Before we can repair our broken selves, first we have to believe it’s even possible. That is no small thing. During the worst time of my life, I struggled just to imagine, much less believe in, the possibility of healing. If we don’t believe healing is possible, then we won’t even try. We’ll slip into bitterness, despair or cynicism, and we will believe instead that we will never be able to let go of what has harmed us.
When my daughter, Amy, died, I lost everything: my faith, my sense of security, my reason to simply be. I could not imagine living day to day in a world without my child. I had a family that needed me, and so, I put one foot in front of the other, but my heart, so broken, wasn’t in it. I simply didn’t know how to repair this level of brokenness in myself, in my family. I went to a counselor. I read books. I would listen for hours to ambient music while embroidering intricate designs. I sat, alone, beside my daughter’s grave in all sorts of weather. I felt bereft, hopeless.
I didn’t get better all by myself. I got better by joining a community. I found other bereaved parents and their stories helped me to believe that although my broken heart might never be the same, it could learn to beat its new, fragile, rhythm. They gave me the gift of believing my life could be better, that some form of healing was possible. I still carry the scars that healing left behind. Sometimes the scar tissue will suddenly pull tightly against my beating heart, reminding me of who I was once and who I am now.
~Lisa Kiel
