The Battle We Lost

It can make you feel that you're sinking or suffocating, or going through a little of both.

Eighteen years have passed and you'd think the damage would be over. Battle complete. Troops moved out. Rebuild. On to business as usual.

If only we were made that way.

As the holiday weekend approaches, I watch the men and women in uniform being honored, the waving Red, White, and Blue, read the grocery store specials on ground beef and chips, and feel this overwhelming ache. There stands what only I can fully see---a little boy in a Barney T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The boy needs a hair cut. His Mama wishes she'd taken care of that.

But in one second, a hair cut is forgotten. Because the boy needs so much more. He needs immediate surgery, a Broviac catheter inserted into his back running to his heart for chemo. Later he will need radiation. And stronger chemo. And prayers.

After the first week of chemo, hair falls out in clumps, sprawled out on the back seat of the dusty green van. A hair cut is not needed. His five-year-old sister cries when she sees his blond strands and balding head. "It's so sad," she whispers. We buy him a red ball cap to wear, one with dinosaurs. We buy him a blue one, too. He wears them for a few days, but when his head is smooth and shiny, he goes cap-less.



I recall how friends from church were driving in their van and passed us. I saw their smiles and knew that they were on their way to the Memorial Day church picnic. They turned right; we veered left toward the hospital. That image remains.

Every year for me, Memorial Day marks the beginning of the end. Eighteen years later and it feels just like yesterday when I sat on the sofa the Friday of Memorial Day weekend in 1996. The cordless phone was in my hand. The pediatrician told me that my son had a malignant tumor in his neck. The war raged from that day on, and on February 2, 1997, it ceased. All the surgeries, the chemo, the fight, the hope, the prayers-----over.

There was no victory; we lost.

Every year on Memorial Day weekend I am reminded of how much we lost.

Pushing it aside does no good. I have to acknowledge my heartache-----own it, for it is mine.

That's how we mamas are made.

And so I write on my blog and for some reason, that helps. Writing unleashes some of the ache so I can go to the picnics, hear the bands play, watch the fireworks. Writing keeps me from shattering like a bullet fired in the dark night.

For me, Memorial Day honors all of our soldiers---those here and those here only in the delicate arms of memory.





[This post first appeared at my Patchwork Quilt Blog.]

Discover. What. Writing. Can. Do.

Who's afraid to join us on March 9th? Don't belief the myths. Discover instead, what writing through heartache can open for you!

Recently many have told me, "I always thought I hated to write, but after participating in this writing exercise of yours, Alice, well, I like it now!" Some have even confessed that they want to incorporate writing into their daily routines.

That's what I like to hear!

At my all-day workshops, here's some of what we do:
* Share our stories
* Eat chocolate
* Put pen to paper
* Meet interesting people like us
* Recognize the value in what writing does for us as people with heartache
* Energize our writing as we learn new tips and techniques
* Write from prompts
* Eat lunch
* Shed some tears
* Leave with new inspirations


Sign up for the all-day Journey Through Life's Losses Workshop on March 9th by heading over to this link now.

Getting Out of Bed in the Morning in the Durham Herald-Sun

A devotional of ‘comfort in heartache’

Alice Wisler hopes to help others deal with loss with ‘Getting Out of Bed in the Morning’


BY DAWN BAUMGARTNER VAUGHAN; dvaughan@heraldsun.com; 919-419-6563


DURHAM —

In the wake of the death of her 4-year-old son Daniel in 1997, Alice Wisler formed a grief organization to help other parents. Also an author of several fiction books, Wisler’s latest is a devotional. “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache” (Leafwood Publishers, softcover, $13.99) is a collection of 40 devotionals for those dealing with various kinds of losses in their lives.

The idea for the devotional was formed as Wisler, who lives in Durham, went on walks, and each devotional includes ideas for contemplation while on a walk. It also includes a prayer, Bible verses and Wisler’s own personal stories of life and loss.

Daniel, who died after eight months of cancer treatments, would have been 21 now. The anniversary of his death is Feb. 2. What Wisler’s book shows, and what she experiences, is that “there is a God that sustains us through misery.”

What’s helped her be sustained is being around other believers who encourage and support her, Wisler said. A member of Blacknall Presbyterian Church, which she joined in 2002, Wisler has found that other members are willing to learn about Daniel and acknowledge his death.

“Bereaved parents want acknowledgement,” she said. They’re still grieving their child and still missing their child, always. Parents don’t want a pity party, Wisler said, just the acknowledgement that attending something like a celebratory event is hard.

Through donations, 106 copies of “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning” were sent this week to Newtown United Methodist Church in Connecticut, the community where 20 children and six adults were murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary School in December. Victims included church members.

Writing has been a form of solace, great peace and hope after her son’s death, Wisler said. She hopes people will find encouragement from her book, with a message to point to God. It helps to see what God has to say about bereavement, grief and fear, she said, and “how we can live in spite of the suffering.”

Below is an excerpt from “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache” by Alice J. Wisler:

(Pages 44-47, devotion Seven)
“Rescue Me!”

. . . my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, O Lord, every day; I spread out my hands to you. — Psalm 88:9

Observing a temper tantrum in a child is no easy feat. We watch a child asking for a cookie, and then when denied she continues to beg, and then the begging leads to wailing. Nine times out of ten, kicking and screaming follow. Sometimes the only way to stop the escalating behavior is to pick the child up and hold her until she, at last, is exhausted and settles in her parent’s arms.

As adults, often we’re still like a child. We vacillate between wanting to pull away, storm out, go our own way, and wanting to be rescued from ourselves. Somebody hold me, help me take my eyes off of me and my dilemma and focus on something else.

At times, like a child, we get to a place where we are totally out of sorts, unable to even see or think clearly anymore. Life seems to have swallowed us whole. We are in dire need of help. Open your eyes and look to the One who is standing beside you, His arms outstretched. He wants to pick you up and hold you until your tears and frustration cease.

When a mother came back home from a Mary Kay party with more makeup on than she usually wore, her four-year-old daughter stood at a distance for a moment before running into her arms. Then smiling into her face, the child said, “I know it’s you, Mommy! I know you’re in there.” While you might put on a new façade in the form of a different hairstyle or article of clothing, you can’t fool those who are closest to you. They still recognize you. How much more acquainted with you is God! He knows you better than you know yourself. He loves you more than anyone ever can or will.


Reflections to Ponder
Close your eyes and spread out your hands. Lift them up over your head. Stretch them out in front of you, palms up. Imagine God reaching out for you. Spend a few moments in silence. Listen for God’s stirrings in your heart. Close and then open your hands as though you are giving your concerns over to God. Read aloud Psalm 88:9: “. . . my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, O Lord, every day; I spread out my hands to you.” In response to this verse, read also Psalm 18:19: “He [the Lord] brought me into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.”

If you feel overwhelmed by what you feel your life is lacking or what you think is not right, jot down your concerns. Sometimes releasing your pent-up discontent helps because you are getting it out of your mind and letting the paper hold the weight of it. What troubles you? Can you put your fears on paper? Do you believe that the Lord will counsel you as you seek Him (Ps. 16:7)?

Prayer:
Save me for I am drowning.
Save me for I worry.
Save me for I fear.
Save me for I am consumed with despair.
Save me, O God.
You have rescued me
from drowning, from worry,
from fear, and from despair.
Thank you, O God.

When You Walk:
Find a park to walk to and a place to sit. On a note pad, list what you know about God to be true. How will you implement these truths in your daily life?

[Excerpt courtesy of author and Leafwood Publishers]


WHAT: Author reading, “Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache” by Alice J. Wisler. There will also be soup and cornbread.
WHEN: 10 a.m. to noon, Feb. 9
WHERE: Blacknall Presbyterian Church Fellowship Hall
1902 Perry St., Durham

Printed in the Durham Herald-Sun in the Faith and More section / January 31, 2013
Copyright 2013

To read reviews and order Getting Out Of Bed in the Morning, click here.

The Arrival of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning

"You are a work of art in progress."

Yesterday, I was the happy recipient of a box of books titled Getting Out of Bed in the Morning. My two daughters (my son was at work) and husband were able to share in some of my excitement over the contents with me. My daughters breathed in the aroma of the pages, something I've taught them to do. There is nothing like the special scent of a newly-published book. Especially when your name is on the cover as the author.

Holding a copy of my devotional was a dream come true. I savored the feel of both the book and my heart. This book is compiled of forty devotions and a large piece of my broken heart.

In 1997 my son Daniel died after eight months of cancer treatments. He was four. I was thirty-six. I was angry with God for not healing him. The cancer hadn't killed him; it was the severe treatments that compromised his body. A staph infection took over and eventually his heart stopped. He died in my arms.

I was pregnant at the time. While my baby kicked inside the womb, my son gritted his teeth and left this earth. Three months to the day of his death, my fourth child, Elizabeth was born.

Getting out of bed each morning after Daniel's death was surreal. How could my son be gone? How could I still be alive? What was wrong with God? Why hadn't he saved my little boy from death? How would I live now? What was the point of going on?

I wrestled with questions, primarily to God. Why? How come? How could you? Why?

I wanted to die.

I didn't get to.

Instead, I put one foot in front of the other. And at the end of each day, I went to bed and woke to try again the next morning. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. Deep breaths.

I would never ask God for anything again.

I knew too well that He could say, No.

Journaling was a lifeline. So was the support of the Wake County, North Carolina Compassionate Friends group. Some books helped. I wrote articles that made it into print magazines. I founded Daniel's House Publications and through it, compiled two cookbooks of recipes and memories in memory of children, who like my Daniel, had died way too soon. Slices of Sunlight came out in 1999 and two years later, Down the Cereal Aisle followed. I had an online newsletter.

I cried and missed my son. Birthdays came and I sent balloons up to him in Heaven. Christmases made me hollow and I was glad when the season ended.

I spoke at conferences. I taught on the benefits of writing through grief. I met some wonderful people---real people----the kind that know they are broken and that life is not for wimps.

I wanted to write a book on how God fit into my struggle. Believe me, I tried. I had agents and editors interested, but nothing stuck.

Until . . .

Last year, Leafwood Publishers said, Yes! This publisher took my fragile mother's heart and said, We believe in you. We read your words. You do have something to say.

I wrote Getting Out of Bed in the Morning to offer a morsel of hope to those without. I want to share with others that although they are weak and struggle, they aren't alone. God is the provider of the daily bread, the wisdom, the cup of cold water, the balm of healing, the hope of tomorrow. He has this awesome thing called sustaining grace. He supplies it. And He loves us, no matter how battered we might feel.

God is for the broken hearted.

God is for you.


To order an autographed copy of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning , head over to my Broken Psalms blog (join it, if you'd like) and visit the Rivers of Life Gift Shop.

[This post also appears on my Broken Psalms blog and my Writing the Heartache blog.]

Thankful Thursday

Friends, I want to comment on how happy I am that Stacy Jensen, one of the Writing the Heartache online workshop attendees, featured me on her blog. What a treat to read her post last Thursday. I hope you'll take the time to head over to her site and learn what she did. Stacy writes: I found the Writing the Heartache workshop through one of those rabbit holes I fall into while online. I'm grateful I had time that day to read Alice's post and follow the links. All you have to do is click here. The next workshop starts April 2! I hope you can join me! Sign up at this page on my website.

The last day you were alive

Fourteen years ago, this was the last full day you lived. It was a seasonably warm Saturday outside the hospital, and inside the institution, the windows didn't feel as cool as they had earlier. I kept hoping you would not leave us, although it was evident that there was no more life for you here on earth. Time was running out. I prayed more earnestly for a miracle---if God could part the Red Sea, surely he could breathe more years into my little boy.

You were still in the white bed, except for the seizures that were more frequent. I hoped they were signs of energy. You had been still for ten days. Movement on your part must be a positive. I knew you could open your eyes and cry, "Hey! I had a long nap."

The day before you died, I hoped for this, and more.

Before you died I was like the other mothers with little boys. I could say, "They grow up so quickly."

I didn't shed tears when Eric Clapton sang, Tears in Heaven and when Elton John sang, Daniel.

Before you died, I didn't think about whether or not you would know my name in Heaven. Eric's contemplation did not have significance for me. Elton's words, "Your eyes have died, you see more than I," were only words. They had nothing to do with your fading blue eyes that once flickered with mischief and riddles.

Once, I held your hand in one of my own and innocence in the other. But the day you died, innocence, well, I had to let it go. I still hold onto you, though, sweet son. And I do believe you will know my name in Heaven.

Fourteen years ago today was your last full day on earth. I used to believe that fourteen years was much too long for a mother to still miss her child.

But that was all before you died.

And I got to talk about Daniel . . .

Yesterday, I was a guest on Lucy's show and it was an honor! I was able to talk about my son, Daniel---his life and death. You can listen today for a chance to
get two of my books for free.

Listen to internet radio with CWA Radio on Blog Talk Radio