Perspective on Pain from a Grieving Mother

While I’m comfortable admitting drama comes naturally to me, until Jeremiah’s death, I did not understand why leaving the house could ever be anything other than the start of an exciting adventure.

In this season of grief, I’m gaining compassion and empathy for those on the other side of my previously pollyanna position.

I am not a victim. The world isn’t out to get me. But grief is ever present and it strikes swiftly and unannounced – much like a paper cut.

Leaving the house is often a bewildering experience for those grieving – me, in this season of life.

Seemingly innocuous outings have begun to feel like I’m under a barrage of attacks.

A simple trip to the grocery store can lead to a car ride home, sobbing.
Jeremiah was the absolute pickiest eater and, for years, I’ve constantly scanned the grocery shelves for things I could tempt him into eating — usually anything dinosaur shaped or chocolate. Stupid things like overbuying bananas because he eats one a day but he’s no longer here to deplete my supply. Catching myself reaching for the pudding. The cornbread wrapped corn dogs. Sheer agony.

Church on Sunday – one moment I’m focused on praise, the next I see a little boy wearing a beloved dinosaur shirt just like Jeremiah’s (I bought it in two sizes so he could wear it for years) — and I shed a tear but make myself avoid looking in that direction so I can keep it together.