Guest Post: Anne Payne

I asked my friend, Anne Payne, if I could share her poem on my blog today.  So glad she said I could.  Here is a guest post from her, including her beautiful flower photo.

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Today, May 13th, marks the third anniversary of my oldest daughter, my firstborn, being ushered into her eternal home. I wrote this poem during the Writing the Heartache grief workshop by author Alice Wisler, a grieving mom herself. Writing has been instrumental in the grief process and I haven't shared much of it, but today I wanted to share this poem. Amy had delicate hands and she loved to have them held. And I loved to hold them. I miss that. I miss her.

hands

tiny and weak

your newborn hands,

cradled protectively

within my own,

sweet kisses from my lips

cover them in prayer.

slender and cool

your delicate hands,

entwined  gently

within my own,

hot tears and desperate kisses

blanket them in prayer.

warm and strong

your beautiful hands,

reaching out

enfolded safely,

for all eternity

held by Another.

creased and worn,

my cold hands

rest empty,

wet with tears

and

silent prayers.

 By Anne Payne

April 24^th 2013

The Value of Sending Balloons Up to Heaven

[Post was first posted at Hub Pages 2012]


A balloon is not just a bunch of air contained in a casing and made to bob in the atmosphere. A colorful balloon can hold a deeper meaning. Balloons are significant for conveying messages and love up to Heaven.

When my four-year-old son died, I found a renewed beauty in balloons. By composing a message on a piece of paper, I could attach the paper onto the balloon string, tie a knot, and send the balloon into the air. What a way to convey my feelings to my son! And not only that, but by watching the balloon sail into the sky, up over the trees---where I could not go on my own---I felt comfort.

My messages always end with "I love and miss you, Daniel". Some parents write a message of apology or remorse, asking to be forgiven.

I like to go to the graveyard where my son is buried. Sometimes I hold a balloon memorial with friends and family on significant dates. On cue, we unleash a couple of balloons into the air. We shield our eyes from the sun and watch until the last balloon has disappeared from our sight.

Masses of helium balloons going into the air are both a profound and lovely sight. The volume of them lifting into the heavens speaks to the broken hearts remaining on earth.

Have you lost a loved one? Consider sending a balloon with a message into the sky. Watch your balloon soar and your spirits lift. Find the healing that comes with the release of a simple balloon of remembrance into the beyond.

Love lives on.

Guest blogger: My New Overcoat

Happy to welcome guest blogger, Gary Toye, to the Writing the Heartache Blog today. Welcome here, Gary, and thank you for sharing from your heart.



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Not long ago, I got a new overcoat. It's very heavy. The fibers are dense, you can tell it's a quality garment, made to last a lifetime. The inside label says "Grief Brothers" It has the name of my youngest son embroidered on the inside pocket - below that, two important dates. April 17, 1987, the day he was born and October 10, 2014, the day he died.

This new overcoat is extra heavy, soaked with tears, so much so that it drips when I move. Sometimes I wonder how someone who feels so hollow can bear such weight. Yet, regardless of how unreal it seems, it is mine to bear. Every once in a while, I feel like a pocket or maybe the lapel may be drying out and my new overcoat may get a little lighter. Then a song comes on the radio, a commercial comes on the television or just a thought flashes across my mind. I put my hand in that pocket or brush that lapel and it's soaking wet all over again.

In one pocket there is a mask. Half mask really, from just the nose down. It has a smile on it. I put it on when I am getting out of my car to go into the store or in to my office. The mask smiles, but if you look at my eyes, you can see the pain. It's too fresh to hide completely. Most people, kind, well meaning, loving people, have moved beyond the terrible event that bought me my new overcoat. It's amazing how the world still goes on, spinning every day. Morning, Noon, Night . . . Repeat. A new workday starts, holidays come and go...time is very unkind to someone with a new overcoat. It selfishly keeps marching on, leaving me stuck in this place, yet somehow running to catch up. It's harder to run with all this extra weight, but fear of not keeping up with the world forces me move forward. Most days I'd rather stay in bed with the blankets over my head and leave my overcoat in the closet, unfortunately -- or fortunately, that’s not an option.

Friends and family ask "How are you?" and seem so relieved when I say "fine". Either they or I change the subject quickly so neither has to be uncomfortable. They give my arm a squeeze or a supportive pat on the shoulder. They quickly pull their hand away when they feel that soaking wet fabric not knowing what to say . . . where to wipe their hand. I wonder if they realize just how comforting that touch is or how much I appreciate them literally reaching through their own comfort zone to share it.

Over time, I'm told, my overcoat will dry out. Bit by bit, fiber by fiber, piece by piece. Oh there will be times a shower or thunderstorm will come along and get it wet again -- birthdays, anniversaries, his kids graduating high school or college. There will surely be more rain, but I look forward to the day when my new overcoat is mostly dry.

I'll wear it, you see, for the rest of my life. Taking it off is not an option. I paid way too much for it not to wear it. Money can't buy an overcoat like mine. Only true love can make a purchase so great. It is because of the love I have for my son, that I’ll wear this overcoat until the day they lay my own weary body down.

I look forward to the day I can hang it in the coat closet just outside Heaven’s door. I can’t wear it in. There’s a sign at the door… it reads “No Tears, Pain or Sorrow Allowed.” Hmmm, there are a lot of other coats in here . . . let me see if I can find a hanger . . .

By Gary Toye

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.]

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.]

Why spring bruises a broken heart

Photo taken by Benjamin Wisler


Spring. Count the variety of budding flowers. See all the color. Quite a contrast from the stark, bare limbs of winter. Who knew that all this creation was going on underneath the soil while we huddled in warm houses and watched our breath in the chilly morning air of January? Each spring, I'm amazed at nature's robust and vibrant offerings in my yard and on my street. From the first daffodil to the azaleas to the wisteria that clings like a scarf around tree branches, I'm glad to be alive to experience it all.

It wasn't always this way. Years ago, there was a spring that came too soon for me. I wasn't ready for the showcase of irises, cherry blossoms and dogwood. I wanted to huddle in the dark and dead of winter. I felt dead. I couldn't embrace the vast colors of spring.

My four-year-old son Daniel had just died. Why was spring happening when he no longer had life on this earth? My mother's heart was broken, wounded, bruised. I felt inadequate to view the season of spring. I was still in the throes of wondering why my child had to die, why my child was not around to come out to play with the other children on the cul-de-sac.

Do you feel like I did? Does spring make you feel, as one of my bereaved friends put it, "Like there is too much life"? Perhaps you are unable to join in the beauty of the season. Perhaps you still need time in the winter of your grief.

Don't chastise yourself. Be gentle. You are not alone. Plenty of others who have had a recent loss can't encompass all that a season of warmer temperatures and brightness has to offer. Know that it is okay to cry, to shut yourself inside with your tissues and memories for a while.

One day those memories you held of past springs when your loved one was with you will be sweet. One spring, you will be able to dance underneath the budding cherry trees.

It is in spring when I recall

how you taught me

the heart survives

even the harshest wounds

borrowing balm

from the gentleness of spring.

~ By Alice J. Wisler

Surviving the Holidays After the Death of a Child

That holiday-pang hit my stomach the first October after Daniel died. Greeting me at an arts and craft shop were gold and silver stockings, a Christmas tree draped with turquoise balls and a wreath of pinecones and red berries. What was this? And was “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” playing as well? It was only October.

I had anticipated that Christmas and the holidays would be tough. In fact, I’d wake on those cold mornings after Daniel died in February and be grateful that it was still months until his August birthday and even more months until Christmas. I dreaded living both without him. I would have preferred to have been steeped in cow manure. At least then I could take a hot bath with sweet smelling bubbles and be rid of the stench. But bereavement isn’t that way. As those who had gone on before let me know, you have to live through it.

Christmas came. I did live through it. It continues to happen as do the other significant days of the calendar year. Daniel never arrives at any of them although his memory lives on. By incorporating him into these days of festivity, I can cope.

Some of you have your child’s birthday and/or anniversary day within the November through January season. These days, in addition to the holidays everyone else is celebrating, make the season even more complicated and painful, I’m sure.

I offer eleven tips I’ve used to survive the holidays. Some are my own suggestions and some are borrowed from the many who walk the path of grief.

1. Know you will survive. Others have done it and you will, too. Keep in mind that your first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Day will not be easy.

2. Find at least one person you can talk to or meet with during the holiday season. Perhaps this person has gone through a few Thanksgivings and Christmases before and can give you some helpful ideas that have worked for her.

3. Things will be different this holiday season and perhaps for all the rest to come. Don’t think you have to do the “traditional” activities of years past when your child was alive. Your energy level is low. If no one in your household minds, skip putting up the tree. Forget spending hours making your holiday cookies.

4. Spend the holidays with those who will let you talk about your child. You will need to have the freedom to say your child’s name and recall memories, if you choose to do so. Your stories about your child are wonderful legacies. Tell them boldly again and again.

5. If going into the mall or stores brings too much pain, shop for gifts online or through mail-order catalogs. Thinking everyone is happily shopping at the malls with intact lives while your heart is crushed is terribly tough. Go easy on yourself.

6. Getting away from the house is an idea that worked for my family. The first Christmas without Daniel we went to a nearby town and lived in the Embassy Suites. The kids enjoyed the indoor pool and breakfast buffets. Christmases that followed were spent at a rented cottage on the shore and the Christmas we rented the beach house, we were able to invite extended family to join us. We all shared in the cooking.

7. Create something to give to those who have helped you throughout the year. I made some very simple tree ornaments with “In Memory of Daniel” stamped on them and gave them to friends that first Christmas.

8. Decorate the grave. Put up a plastic Christmas tree with lights. Sometimes being busy with decorating the grave gives a feeling of doing something for a child we can no longer hold.

9. Do something in memory of your child. Donate to a charity or fund in his memory. Volunteer. My oldest daughter Rachel and I volunteer at the Hospice Tree of Remembrance each December and share memories of Daniel as we spend this time together.

10. If your bereavement support group has a special candle-lighting service to remember the children in your area who have died, attend it. Doing something in memory of your child with others who understand the pain these holidays hold can be therapeutic.

11. Spend time reflecting on what the season is about. Everyone around you may be frantic with attending parties, services, shopping and visiting relatives. Perhaps you used to be the same way. Now you may want to avoid some of the festivities. Give yourself permission to excuse yourself from them. Light a candle in your favorite scent. Record some thoughts in a journal. This is great therapy, too.

One day you will wake up and it will be January 2. The holidays will have ended. You will have made it. If you are like me, you will find that surviving the tinsel has made you stronger and although you may cry, somewhere within you, you will feel that core of new steel.

[Written by Alice J. Wisler in 2000]