They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step, and you, my dear, are about to take a big one. A long prayed-for, nervously anticipated, who-knows-what-this-is-going-to-lead-to first step.
I would expect a tough week, before you set that first foot down. I would expect discouragement, exhaustion, frustration and anxiety to ambush you, maybe like never before.
Months ago, in the thick of the intensely heartrending busyness that overtook my life for a season, I started pondering what I was finding helpful during that time.
I’m guessing this train of thought charged out of the station after I experienced something decidedly unhelpful—a casually tossed-out cliché, silence from someone who probably should have spoken up, unsolicited advice from a person who was not an expert.
A few weeks ago, this blog passed the five-year mark. It happened quietly, without the slightest bit of fanfare. But it’s still a significant milestone, at least to me.
Blogging best practices mostly overwhelm me, but the one piece of advice I have always tried to heed is to be consistent. Which means that, over the last 60 months, a post has shown up in this space almost every week.
“It’s not the load that breaks you down, it’s the way you carry it.”
I first read these words several months ago. I don’t remember where, exactly. I think it may have been on Instagram, possibly on a motivational sign or some such.
The week before my mom died, my sister and I met with the medical staff at her nursing home for what they call an “Advance Care Plan Meeting.”
I don’t know all the jargon associated with long-term care, but based on my limited experience, this is a nice way of saying “things don’t look good; we need to plan ahead.”
Over the last few months, swallowing had become increasingly more difficult for my mom. She had stopped eating, was barely drinking anything and was sleeping much of the time. The end was near, they told us, and it was time to seriously consider hospice care.
I knew countless people have been down this road with their loved ones. I understood that the purpose was to make my mom’s last days as comfortable as possible. But I personally had never signed hospice paperwork before, nor had I ever imagined that I would be in a position to do so.
As I lay awake one night, not knowing what to do and struggling to wrap my head around the fact that my mother was dying, a verse came to mind that I first heard long ago while listening to a children’s radio program in the kitchen of my childhood home.
“Thou wilt show me the path of life; in Thy presence is fullness of joy; at Thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.” (Psalm 16:11)
At that moment, peace flooded my heart. I realized that for my mom, the path of life led straight into God’s presence. As odd as it may sound, the path of life—for her—was death. On God’s timetable, not mine.
By the time I actually signed the hospice paperwork, my mom was already unresponsive. She slipped into eternity a few days later.
That was almost five months ago. For some reason, I’ve been thinking about Psalm 16:11 a lot lately, along with another familiar scripture that talks about the paths God lays out for us:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)
I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been one to think “straight paths” means “no problems.” God isn’t some kind of heavenly vending machine; we can’t expect to insert five months of trust and get back a year of blessing. John 16:33 makes it painfully clear—“In this world, you will have trouble.”
Beyond that, I won’t even begin to suggest that I know what it means to trust the Lord with all my heart. Most of us, if we’re honest, would probably agree we don’t even come close. And submitting to Him in all our ways? Not by a long shot.
We do try, though. We try and we fail and we ask for forgiveness and we try again.
And somehow, through it all, God sees our frail, finite, imperfect efforts and makes our paths straight anyway.
I experienced this many times during the last year. I’d come up against a seemingly insurmountable obstacle, and then an unexpected answer would unfold. I would have no idea what to do, and then the way would somehow become clear.
God is trustworthy. He was trustworthy before I had an opportunity to encounter it in such urgent ways, and He remains trustworthy now.
He will direct our paths, His Word says so.
And when His divine map for our loved ones leads US down paths we’d rather not explore, His sovereignty is our anchor. His joy is our strength. And His presence is our peace.
♥ Lois
This post is part of a collection called Help for Parent Loss. To read more, please click here.
Somehow, God sees our frail, finite, imperfect efforts and makes our paths straight anyway. Share on X
When my dad died in late May, planning the funeral proved to be quite a logistical challenge. Given the time of year, it was a bit tricky to find a date when both the church and the pastors who would lead the service were available at the same time. Beyond that, several family members were overseas and not able to return immediately.
As a result, we had to wait more than two weeks for the service to take place. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked out OK. And in the end, the timing was such that the funeral was held on what would have been my parents’ 61st wedding anniversary.
I had a difficult time sleeping in those days leading up to the funeral. So many questions, details, plans and memories kept running through my head. Try as I might, I just couldn’t turn off the flow.
After several sleep-deprived nights, I once again found myself wakeful and restless in the wee hours of the morning. I tried the couch in the living room but eventually ended up in the basement guest room.
That’s where Randy found me some time later—when he woke up and realized I was no longer in our room. He sat on the edge of the bed, and we discussed my racing mind.
“You should think about talking to someone,” he said simply.
I had never been to counseling or therapy before. I have nothing against it, of course. I had even entertained the idea of going at some point—after the funeral, after things settled down, after all was said and done.
We’ve been married a long time, Randy and I. He knows me better than anyone else, but he doesn’t often flat-out tell me what to do.
When he said that, though, it was as if God was speaking through him right to me: “This is the way; walk in it.” (Isaiah 30:21)
Very clearly, I saw that I needed someone to help me process the events of the last few years, to help me unsnarl all the feelings and thoughts and emotions associated with losing both my parents within five weeks after months of declining health.
Yeah, I probably should talk to someone, I thought. Sooner rather than later.
I knew I probably would keep finding reasons to put it off if I didn’t do something right away. So before we left for Alaska in early July, I called a counseling office a friend had recommended and made an appointment for several days after we got back.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was actually pretty nervous, to tell you the truth.
Would I cry for an hour straight? What if I didn’t like the counselor? What if the whole thing was completely awkward or—worse yet—my problems were even bigger than I thought?
My fears were largely unfounded.
After multiple sessions, I haven’t had any huge revelations or earth-shattering epiphanies. Somehow, though, my conversations with the counselor often prompt helpful realizations in the quiet of my mind after I’ve gone home and resumed my regular tasks.
For me, processing out loud with a trained professional is kind of like stirring a pot of something simmering on the stove. It keeps all the bits and pieces from burning on the bottom and incorporates everything into one (somewhat) cohesive mental stew.
Turns out, my problems don’t appear to be bigger than I thought—at least not right now. Initially, I was largely overwhelmed and unsure of how to work my way though the losses and the sadness. I still feel overwhelmed at times, but perhaps I’m also a bit better equipped to plow through it all.
I also realize I’m not necessarily moving toward an end point. The counseling sessions will stop, but “over it” will likely never be a box I will check when I think about this season of my life.
Healing is under way, though. In fact, I’m guessing it’s been going on much longer than I can even comprehend. And the God of all comfort is ever with me, gently guiding me through the tears, memories, questions and struggles.
My counselor has provided perspective on what grief entails, on what’s normal, on what to anticipate in the days ahead. Reporting back to him has helped me push forward on some activities I was dreading—like returning to my parents’ nursing home, signing up for a GriefShare group and following up on what I like to think of as “the headstone project.”
It’s one step at a time, this process. It’s about grief, yes, but it’s also about life.
Counseling won’t bring my parents back. It’s not a panacea for the sadness.
But Randy was right.
Talking to someone does help.
♥ Lois
This post is part of a collection called Help for Parent Loss. To read more, please click here.
It’s one step at a time, this counseling process. It’s about grief, yes, but it’s also about life. Share on X The counseling sessions will stop eventually, but “over it” will likely never be a box I will check when I think about this season of my life. Share on X