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 ashes, death, grief, hope, lettig go, pain, release, sorrow on September 22, 2014| Leave a Comment »
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 accident, Advent, Christ, Christmas, death, grief, Jesus, loss, mourning, murder, pain, pity, sorrow, suicide, survivor, tears on December 11, 2013| 7 Comments »
…Like I said, I’m pushing one seed into the dirt each day. Counting down to Christmas. Counting up my blessings. Counting on His hope.
Day 11: I dig into the dirt with my fingernails and drop the seed into the darkness.
But the truth is, for as noble as all this advent planting may seem, I want to crawl into the hole alongside that tiny seed and pull the dirt up over the both of us.
Hole hiding is one of grief’s greatest temptations. The darkness beckons. Pity and woe are masterful enticers. They promise to stay, to bind and hold me there alongside them. They are in it for the long haul. Tenacity at its finest.
But, I can’t go there. I cannot crawl into that hole and I cannot hide because I know that today, somebody else’s sister will hear suicide screaming into the other end of the line.
And someone else will have a coroner and a casket come right there in the midst of their Christmas.
I cannot hide because just last week I stood among a group of “survivors”.
I cannot hide because they are not hiding and tragedy tied us all together, right there in the middle of the courtyard.
“This is our daughter,” a woman sobbed, pointing to a picture on the wall behind her. “She killed herself three months ago.”
My heart plummeted onto the cement and splattered out all over. I know her pain. I know how hard the grief bites in month three. And I know that for as much as she is hurting, she hasn’t even felt the worst of it…yet.
“My son went for a ride on his motorcycle. He was run over by a drunk driver.”
Her words are met by another mother’s knowing nod. Before the night is over, she too will stand and tell us that her child was run down while riding a bicycle and that the driver fled the scene.
“My son was shot and killed on the interstate.”
The stories continue.
“My brother was murdered by his wife.”
“The pieces of my daughter’s body haven’t been found yet. It’s been three years.”
“This is my son,” another woman says, clutching a photograph. He completed suicide. He was our only child.”
Our snot and sobs crescendo into the night sky, joining in the chorus of a million others and I wonder how we can even stand.
But here we are.
I can’t.
I cannot stay buried…
“Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him” (1 Thessalonians 5:13-14).
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ache, Advent, death, grief, loss, missing, sad, sadness, seed, sorrow on December 10, 2013| 1 Comment »
I’ve been pushing seeds down into the dirt since December 1st. Counting down the days to the coming of the Christ-child…counting up my blessings.
…black dirt caked thick under my fingernails. I cover up the seed with dirt, but I can’t cover up my heart; aching and raw. Once again, my tears water this tiny seed, believing beyond all belief–beyond the missing, beyond the grief, beyond the questions–that what will sprout forth from this death will be a tree of life, a mighty oak of hope, “a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor” (Isaiah 61:3).
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, Jesus, loss, pain, redeem, redemption, sorrow, suffering, suicide on October 1, 2013| Leave a Comment »
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,
for those who weep 