a different way. While re-arranging my curio cabinet, I found a letter sent to us a couple of weeks after Mandy's death. I'd like to share it with you, not just because of the kind and wonderful things said about Mandy, but as a reminder of the lasting power of our words and actions. This lady did not have to sit down and pen this lovely, handwritten letter to us, yet she took the time to do so, allowing us a small glimpse into a side of Mandy's life and personality that we had NO way of knowing otherwise. When you encounter those who are grieving or struggling in some way, take the time to send them a note on FB, a quick text, or a card. Better yet, go somewhere and sit with them; listen to their words and really hear them for a change instead of trying to give them answers or guidance. Anything you can do to let people know they are loved and that someone cares for them is valuable; one small gesture could give them something to smile about during long and difficult days. That’s just a small part of what being Jesus is all about but it's an extremely important one. As for the words below, I know they most certainly made us smile again on Saturday (and yes, maybe shed a tear or two as well.)

September 17, 2006

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Harrell,

I was unable to attend Mandy's memorial service, but I want very much to write to you and tell you how very, very sorry I am for your tragic loss. 

I sat next to Mandy in the St. John's Choir. I've been a paid soloist there for many years now, and I have to tell you that her addition to the choir was nothing short of pure joy. She could sightread ANYTHING-I was always marveling at her tremendous confidence and musicality. Sitting next to her was such a great pleasure. 

And truthfully, we just adored her. We always wanted to see her latest pedicure and the latest pair of adorable shoes.....I think I was always touched at how she would talk to all the old, middle-aged women like we were just her friends-she never us feel like we were "old fogeys" or boring, silly old ladies. She was charming and sweet with a generous, kindly nature.  

That last Sunday, we were standing together in the back of the church, waiting for the service to start and the choir to process up to the choir stalls at the front. I noticed her new haircut that she'd gotten since I had last seen her. I whispered to her, "Mandy, your new haircut makes you look like you stepped out of a Renaissance painting-you look like a Renaissance angel." She just smiled-she was used to getting compliments and she never let them go to her head.

She is, of course, a real angel now- and more gloriously alive than any of us here. SO many people you have never met have cried with you these past heartwrenching days. We pray for your comfort through God's generous grace and love, and hope that the knowledge that Mandy touched the lives of many people in her short, sweet life will give you strength.

I picture her now, with angels resplendent in brilliant robes, gathered in heavenly choirs singing glorious praises to the Lord. And, as the chorus ends and they move with grace away from the light filled church, they gather around our little Mandy and ask to see her new golden sandals and her pretty pedicure. 

What a blessing she was to us. What a blessing she is to them now. God bless you and all of your family. 


PRICELESS-all because this lovely woman took a few minutes out of her busy day to minister to us through her memories of our precious Mandy. Be Jesus to those around you today in whatever way you can, and never think that there is nothing you can do, because even words matter.


P.S. Thank you for all of the kindness shown toward David and me as he leaves his position as Worship Leader at CBCFC. We have felt such love and gratitude in every word spoken-whether in person or via the many lovely notes we've received. Rest assured that each and every one those words will be carried in our hearts as we move to this next chapter of life. As I said above, words matter.  

What I Understand

Tuesday, September 5, marked 11 years since our precious Mandy died. Words can't begin to convey how much we miss her; it's a constant hole in our hearts that I suppose will never fully close. If we're honest, I guess we don't really want it to, because that might mean we've left her behind even though we know that is not the case. We appreciate how you indulge us (that means me) as we blow your newsfeed up with picture after picture....I know you've seen them all a million times, but they are all we have left until we see her again in eternity.

The moment you conceive a child, a part of your heart and soul belongs to that child FOREVER. Whether they never live a day outside of the womb or live until we are old and gray, having them die before us is perhaps the most painful thing a mother and father can ever face. Having experienced this, I feel obligated to walk with other hurting mommas that cross my path. I am not a counselor, and I can't take away the hurt, but I am willing to share the journey, even though it sometimes means I keep reliving my own. Certainly, I can't understand what it is like to watch your child die of cancer, or be killed in cold blood, or die before you ever get to hold them, or kill themselves via suicide or drugs, or even what it's like when YOUR child dies in a freak, tragic accident. All those situations are completely unique, but they all leave a momma spending the rest of her earthly existence missing a piece of her heart and soul.

Here are some other things I DO understand:

I understand that even when there is NOTHING you could possibly have done, you'll always feel deep down in your heart that your child's death is somehow your fault. 

I understand that you'll go over every single minute of your child's life and beat yourself up over and over for each time you weren't the kind of parent you wanted to be.

I understand that if there was an illness or accident involved, you'll wonder if you had just tried this treatment or asked the doctor to do this or asked them not to do that, maybe your child would still be alive.

I understand that you'll always believe that if you'd just prayed a little harder, God would have spared your child.

I understand that after one child dies, you'll constantly feel that you are failing your remaining children because you can't be the mom they want or need anymore.

I understand that you want to "fix it" for your other children or for your spouse and you never can or never will but you still keep trying. 

I understand that you'll feel as though you are failing your spouse, your other family members and your friends because you will NEVER be the person they once knew.

After 11 years, here are some other things I understand:

I understand that one day, you'll wake up and your child's death won't be the first conscious thought of the day. 

I understand that one day, you'll make it all the way to lunch, then dinner, then maybe a whole week without crying and know that it doesn't mean you've left your child behind or forgotten them.

I understand that one day, you'll laugh without feeling guilty because you "shouldn't" laugh after your child died.

I understand that one day, you'll be able to smile and not cry when you hear stories you've never heard about your child. 

I understand that one day, you'll be able to reach out to another mom who is grieving, not without crying, but with strength, grace and dignity to show them that they, too, will eventually be able to understand all these things as well. 

Jesus calls us to be His hands and feet to a world full of hurt and pain in whatever way we can. If I can do that by sharing the journey with another momma who has to walk this road for reasons neither of us will ever understand, I've given meaning to Mandy's death in ways that I could have never imagined. 

A Horrible Mess

I had someone tell me yesterday that in the first couple of years after Mandy died, I was a “horrible mess”. To be perfectly honest, this hurt my feelings terribly. However, as I have mulled this statement over, I’ve come to some conclusions I’d like to share and to have your thoughts on, too.

First, let me say that this came from someone who I consider a dear, precious friend, a person who has never been anything other than supportive of me, David and Matthew. We had not been friends for very long before Mandy died, so she was thrown into the fire, so to speak, before she really had a chance to fully know the “before Mandy died” Betsy. She is a bit older than me, and her friendship has been constant and unwavering for the last 11 or so years. She is one of the finest, wisest Christian women I’ve ever met. I value her opinion, which is why her words initially hurt so much.

As I’ve pondered the idea that I was (and some days still am) a “horrible mess”, it’s made me look at our society’s response to grief with fresh eyes. Quite frankly, we seem incapable, both individually and collectively, to effectively minister to those who grieve.  We are completely unable (or perhaps unwilling) to accept that grief, even though it evolves and softens over time, lasts for as long as we live. I just read a pastor’s blog in which he talks of people he recently observed who were so impatient that they could not stop just long enough for a funeral procession to pass, instead cutting into the line of cars and honking, etc. I see this as a metaphor for the much larger issue of expecting people’s grief to have a brief, set time frame, after which point, their lives return to “normal”. For most of us, we attend the funeral, say a few words of condolence to the remaining family, and get in our cars to go have dinner. For the family and friends of the deceased, “normal” is completely different than what is was just a short while ago. Normal looks, sounds and will forever be nothing like it was before. Why is it that we have people coming to us less than a year after the tragic loss of child telling us that we need to “get over it” and that “people don't want to deal with you” if you continue to grieve? Really? Are we truly so emotionally inept and shallow that we cannot allow people who are supposed to be our friends the time and space needed to at least get their feet back under them after a major loss? Being a "horrible mess" is exactly what a person who has lost someone they love deeply should be, and it is wrong to expect otherwise for a very long time.

 Grief is hard work, and being a friend to someone who is grieving is extremely difficult and emotionally draining.....it's not for the faint of heart. The griever’s behavior is unpredictable at best and downright bizarre at its worst, sometimes swinging wildly from moment to moment. However, if you were willing to do the hard work of friendship before that person experienced loss, why wouldn't you be willing to do the same when grief comes, as it inevitably will? Be willing to stand in that gap and be the buffer between them and the world, the protector from those who aren’t willing to understand, the advocate when they just can’t make another decision. Be the person who is there to let them wallow in self-pity for a bit, but also there to drag them out the bed and make them get dressed and go out for a few hours, just so they don’t forget how it feels to live. Be the person who patiently listens to the sometimes crazy rantings of a grief-stricken person for hours on end. Be the person who doesn’t put a time frame on their grief and understands that even though they are a “horrible mess”, and are forever changed, they are still worthy of your friendship and love. Reassure them that you will forever be a part of their “new normal” even if that means your place in their lives has evolved into something new as well. 

That I was a horrible mess should have come as a surprise to no one, yet it did to even the kindest and most compassionate of my friends. This speaks volumes about how we, both personally and as a society, are so poorly prepared to cope with those who grieve. I am thankful for my dear friend and her perspective, and I want you to hear the rest of the story, the really important, redeeming part of our conversation. She went on to say to me, “I had experienced loss in my own life, of course, yet I had never been so close to such unspeakable tragedy. Walking these last 10 years with you has taught me so much......while I still cannot empathize as someone who has lived it, walking with you has given me the insight to be more patient, sympathetic and understanding of others who’ve lost a child in a way that I could never have been otherwise. I’ve been grateful and honored to have shared this experience with you. ” I was so humbled by her words, because I wouldn't have ever considered the possibility that my grief could be a learning experience for anyone except me. 

If you live long enough, you will lose someone you love; we all know that’s inevitable. Those who have not yet experienced great loss can have no real concept of the sorrow, the pain, sometimes the tragedy of the situation. Be the kind of friend now you want walking alongside you when that day comes.