How to Help a Friend Who’s Lost a Loved One

When Mark’s mom died in a car accident, we were living in my college town about three hours away.

After we got off the phone with his dad, I called my parents. She’d already talked to my father-in-law, so she knew what was going on. I don’t remember what she said, but I remember asking, “Do we need to bring funeral clothes? Are you sure?”

I just couldn’t believe it.

It’s weird, the things Mark and I remember from the days that followed. One of my most distinct memories is how nobody thought to remove the sheet from the living room couch. Mark’s mom covered the couch with a white sheet during the day – when nobody was there – to protect it from the direct sunlight it got from the windows.

When we arrived at his parents’ house and I saw family and friends crowded into the living room, sitting on the sheet-draped couch, I inappropriately thought, “Oh, Marilyn would just die if she saw that!”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Another thing I remember so clearly is how I felt when our friends from college showed up at the visitation and the funeral.

One couple drove down with their young son and stood in line for hours to see us. (If I remember correctly – and strangely enough, this is where my memory is a little fuzzy – 700 people came to the visitation. It was a Long. Line.) They literally hugged us and got back in their car to drive home.

They spent nearly six hours in the car – with a toddler – to be with us. To show us how much they cared.

The next day, at the funeral, I was surprised to see four other friends from college. They even came back to Mark’s parents’ house after the funeral to talk for a while.

There was just something so special, so meaningful about them being there with us. I’ll never forget that.

When I asked you last week how you comfort friends who are grieving, several of you mentioned just being there.

It’s so true. It doesn’t matter what you say. You might not have to say anything at all. But being there makes all the difference in the world.

A few years ago, a good friend of mine had a miscarriage. I’d never been pregnant at that point. I had no idea how she felt. But I chose to be there. Another friend and I went over to her house and we watched Ella Enchanted. That is not great cinema, let me tell you, but it didn’t matter. We were just there. And I think that helped.

You all had some other great advice, and I wanted to make sure everyone got a chance to read it. If you have some tips or insight, please feel free to add to this list in the comments!

How to Help a Grieving Friend

1. Weep with those who weep. Crying with friends and family who are grieving shows that you’re carrying the burden with them, and it can be a huge comfort to know that someone else feels that pain. (Janna)
2. Acknowledge that this sucks. I think it should go without saying, but maybe not. In case you’re tempted to toss out clichés about everything happening for a reason, let me give you one piece of advice: Don’t. Don’t say that. Don’t try to lessen your friend’s pain by playing it down. Recognize that what he or she is going through is a rotten situation, and leave it at that. (LeighDBug1)
3. Share a favorite memory of the person who died. When my Granny was in the hospital the last time (and we knew it would be the last time), we collected our favorite pictures and put together a scrapbook. It gave us something to do during those long hours in the hospital waiting room, and prompted hours of reminiscing and telling (and re-telling) the best Granny Stories. (LeighDBug1)
4. Anticipate their needs. Bring a meal, clean their house. If you tell them to call you with whatever they need, chances are they won’t. So true. When my granddad was in the hospital the last time (yes, I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals), my cousins took me to Oceans of Fun. I don’t know whose idea it was, but I am sure my mom appreciated that I was entertained and watched over while she was focusing on her dad. (LeighDBug1)
5. Hug them and simply say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I keep it simple because whether it was expected (long illness) or unexpected (happened quickly) I think they are probably in a semi-shocked state of being. Enough said. (Cindy in PA)
6. Send a sympathy card and write something like, "I'm keeping you in my prayers. I pray that you feel God's presence, love, strength, and comfort during your time of mourning." Every time I go to buy a sympathy card, I curse the card industry. Why can’t anyone write a decent sympathy card? Why does every card have to use the word “sympathy”? I like this sentiment from Cindy in PA, and I think it would be perfect in a blank card.
7. Don't say "I know what you're going through" or "I know how you're feeling," because no, you don't. Even if you've lost a loved one under similar circumstances, you can't know how someone else is feeling. My uncle died a few years after my mother-in-law did, and it was really tempting for Mark and me to tell my cousins that we know how they feel. Of course we didn’t – but when you want so badly to comfort someone, it’s hard not to grasp onto that phrase. Because, if I went through this and survived, you can, too. Right? That’s what we mean. But no matter the intention behind the words, I’m pretty sure it’s better to avoid the comparison of one grief to another. (Chrissy)
8. Make a casserole. You know, we joke about funeral food and how cooking is a silly thing to do when someone dies. But really, who wants to cook in times of grief? Honestly, some people may not be able to eat at all. But the friends and family who come to visit or even stay with them? They will probably get hungry. (This tip’s from me.)
9. Pray. Several people left comments saying that they were praying for my cousin, my friend and me. Sometimes it might seem like a small thing and not as helpful because it’s not necessarily a tangible gift. But, to me at least, it’s so very meaningful and always appreciated.
10. Do something. Connie shared that when her dad died, “seeing the people who came to the funeral (even if I didn't get a chance to talk to them) was SO comforting. Nothing takes away the pain, but knowing each person who cared enough to write a card or come to the visitation or send flowers was a small light in an immense darkness.”

A few days before my wedding, a man in our small town was killed in an accident. His daughters were in my brother’s and my grades, and we had grown up together in church, Camp Fire and Scouts. I was devastated for them, but I’ll be honest: my head was spinning with wedding prep and jitters at that point.

Because of the timing, I wasn’t able to go to the funeral, and I felt terrible about it. I’m thankful my mom is such a pro at dealing with grief. She took a break from the wedding madness, cooked some food and sent my brother and me to the house to hug our friends.

I still feel bad about missing Jack’s funeral. But I’m thankful my mom prompted me to do something. I think Connie’s point is the best one for me: Even if you don’t know the right thing to do, something is better than nothing.

This post will be linked to OhAmanda’s Top Ten Tuesday. And I used an affiliate link.

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The Problem with Romance Novels

I’m not sure what the book was doing in the elementary school library in the first place. With a main character who was 13 years old, it seems more appropriate for the middle school.

At least, it does now.

When I was in second or third grade and allowed to check out books from the fourth grade shelves because of my advanced reading skills, a book called “I Was a 98-Pound Duckling” seemed completely appropriate to me.

My mom did not agree.

The book’s description – according to openlibrary.org, not my memory – explains why: A 13-year-old who suffers from several "beauty problems" improves her self-image after a brief summer romance.

Not exactly the best choice for an 8-year-old.

Little did my mom know that was not the last time I would read an age-inappropriate book. From hiding Harlequin novels in my desk throughout middle school to discovering Danielle Steele at my first job (at a library – are you surprised?) in high school, I was hooked on romance and I indulged early and often.

Since I’ve mentioned more than once my love of chick flicks, a.k.a. romantic comedies, you have probably assumed that this romance addiction didn’t end with adolescence.

If so, you would be right.

Even throughout the early – and, okay, not so early – years of my marriage, I often lost myself in a paperback book that I’d be embarrassed to be seen reading.

You wouldn’t believe how excited I was when our library started allowing patrons to check out their own books with the automatic scanner. Now I could read all the trashy romances I wanted – and nobody would know!

I read all sorts of romance novels. Sure, I read the trashy ones, the ones I lay face down on my coffee table. But I also read tons of Christian romances (anyone else remember the Palisades Pure Romance books?).

Smutty or wholesome – it didn’t matter. Whether the main characters parted with a chaste kiss on the front porch or tumbled straight into bed, the premise of each book was the same.

The love – the romance – shared by the main characters of each story was breathtaking. The kind that sweeps you off your feet. That happens at first sight. That conquers all and lasts forever and solves mysteries and makes babies and cures cancer and wins wars.

And it happened to characters that, no matter if they were cowboys or prostitutes or knights or duchesses or veterinarians or florists or lawyers, the reader can easily identify with.

Unfortunately, I consumed those books, that premise, those characters the same way I consume Doritos or Oreos: in mass quantity without thinking.

The whole time I was gulping down those books, I was building – and reinforcing – a belief system. I was learning about love, about men and women, about relationships. And I was creating a whole lot of expectations.

Am I stupid? Or gullible? No. I knew, full and well, that those books were works of fiction. I knew that they were no more real than the Disney movies I watched with my little brother.

But even though I knew those stories weren’t real, after a while, I started believing them anyway. After you’ve read dozens, possibly hundreds, of books about strong, brave, sensitive and romantic men, you start to think that maybe that’s the norm. After you’ve read so many stories about love that can move mountains and turn back time and inspire poetry, you start to think that maybe that’s the way love is supposed to be.

Maybe those men do exist. Maybe that kind of love is possible. Maybe that’s what I deserve.

And that is where the trouble starts.

Stay tuned until next week for more on The Problem with Romance Novels.

Do you read romance novels?

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Perspective on a Monday

I have not had a good week, you all. It seems that every aspect of my life - work, home, parenting, marriage, finances, blogging - is overwhelming, discouraging, frustrating or all of the above!

But instead of dwelling on all that (because, believe me, it's boring), I'm going to share the view I had last week as I left Cedar Falls, Iowa. I'd just been blessed to spend the afternoon with two amazing women, two blog friends who are real friends, and this is what I drove into for about 45 minutes.

I love it when rays come through the clouds like that. When I was a kid, I thought it was God pouring His love down on us.

Okay . . . I still think that.

A couple weeks ago, I was having a rotten morning. As I rushed down the hall of Annalyn's daycare, I barely glanced at the mom and son in the foyer. But as I walked back out, cringing at the screams I could still hear coming from my child's mouth (how much do I just love that separation anxiety comes and goes more than once?), that mom said, "Have a great day!"

I looked over at her, sitting there beside her son and smiling. And I remembered that I really don't have that much to complain about. See, she was sitting with her son, like she does every morning, waiting for the bus that takes him to his preschool. She sits next to him, and he sits in his wheelchair.

My daughter gets 60 minutes of physical therapy once a week. And she takes it upon herself to exert her strong-willed personality every single day by yelling, screaming, hitting, pulling and running away.

But that little boy? Can't do any of those things, despite therapy services much more extensive than Annalyn's. And yet, there's his mom, every morning: smiling and laughing and, I imagine, thankful for what she has.

It's good to have perspective, isn't it?

Has anything put life into perspective for you lately?

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Whiplash

Friday will be Annalyn's last day with her babysitter, and on Monday, she'll start full-time daycare.I'm really excited for her. And sad. And nervous. And feeling a little bit like I've got whiplash.

Emotional whiplash.

Every time I think about it, I feel differently. I know we've made the right choice and that this is best for Annalyn and for our family.

But she's been going to this babysitter for two years. Two years! For two years, it's been her second home. Her second family.

And even though she's going to learn so much and make new friends and get consistent physical therapy at her new daycare, I know she'll miss her friends. We both will.

I feel this back and forth about almost every decision I make regarding Annalyn. Should we potty train now or later? Use Pull-Ups or only big-girl panties? Call the doctor about her runny nose or wait it out? Move her to a twin bed or keep her in her crib as long as possible?

Even when I know (KNOW!) the right answer, my heart still wavers. And it's been like this from the beginning. You know what I'm talking about, right? Bottle or breastfeed? Disposable or cloth diapers? Stay at home or work?

Sometimes - like, for me, the working question - we don't really have an option. But when we do? Ugh. Being a mom, being the grown up - it's hard!

Have you struggled with any big decisions lately (parenting-related or not)?

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Who’ll be my role model, now that my role model is gone?

When I was in seventh grade, I had this civics teacher. He was young and single and fun and yes, I did have a stupid crush on him, okay? He taught us about important things like Vietnam and animal abuse.

I thought he was wonderful.

And then came the day I discovered that, while he may be wonderful, he certainly wasn’t perfect. I found out, through an older friend from church, that he may have smoked pot in college.

[GASP!]

Did I mention that I grew up in a conservative family in a small town? It’s true. I was sheltered. But even though I can look at that piece of information with a completely different perspective than I had when I was 13, I will never forget how disappointed I was to learn that this man I’d looked up to had done something wrong.

I imagine that’s how many people have felt over the past couple weeks with the Tiger Woods debacle.

We’ve all read the stories and heard the commentaries and perhaps even held conversations ourselves. The whole thing has started me thinking about role models and the people we look up to.

Mark heard a man on sports radio talking about Tiger Woods, and he said something to the effect of, “You just can’t trust anyone. From famous athletes to politicians to Baptist deacons, everybody has secrets. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody is human.”

I can’t argue with that. (Especially since I’m not even sure why I put quotes around that little paragraph. Because while Mark did, indeed, tell me about what he heard, I honestly can’t remember exactly what the radio guy said. And so I made up that whole statement. Except the part about deacons. He definitely said that.)

But regardless of that guy’s exact words or if you love Tiger or hate him, all of this raises a valid point: How do we choose our role models?

In the past two weeks, I’ve seen two strong women portrayed on screen. Both hit me with a force that I found surprising; both have stayed with me and made me want to be a stronger person.

But while Sandra Bullock’s Leigh Anne Tuohy (The Blind Side) is based on a real person and Julianna Margulies’s Alicia Florrick (The Good Wife) is a composite of many actual political wives, neither is a role model. They’re both fictional, made up, not real. Even though I admire these characters, I still need and want to look up to real people, faults and all. And that’s a hard thing to do.

It’s easier to fixate on Photoshopped celebrities, characters in a book or people portrayed in movies. Those people don’t have blemishes, weaknesses, faults. They always say the right thing, do the right thing, are the right thing.

But they’re still not real.

So, even though I love seeing strong women portrayed in books, movies and TV (Julia Sugarbaker will always have a special place in my heart), I’m thankful for real people to admire. People like my mom, former colleagues, my cousins, my friends.

Even though they’re not perfect. Even though – and because – they’re real.

Who do you look up to? Have you ever been disappointed by a role model?

[For your entertainment, here are my favorite scenes from The Good Wife, The Blind Side and Julia Sugarbaker herself. And in case you didn't win today's round of Name That Tune, the title of today's post is from a song with the funniest video ever. Also known as Call Me Al.]

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Because That 70s Show is the best place to get advice.

This weekend, Mark and I had a long heart-to-heart about some decisions we have to make. No, about some decisions that I have to make.

Really, we weren't even debating whether or not I should do something, but rather how much it was going to hurt to do the right thing. And how much more potential hurt doing this right thing would open me up to.

I know I'm being vague, but I think you can help me with my question anyway.

As our conversation was winding down, Mark said that it comes down to the sage wisdom of That 70s Show, where apparently a character shared these words: It's better to have loved and lost than to have not loved at all.

I don't know. I mean, sure, in theory that's all well and good. But when it's my heart being pummeled and crushed - over and over and over - then it's a little harder to try again. To put myself out there. To be brave.

So, I'm wondering what you think. Do you think it's best to take risks every time, even though you know you might end up disappointed and hurt? Or is it smarter to play it safe and not let your heart get involved?

Stellan, Audrey and Maddie

The days following Annalyn’s birth are a blurry memory. Especially the eight days between my discharge from the hospital and hers.

I remember forcing myself to take showers, per the doctor’s orders. And gradually weaning myself off the dozen pillows I’d taken to sleeping with. Daily trips to the hospital, holding a baby I didn’t know…and didn’t know what to do with.

And crying. Between the hormones and the trauma, there was a lot of crying. In fact, I remember being so excited when I finally made it 24 hours without tears.

More than one tearful episode during those days – and in the months to come – centered on the question that plagues my heart even now, even this week: Why did it work out for us? Why am I okay? Why is Annalyn okay?

See, I did not enjoy my visits to my tiny daughter in the NICU. Because while I got to hold her and hear ever-improving reports from the nurses, other families sat in that room, not so fortunate. Other families cried and whispered and let their shoulders drop and their heads hang low.

Because some of those babies weren’t going to be okay. And as more than one nurse told me, it was a miracle that either one of us was so healthy.

And I didn’t understand – still don’t understand – why.

Mark’s response to my tortured question was, “Because God loves us.”

Of course He does. But He loves those other families, those other precious babies, too. I don’t understand.

This week has seen much heartbreak in the blogosphere – and in real people’s real lives. And as I learn about grieving families that have touched so many and are loved by so many, I still don’t understand. Why are some babies okay? Why aren’t the others?

For almost three weeks, MckMama has updated her friends and family on Stellan’s fight with heart troubles. Stellan is just five months old, a miracle baby who wasn’t supposed to live but who has lived indeed. But now he’s got a whole lot of health problems, and his family has been through the wringer with bad news, then good news, then terrible news, then tentatively hopeful news. From what I read, he’s doing better now, and his mom is resting in her faith. Tentative hope returns…

Angie Smith is a new-to-me blogger, but many readers walked with her last year when her sweet baby girl, Audrey Caroline, was born and died on April 7. For the last three months of her pregnancy, Angie carried her daughter, knowing she would not live. And yet, by the grace of God, Angie was able to cling to her faith and in doing so, shared the message of God’s love and His strength with what seems to be most of the blogging world. In honor of Audrey’s birthday, Angie offered a special gift for Compassion on her blog, turning her pain into something beautiful once again.

And finally, the Spohr Family has lost their adorable 17-month-old daughter, Maddie. Maddie was born very early and has had some health complications, but from what I can gather, her death on April 7 was as unexpected as it is heartbreaking. Through this tragedy, though, has emerged a beautiful example of community. All over the blogosphere, people are grieving with this family. And more than that, they’re reaching out in support and raising great amounts of money for March of Dimes in Maddie’s honor.

I still don’t understand. Honestly, I can’t even read every post that these families – and those who love them – have written. It’s too heart-wrenching, too close to home, too much.

Yet even as I watch these situations unfold, peeking through my fingers just like I do when watching Grey’s Anatomy, I can see the beauty, the hope. God is working in these families’ lives and using them to show the truth of His perfect love. Even if I don’t understand.