Posted in Uncategorized, tagged brother, death, grief, grieving, hope, pain, peace, remembering, suicide on December 11, 2017| 4 Comments »
I never thought I’d make it six minutes after my brother’s death, let alone six years. But, here I am. Still standing.
I put on my father’s old leather boots, grab my walking stick, and head up the mountain…
By the time I get to the top, I begin to remember the life well-lived instead of only the death that swept me up in its furious agony.
And although I can’t explain it, my heart finds a moment of peace in remembering a day I’d rather forget.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, death, God, grief, grieving, healing, hope, Jesus Christ, loss, mourning, pain, sorrow, suicide, trauma, traumatic, traumatic loss, visual arts on June 4, 2015| 2 Comments »
“It’s time,” I said to my husband as we sat together a few weeks ago, talking about the ways grief has touched EVERY part of our lives.
“Time for what?” he responded.
“It’s time for you to film my grief story. So many people are suffering the agony of traumatic loss like we did when my brother took his life. We have to do something to let others know there is help and hope. Will you do that with me?”
So, here it is. If you or someone you love has been touched by traumatic loss…Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cry, death, grief, grieving, loss, mourning, pain, sadness, sorrow, suicide, weep on April 28, 2015| 15 Comments »
I think about death a lot. Don’t misunderstand me. I do not have a death wish. I just wish there was no death.
Three years ago, I lost my brother and now I’ve lost my grandmother, too. Jay was the highly-favored “baby” of the family and Grammy was our beloved matriarch. To me, they were the opposite ends of life’s delicately-balanced scales and now, I’m tipping.
I’m lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle; pressing my hot mess against the cool tile. The wailing has subsided to a low moan. My limbs hang limp. Grief is the great paralyzer.
I am a leper slumped against the city gate.
“Now there were four men with leprosy at the entrance of the city gate. They said to each other, Why stay here until we die? If we say, ‘We’ll go into the city’—the famine is there, and we will die. And if we stay here, we will die.” 2 Kings 7:3-4a
The lepers knew that if they didn’t get up, death was certain. If their enemies didn’t find them first, leprosy would eventually chew through their skin. Their only alternative was to get up and go into the city. But death was certain with that option as well. They were hard-pressed either way, or so it seemed.
With Him there is always a third option as unnerving as that option may seem.
“…Let’s go over to the camp of the Arameans and surrender. If they spare us, we live; if they kill us, then we die.” 2 Kings 7:4b
God’s third option included an unthinkable risk: entering enemy territory. But what did these lepers have to lose? Nothing.
“At dusk they got up and went to the camp of the Arameans. When they reached the edge of the camp, no one was there, for the Lord had caused the Arameans to hear the sound of chariots and horses and a great army, so that they said to one another, ‘Look, the king of Israel has hired the Hittite and Egyptian kings to attack us!’ So they got up and fled in the dusk and abandoned their tents and their horses and donkeys. They left the camp as it was and ran for their lives.” 2 Kings 7:5-7
If I stay fetal on the floor, the grief will kill me and I know it. It. Is. Killing. Me. But if I get up, I’ll have to live without the ones I love. I cannot bear the thought. It is impossible to envision a day without them in it. I don’t want to. I can’t!
I never wanted to touch death, it’s just that I’ve been touched by death…and it hurts. Sitting up I pour some cool water into the palm of my hand; sanity splashing me in the face.
Dragging myself to my feet and drawing in a deep breath, I walk over and toss my cry towel in the laundry basket. Kleenex just doesn’t cut it anymore. My steps and thoughts go around in circles before I finally make a decision.
I will face my enemy head on. After all, what have I got to lose? I pick up my Bible and press it tightly against my chest. I’m not going in there alone.
Taking some 3×5 index cards, I open my Bible and copy down meaningful passages of scripture.
“O LORD, from the depths of despair, I cry for your help: Hear me! Answer me! Help me!” Psalm 130:1-2
“For he has not despised my cries of deep despair, he has not turned and walked away. When I cried to him, he heard and came.” Psalm 22:24
Verse upon verse, card upon card. There’s a pile of truth mounting at my feet and it sends a shaft of light across grief’s inky black.
The verses I copy down remind me to open my mouth and pray through my pain.
Praying reminds me to praise Him with my tears.
Convinced I could not make it through the next moment, I realize an hour has passed and I’m still breathing.
My breath is the sound of God in the camp of my enemy.
The story of the four lepers ends when they plunder the abandoned camp of their enemies and share the spoils with others.
I must not keep the plunder from this battle all to myself.
Several hours later, a grieving friend calls. I read her the verses that, hours earlier, plucked me out of death’s grasp. We read the Word of God together. We pray. We cry. We praise. We plunder.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bereavement, death, grief, grieving, help, hope, loss, sad, sorrow, traumatic on October 8, 2014| Leave a Comment »
For Those Who Weep–A Grief Response JournalWhen you lose someone you love, your heart shatters into a billion tiny pieces. Grief and pain override every other emotion and peace can seem so very far away. If your loved one died tragically, your grief is amplified by shock and the traumatic nature of your loss. How can you possibly survive such heartache? That is where author, Penny A. Bragg, found herself following her brother’s untimely death.
For Those Who Weep—a full-color grief response journal—contains the author’s raw emotions and sacred experiences which occurred during her journey toward hope and healing. Bragg masterfully integrates her artwork into each of the essays in the book; as she reconciled her loss and her faith in God. For Those Who Weep also invites readers to respond to what they’ve read; applying it to their own pain and healing.
Pastors, lay leaders, bereavement counselors, and friends of those who have suffered a loss will also consider this book a priceless resource as they minister to the brokenhearted.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, God, grief, grieving, loss, love, mourning, sadness, sorrow, suicide on December 20, 2013| 14 Comments »
“Excuse me, Miss. I’m curious about what you’re doing there.” The old man motioned toward the sand as he spoke.
“Is this something personal, or artistic?”
I didn’t realize anyone had been watching me carve the sand with my toes—camera in hand—so I was somewhat startled by his question.
“Both,” I suppose.
“I lost my little brother two years ago today so that makes it personal. And, it’s artistic because I created a blog in his memory. When I leave here, I’ll post these photographs and try to write about my experience.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” His eyes were kind as he respectfully tipped his worn denim hat toward me. I couldn’t help but notice his thin frame and knobby knees.
“Thank you.” I responded, looking into the old man’s eyes.
My answer startled both of us. Having been asked that question numerous times over the last two years, I’ve always used the phrase, “Jay took his life,” when responding. Somehow saying it that way felt less…intense. It also seemed to soften the blow and minimize the discomfort for the person who asked and for me. That question never gets any easier to answer. While I jump at the chance to talk about my loss as most grieving people do, the suicide factor always pierces my heart clean through.
“I’m so sorry.”
The old man’s sincerity was rather refreshing.
“Thank you for wanting to know.” I said. “Most people don’t, or at least they won’t risk asking.”
“Well, it’s beautiful what you’re doing there…for your brother,” he said. “Really beautiful.”
“This is the best part,” I explained. “Watch what happens next.”
We watched as the tide came in, bringing the magenta-colored daisies with it.
A few minutes later, a woman who was walking along the shoreline began plucking up each one of the daises from the sand and surf.
Soon she cradled the entire bouquet.
I could tell the man was concerned about her picking up the very same flowers I had so tearfully released into the sea.
“It’s alright,” I said, responding to his worry before he had the chance to admit it.
“Every time I release flowers in Jay’s memory, I sit back and watch them for a while. Eventually, the tide brings them back and someone comes by to gather them up with wonder, as if the ocean has handed them a miracle. The last time I did it, a little blonde girl ran along the sand and presented her mother with an ocean-bouquet. I watched as she pointed to the flowers and then out to the waves, trying to explain to her mother where the flowers came from.”
“As I release the flowers, I guess I release my brother all over again. Each petal represents a memory that I treasure. And somehow, God gives Jay back to me. God allows Jay’s memory to be a thing of beauty for someone else who never even knew him.”
We sat there for about fifteen minutes talking about life and loss and God before the old man finally stood up, dusted the sand off his cargo shorts, and reached out to shake my hand.
“Bless you,” I said, as he turned and walked away.
Just before I gathered up my things to vacate my sacred spot, a single magenta daisy caught my eye.
I coddled it gently, as if I was cupping Jay’s face right there in my hands.
You see, that’s the funny thing about grief. The more you let go, the more God gives you back. I know that’s not some new earth-shattering lesson or anything. It’s been a part of God’s economy from the get-go. Jesus Himself said, “Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it” (Matthew 10:39).
But the difference is that now, I know this truth.
I know it because I’ve lived it.
As a fellow survivor so poignantly put it,
“I realized he never really left.”
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, dying, God, grief, grieving, Lord, loss, mourn, mourning, pilgrimage, Psalm 84, Valley of Baca, Valley of Weeping, weep, weeping on May 13, 2013| 4 Comments »
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Apostle Paul, death, God, grief, grieving, lament, loss, mourn, mourning, seeds, stewardship, suffer, suffering, suicide, weep, weeping on May 7, 2013| 4 Comments »
My journal from January, 2012 contains only two entries. The first is a black “X” across the entire page along with one sentence that reads, “Everything—life as we knew it—changed forever.” The second entry simply says, “I can’t write.”
In the days following my brother’s suicide, grief paralyzed me in body and soul. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are two kinds of pain in life: The pain of being outside God’s will, and the pain of being inside God’s will. Having experienced both, I’ve always said I’d take the latter any day. But after Jay took his life, I was tempted to rethink my preferences.
Someone once said, “Grief is life’s greatest teacher.” I’m not far enough into the journey to pass judgment. When a wound is gaping wide, you don’t care about learning anything. Grief burns a hole through the center of your chest and, frankly, most mourners just want to pick a different teacher.
My friend, Micki Ann, understands suffering because she has suffered. She says, “Suffering is a seed we are given to steward.” Several months after Jay’s death, Micki Ann gave me a handful of seeds. Even though there were days when I wanted to throw them back at her, I couldn’t deny the fact that her wisdom invited intrigue to inhabit my despair.
In an effort to prove my friend’s theory, I searched the scriptures.
It didn’t take long to realize that the Apostle Paul had a real knack for stewarding his suffering. Stonings? Shipwrecks? Paul went through the wringer. That’s what makes him so credible. Given his ordeals, on many nights, Paul’s words stopped my self-pity in its tracks. “Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all” (2 Corinthians 4:17 NIV).
I believe Paul. I really do.
When I used to write essays, articles, or blog posts, I would conclude my thoughts with some neat and tidy resolution.
There is no closure, especially with death by suicide. Instead, there are only endless questions that will never be answered.
Grief makes a writer ramble, but I should at least be woman enough to confess what I can’t gloss over…
The temptation to shrink back from my sorrow and suffering is immense. But, there’s no evidence that grief’s purpose is to make us give up.
Paul never backed off from God’s mission. Actually, the opposite is true. It was Paul’s pain that propelled God’s purpose, and he knew it. “Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel” (Philippians 1:12 NIV, emphasis added).
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Bronzini, death, grief, grieving, Jayson, life, loss, mourn, mourning, sadness, sorrow on December 10, 2012| 2 Comments »
Jayson John Bronzini
August 3, 1976-December 10, 2011
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, grief, grieving, loss, mourn, mourning. weep, sorrow, weeping on September 20, 2012| 2 Comments »
I want to hear your voice on the other end of the line.
To have one last chance to beg you to stay…
To declare how deeply you are loved…
And, how we long for your return.
I long to hear your thoughts and inklings…
And, the things that concern your heart…
To hear your records blaring in the background…
To know that you won’t give up.
I want to wake from this terrible nightmare…
To hear joy in our family because you’re back.
I want your healing to have come on our side of Heaven…
To have this night without you be my last.
But, I can have none of these things,
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birth, Christ, death, grief, grieving, Jesus, life, loss, mourn, mourning, pain on September 11, 2012| 3 Comments »
I’ll never forget the moment I received word that my little brother was…gone.
“Penny. Penny! PENNY!” My sister kept sobbing my name over and over again on the phone, each time with increasing intensity. That weekend, we had both been trying, unsuccessfully, to get a hold of Jay. When he hadn’t responded to our repeated texts or calls and his friends hadn’t heard from him, she decided to drive over to his house. Deep within my gut, I knew what she was about to confirm.
Her words paralyzed me in every way. I listened to what she was saying, but refused to hear the tragic truth: That our brother had barricaded himself in his bedroom, ending his pain the only way he knew how.
I curled up fetal on the floor, wrapping myself in the blanket my grandmother had sent me two weeks earlier.
“Wrap this around yourself when you need a hug,” she had said.
The crushing weight of my grief and sorrow was more than I could bear. I wept in anguish for the rest of the night…
My journal from those first agonizing days contains one entry.
Nothing has been the same since December 11, 2011.
NOTHING.
But, while I never could have conceived it nine months ago, I am slowly coming to understand…
“I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat is planted in the soil and dies, it remains alone. But its death will produce many new kernels—a plentiful harvest of new lives.” John 12:24
for those who weep 