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Under His Wings

By Bev Leckie

When my Mom passed away, she was finally honored for her love, for her faith, and for her persistence. We grew up with nothing, but we grew up with a mom who held on to her faith in the darkness of life.

She sang in the choir, but mostly she sang to her eight children in a Brooklyn “railroad flat”, two bedrooms with four beds, bedrooms fully open one to the other, with all eight of us sleeping 2 to a bed, heads at different ends. Mom sat on one of the beds and began to sing the old hymns I still love, until we all fell asleep. She sang the songs of faith that tell me much more about my Mom and my God today than they did decades ago. And one of those hymns was almost always, Under His Wings, which was one of my mom’s most favorite songs.

As much as Mom knew and persisted through a deep depth of darkness as she fought to bring her children to adulthood, she clung desperately to her faith. She begged God for the reality of the words that she sang. She yearned for her God, and she knew the refuge He could give in sorrow. And, yes, she hid beneath His wings of love, shelter, and protection until Jesus called her home to Heaven.

When my own daughter died, my Mom would have done anything she could to protect me from the ravages of pain and emptiness, questions, guilt, shame, and the isolating loneliness that the death of a child can bring.

My Mom could do none of that, but her words of truth, in time, penetrated my grief and sent me to the God who wanted to draw me close, cover me with His presence, and in a profuse outpouring, immerse me in the faithfulness of His promises.

Roy Lessin says, “Being under His wings means being close to His heart – you are not only sheltered, you are loved; you are not only secure, you are cared for; you are not only covered, you are reassured.”

I have said many times that what I most wanted in my grief was to know with absolute certainty, that my God is right here – to know that I am not alone, and to know that my emptiness and my tears are softened and quieted by a presence that can come no closer.

God’s faithfulness, though, embraces both me and my child. It is a forever faithfulness, a faithfulness of redemption, and a faithfulness that transcends from temporal to eternal. It is a faithfulness consistent with His heart of love for both me and my child; a faithful love that longs to embrace both me and my child in the eternal perfections of Heaven; a place where my child can not only dance with Jesus, but some day, I too, can dance with my child.

And while I wait in the temporal, God’s redemptive faithfulness brings beauty from the ashes of tragedy. As I rest beneath the sheltering protection of His wings, I will also find that my child is not forgotten, and the light of my child’s short life can still shine.

 

Under His wings, under His wings, who from His love can sever? Under His wings, my soul shall abide, safely abide forever. 

 Thank You, thank You, precious Father, for the faithful warmth of Your embrace.

(Related Bible reading: Psalm 91:4)

 

Bev Leckie’s life has been a miracle of grace as she has watched God transform a childhood and youth of dysfunction, abuse, and wrong choices, and then the death of her daughter after a full term pregnancy, into outreaches of compassion and understanding.

She has served alongside her pastor husband for almost 50 years in both South Carolina and California.  Having a heart for women, she has mentored those with abusive histories, and then found Umbrella Ministries, giving her both comfort and a connection through which she could share the comfort God has given her with other grieving moms.  And through it all, God has allowed her to write, ultimately focusing primarily on devotional writing for women, those who grieve or struggle in other areas, and those just called to do life. To contact Bev, email her at bleckie@sbcglobal.net.

 

Do you have a difficult time finding things that bring you comfort? We have put together a list of thirty ways on how to bring yourself comfort and take care of yourself after the death of your child. We know God is the ultimate comforter, but it can help when we know how to give Him something to work with and to flow through. 
Let us know below if you would GPS Hope to send you this list. You will also begin to receive a Weekly Word of Hope, that is easy to unsubscribe from if you no longer want to receive it.

 

Expressions of Hope is provided by Grieving Parents Sharing Hope (GPS Hope). The founders, Dave and Laura Diehl, travel full time in their Hope Mobile (a 38-foot motor home) to be more easily available for speaking and ministry requests, and bringing intimate weekend retreats to bereaved parents. Laura is also a singer/songwriter and the author of multiple award-winning books.

If you would like more information about bringing Dave and Laura to you for an event, please send an email to office@gpshope.org.

If you are interested in bringing GPS Hope to your area for a weekend retreat click here.

 

 

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Our Grief is a Full-Time Job!

It can be exhausting trying to explain to family and friends why we don’t want to (or can’t) celebrate holidays and special events like we have in the past, especially when they just don’t get it. Friends and family who mean well, can even insist that joining in the celebrations and festivities is just what we need. They tell us it is the best thing we can do to “get back to normal.”

Insert loud “wrong answer” buzzer-sound right about now!

Here is something that might help to explain our grief, if not to others, at least to yourself.

For those first few months up to two or three years, grieving the death of our child is like having a full-time job with overtime! It consumes us. It takes everything we have, whether we want it to or not. It drains us, leaving us to feel like there is just no way we can go on.

Eventually, our grief becomes more like a full-time job, thankfully without all the constant overtime. It usually sneaks up on us around three to five years into our grief, and we don’t even realize it at first.

Grieving the death of our child is still the greatest part of our life. It still drains us and exhausts us, but now we have times of reprieve. We can go out and do something without feeling like we are on the verge of falling apart. We can join certain activities or family events (even if we aren’t ready to stay the whole time) and have some smiles and laughs without feeling guilty. We can watch a movie and actually enjoy it, instead of just staring at the screen, oblivious to what we are watching.

We clock back in to our full-time job of grieving afterwards, but it isn’t all-consuming anymore, although we can still slip into overtime for a few days (even weeks) here and there.

Then, after several years of really hard work, we find ourselves able to go down to part-time grief. However, we are always “on call” because our grief is like an undercurrent, ready to surface in a split second. Sometimes we know there is something coming that will be a trigger, and other times we get slapped with it out of the blue with no warning, in a place we least expect it.

When that happens, we clock back in to increase our grief work time. Sometimes we are clocked in for a few minutes or hours. Sometimes it is for a day or two. And there are occasional times, when we need to go back to full-time, such as when our child should be graduating with their classmates, or a wedding happens that our child would have been in.

And yes, there will still be rare times when we go back to overtime, like the death of another close family member that triggers our deep grief. Eight years after my daughter, Becca, died, I found myself sobbing and wailing at my dad’s casket. I didn’t even do that at Becca’s casket, but when I saw the boutonniere from her wedding pinned to his suit, I just totally lost it. I even knew it was going to be there, but it affected me so much more deeply than I anticipated. I was out-of-sorts for a few weeks, having a hard time focusing and functioning. (Then seven weeks later my mother-in-law, whom I loved dearly, passed away in her sleep, which didn’t help at all!)

I am so glad to be back to part-time right now. But I know there will continue to be times when it goes back to fulltime for a while, and unfortunately, also overtime. But thankfully, that is very rare.

Where are you right now? Are you on overtime, fulltime, or part time grief? It’s all hard work, but the overtime is just outright brutal! If that’s where you are, what can you do to give yourself a short break now and then?

We can’t stop the overtime until that work project is complete, but we can and need to take as many breaks as possible, no matter how short they are. The Holy Spirit knows exactly what you need and when you need it. If you feel a prompting to do something that doesn’t make a lot of sense (obviously nothing harmful), then follow through on those promptings. You just never know how it will lift your load just a bit.

 

Do you struggle with self-care? We have put together a list of 30 simple things you can do, to take care of yourself and bring yourself comfort. Let us know below where to send it. (You will also begin to receive our Weekly Word of Hope, which you can unsubscribe from at any time.)

 

Expressions of Hope is provided by Grieving Parents Sharing Hope (GPS Hope). The founders, Dave and Laura Diehl, travel full time in their Hope Mobile (a 38-foot motor home) to be more easily available for speaking and ministry requests, and bringing intimate weekend retreats to bereaved parents. Laura is also a singer/songwriter and the author of multiple award-winning books.

If you would like more information about bringing Dave and Laura to you for an event, please send an email to office@gpshope.org.

If you are interested in bringing GPS Hope to your area for a weekend retreat click here.

 

 

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Finding the Real Us

Growing up, one of my favorite stories was The Velveteen Rabbit. In fact, I named one of my own stuffed bunnies Velveteen, and would often sleep with it at night. (I memorized a list of all my stuffed animals, and gave each one a turn sleeping with me, cuddled in my arms, so none of them would feel left out. I can still run through that list in my head, almost fifty years later. I will spare sharing with you the names of my 13 cuddle-mates…)

Just a few years ago, I found a beautiful condensed “read-aloud” version of the book, so I purchased it to be able to share it with my grandkids. When we moved into the Hope Mobile (a 38-foot motor home) I had to go through a life-time collection of two shelves of children’s books, deciding which ones to get rid of and which ones to keep. Only eight of those books found a place in our house on wheels, and that copy of The Velveteen Rabbit is one of them.

In case you aren’t familiar with the story, this little “fat and bunchy” stuffed bunny with spotted brown and white velveteen fur and pink sateen ears, becomes a boy’s favorite toy, which he talks to, plays with, and of course cuddles with each night. The bunny thinks he is real, because the boy tells the nanny his beloved bunny is real when she thinks he is making too much fuss over a toy. Eventually, the boy becomes sick with scarlet fever, and the well-worn and much-loved bunny is taken with the bedding to be burned. A real tear trickles down the face of the bunny, which immediately grows a flower with a fairy in it. Because the bunny was so loved and was real to the boy, she turns the velveteen Rabbit into a real live bunny, to live with the others he met earlier who made fun of him for not being real.

Looking back, I had no idea what the meaning of that story would have to me, after the death of our oldest daughter, Becca.

Let me share an exchange in the nursery between the wise old Skin Horse and the Rabbit.

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day…

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you… It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time… Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” (The Velveteen Rabbit by Marjorie Williams)

There are several similarities in this story, to my journey of being a pareavor  (a parent who has been bereaved of my child).

• It reminds me that working through our grief is a process; a journey. And it definitely doesn’t happen all at once. It takes a long time… years, as a matter-of-fact.

• “He hasn’t got any hind legs! He doesn’t smell right!” the wild rabbit exclaimed, jumping backwards. “He isn’t a rabbit at all! He isn’t real!” This is the reaction the live rabbits had one day when Rabbit was on the ground while his boy played. I don’t know about you, but many of us feel like the people around us just don’t get it. They don’t validate our loss, because we are so different than they are. They hop away and leave us, not understanding why we are the way we are.

• It is a story of going from being ugly to being real; from being who I was, thinking I was “real,” to being who I am now, on the other side of the suffocating darkness after Becca’s death. As I came out of the darkness and back into a place of hope and light, I began to see myself differently and I began to see others differently, along with a depth I didn’t have before. And that is a good thing.

• The Velveteen Rabbit is also a story of hope. He went from a place of devastation and being thrown away as useless to becoming real. I certainly felt devastated and totally useless. I felt like my soul died when my daughter died. But I didn’t stay that way. And you won’t either.

In order to become “real,” like the velveteen Rabbit, we have been taken through a very ugly place. And just like he was taken to a community of other bunnies, we are a community. We are a bunch of broken wounded people, doing life together. We are now traveling with each other on this journey, where we can learn how to become our best self and to become more real than ever before, within the pain and deep earthly loss of our children, not in spite of their death, but because of their life.

The book ends with the boy playing outside the following spring, seeing a rabbit that looks very much like his stuffed bunny that was destroyed.

But he never knew that it really was his own Bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real.

Our children gave us a great gift. The gift to become truly real. I know so many parents who are much further on this journey than I am, who have said they would not want to go back to being the person they were before their child died.

Why would they say that?

Because our child changed us. Both their life and their death.

We tend to look at how dark our life became after their departure, but there are also ways we have grown and are growing (or will grow), because of our brokenness. For me, I tend to not fret over the smaller things as much as I used to. I am much more aware of the present moment, knowing that is really all I have. My compassion for those who are hurting is way more than it ever used to be.

And because Becca had life, there are things she did that taught me something or showed me the way to being a better person, such as watching how she had a way of accepting everyone (whether she agreed with them in life choices and opinions or not) and how she was able to bring so much laughter while she was deathly ill her last 18 months. And watching Becca live life with only one leg and not letting it limit her, gives me motivation to push through my own difficulties instead of giving in to the obstacles that come my way.

How about you? Some of you may not have gotten to this point yet, because your child’s departure is still too fresh and your grief is still very dark and deep, but is there something you like better about yourself now since your child died? Is it easier to let go of toxic relationships? Are you more aware of what is really important in your life now? Are you now easily able to say “no” when people ask you to do something, when before you always said “yes?” Do you no longer feel guilty about putting your own needs first?

Here is another thought. We often talk about how we are forever changed because our child died, but I want to ask: How are you different now because your child LIVED? What are the new lenses your child’s life gave you, helping you to see the world with a different view than you had before?

As the wise old Skin Horse said: Once you become real, you can never become ugly again.

I would love to have you answer in the comments below this blog. What have you gained through your child’s death? What did your child’s life teach you?

We would like to send you the MP3 download From Pain to Purpose. This is a message Laura Diehl has given at several churches, sharing how God has a plan to take the deepest pain of the loss of your child, and restore your life to one of meaning and purpose once again, if we allow Him to.

 

Expressions of Hope is written by author, speaker and singer Laura Diehl. She and her husband, Dave, are the founders of Grieving Parents Sharing Hope (GPS Hope). Dave and Laura travel full time in their Hope Mobile (a 38-foot motor home) to be more easily available for speaking and ministry requests, including being invited to hold one-day GPS Hope & Healing conferences.

Laura is a national keynote speaker and has also been a workshop speaker for events such as The Compassionate Friends and Bereaved Parents USA national conferences, along with being a guest on radio shows, podcasts and other media channels such as webinars with Open to Hope.

If you would like more information about Laura as a speaker for your next event or want more information on hosting a GPS Hope & Healing conference, click here.

 

GPS Hope exists to walk with grieving parents through the suffocating darkness of child-loss, guiding them to a place of hope, light and purpose.
 We also support families, friends and coworkers who want to know how to support these parents both short and long-term.

 

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