A Light for My Path

Humankind is so wonderfully diverse. No two people, even so-called identical twins, are exactly the same. They may look alike. Their voices may sound alike. But, their personalities, their likes and dislikes aren’t identical. Growing up together, they share many of the same experiences, but not all. And, they may have differing reactions to a shared event. God, who is the very definition of infinity, creates infinite variation in everyone and everything.

So, we should never assume we know exactly how someone feels or what they are going through just because we have an experience like childloss in common. Each loss is as different as the person who died, and as the people who are left behind.

A year or so after I joined an online bereaved parent group, I had become good friends with the group leader. We share several interests including reading and writing, psychology and philosophy, and we both come from Southern rural backgrounds. Because the group had become so large, she asked me and two other members if we would help as administrators of the group.

We assist in reviewing membership requests – not everyone responds to the guidelines in the affirmative. We monitor comments and alert the leader to anyone who seems despondent or hinting at self-harm. Members are reminded to respect each other’s opinions and questions. Members are asked to adhere to basic Christian Biblical principles and teachings.

I quickly came to appreciate and respect the group leader’s range of knowledge and understanding beyond her own personal experience. In addition to being a learnéd Biblical scholar, in the ten years since her middle son died, she has studied the psychological effects of child loss on parents, siblings, and others.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that my experience of child loss, though devastating, did not make me an expert on the subject.

Here are some examples of what I mean. My daughter was an adult who had not lived in our home for several years. She was newly married with no children of her own. She had siblings, nieces, and nephews who she was close to. Her death was completely unexpected – she died immediately in a car accident on her way to work. The driver of the other vehicle was not injured.

So, I can relate closely to other parents whose children died in similar circumstances. But, what can I say to a parent whose child suffered from a long-term, ultimately fatal illness? How do I respond to a mother whose young son drowned in the family pool with other siblings around? What words of wisdom can I impart to a father whose teenage son took his own life? Where do I begin to comfort parents whose child was killed in a random act of violence and who have spent the last two years waiting for a trial? Or the parents who lost all their children in a house fire? Or the mother who has been pregnant three times but never brought a baby home from the hospital?

I cannot say “I understand.” Not really. So, what do I say? And, do I need to even try?

I believe I do. Need to try. I believe God is leading me to take some learning from this awful experience and try to help other bereaved parents walk this path that none of us want to be on.

So, I start by saying: Here we are. In a place we don’t want to be. We may barely know each other. We may have quite different backgrounds and life experiences. But, we share the heartbreak of child loss. We have both outlived someone who was supposed to be our legacy. If you want to talk about your child. If you want to share the story of your loss, I will listen. With an open mind and an open heart. If you have questions, concerns, doubts, or a huge ball of tangled emotions weighing heavy on your heart and soul, I will help you find sources of information and support. If you want me to. Or, I will sit and let you vent and weep, if that’s what you need.

And when you are ready to stand and try to face the next day, or even the next minute, of your life without your child in it, I will hold out my hand and walk with you. Let’s walk in the same direction. It’s a start.

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Laura