Lisa Wessel's Blog

Ten years. 120 months. 520 weeks. 3,650 days. 87,600 hours. 5,256,000 minutes.

A decade.

By anyone’s standards, a significant length of time. Ten years ago today, my son Will was killed in an accident.

For those grieving the death of a child, time is a beguiling enemy. When the loss is fresh, time tantalizes you with the fact that your son was alive an hour ago, a day ago, a week ago. Irrational thoughts invade your mind. If I could go back, just a little bit, I could prevent this.  But time stands in the way, immovable, implacable.

Time passes. It taunts you differently now. It reminds you how long it’s been since you’ve seen him, spoken to him, dropped him off at school, kissed him goodnight. Mostly time taunts you with the fact that it has moved on without him. And as time moves, it brings new troubles.

If problems were doled out in equal measure to all, people who lose a child would be exempt from lesser ones. Health issues, conflicts at work, and traffic tickets would pass us by. But this is just as much fantasy as believing, even for a moment, that you could travel back in time and save your child. Problems still arise, even for mourners with less stamina to meet them.

Bills still come due when money is tight. People still cut you off in traffic. Extra pounds creep up. Coworkers are rude. Plumbing fails. Pets die. Taxes.

The Bible has a lot to say about problems. It also has a lot to say about time. This morning, my verse-a-day Bible app sent me a verse that addresses both.

Sing the praises of the Lord, you his faithful people; praise his holy name.

For his anger lasts only for a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime;

Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. 

Psalm 30: 4 – 5

Loss is always present. Grief doesn’t go away. But God promises that it won’t last forever. Rejoicing comes in the morning. 

3,650 mornings have come and gone since Will died. The morning that brings rejoicing may not come for a very long time. But after ten years of living with grief, I’ve come to view time differently.  I’m not ten years farther away from Will, I’m one day closer to seeing him again.

 

 

 

My son’s first birthday party was a joyful jumble of proud grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and energetic toddler friends.  The cowboy theme matched his nursery.  An old saddle served as a centerpiece, tiny boots as a utensil caddy. Cowhide cookies spilled out of a Stetson, and guests took home party favors wrapped in bandanas.

Birthday celebrations are major events, for children and the parents who plan them. Eventually, themed parties give way to dinner with friends, and toys give way to cash and gift cards. Parents are left to wax nostalgic on social media, reflecting on the ever popular phrase “the young man you are becoming.”

But when the birthdays come and the young man is gone, what then? What happens when the “becoming” is abruptly interrupted? What happens when cash and gift cards give way to flowers for a headstone?

 

My son Will was born on this day, twenty-five years ago, but I only got to celebrate fifteen birthdays with the boy who made me a mother. Here are ten things I’ve learned since his death, one for each birthday that has come and gone without him.

  He didn’t cease to exist because he died. Nothing can change the fact that he was here, and he was loved. He is still loved, and he is still part of my family. His death doesn’t change the number of children I have.
  Spending time with your children is something you will never regret. Sitting down to work a puzzle may seem unimportant with laundry and deadlines looming, but housework and responsibilities never go away. Children do, one way or another.
  Time does not heal all wounds.
  Having a support system is important, but so is solitude. No one feels Will’s loss the way I do, and there are times I need to be alone to feel it. This has ranged from sitting in a parked car with my Bible for half an hour, to renting a mountainside cabin and spending a week questioning God and my own existence.
God is big enough to handle my doubts. My grief and rage never overwhelm him.
Hearing Will’s name on the lips of others is a balm to my soul. Before Will’s death, I worried about mentioning someone who died to their loved ones. I didn’t want to remind them of their loss. Now I realize a loss of that magnitude is never forgotten, even for a moment. It never slips my mind that my child is gone. The mention of his name won’t shock me back into grief and despair. The mention of his name assures me that others remember and miss him too.
  Over the years grief becomes less of an open wound and more of a tender spot, cushioned by the passing of time.  Even so, sorrow can strike without warning . Seeing Pokemon cards in the checkout line, or running into a childhood friend he didn’t have the chance to grow up with can claw at the bandages time has provided. When this happens the grief feels fresh and raw. Allowing myself to be sad is okay.
  Everything does NOT happen for a reason. Mourners are often told “everything happens for a reason” in the mistaken belief that it is a biblical sentiment. When I searched this statement on Bible Gateway it returned zero results. Instead it offered Romans 8:28 – “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Do I believe God planned for Will to die at age fifteen? No. His death was the result of human error in the fallen world we live in. However, I do believe God is able to bless people through the worst circumstances. He will walk through tragedy with us if we let him. 
Joy is not the same as happiness. I will never be happy about my son’s death, but the assurance that I will someday join him in the eternal life God has promised to those who love him brings me great joy.
His birthdays still matter. If I place fifteen white roses on his headstone for the anniversary of his death, it’s even more important that I take vibrant blue and yellow flowers to the cemetery for his birthday. I commemorate his death, but I celebrate his life. His life resonated with exuberance and joy. That’s what I want to remember.

Grieving someone who should’ve outlived you is a harrowing experience. If you travel this road, be kind to yourself. Grieve deeply. If you can’t stand the silence, surround yourself with family and friends.  When the noise is too much, seek solitude unapologetically. Even though there are no more birthdays to celebrate, never stop celebrating your child. And never forget this promise: “I give them eternal life, and they will never die, and no one can steal them out of my hand.” John 10:28

 

 

 

 

Years of self-doubt and sweating in front of a computer screen have culminated in the realization of a lifelong dream. You’re holding your published book in your hands. Now, how to get it into the hands of readers?

The introvert population within the writing tribe trembles at the thought of self-promotion, but today’s publishing industry requires authors to be actively involved in marketing their books. Publication is the invitation to an exclusive party. Marketing is the obnoxious guy who points at you and yells, “Why are you being so quiet?”

One easy way to gain exposure is to write a press release. Social media gets a lot of attention as a marketing tool, but its predecessor deserves consideration as well. Here are ten simple steps to write a press release for the newspaper.

Use the proper format. Write FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, in all caps, at the top of your press release. This lets journalists know they can print it right away.
Write a short headline that captures local interest. For example, an author from Yukon, Oklahoma could write a headline for the Yukon Review that says, “Yukon resident releases debut novel.” If you work in a neighboring town, send your release there as well, but change the headline to reflect your connection to that community, such as “Mustang teacher releases first novel.”
Begin the body of your release with a dateline. This includes your city and state (in all caps), and the date the release was written.
Answer who and what in your intro. Give your name and the title of your book. Within the body of a press release, book titles are written in all caps. Add a tagline to pique readers’ interest. Who is your main character? What is she trying to accomplish, and who or what is stopping her? Try to work this information into one tightly written sentence.
Tell readers where your book can be found. Amazon? Barnes and Noble? Publisher’s website? This is also a good place to list any awards your book may have won, pre or post publication.
If you’ve got reader reviews, quote them!
Add a short author bio. Include tidbits about your day job, interests, and family.
Give your contact info. This can be combined with a call to action by saying, “Contact (author’s name) at (email address) or visit her website (link).”
Back to formatting – end your press release with three hash symbols, centered at the bottom of your page.
Research your local papers. It’s okay to swing for the fences and send your release to The Oklahoman or The Dallas Morning News, but don’t forget the smaller community papers. They are always looking for relevant, local news stories to print. Send your release to papers in your hometown, where you work, where you were born, where you graduated college. Papers in neighboring communities may print your release because of your proximity to them.

Remember to write your press release in third person point of view. It sounds more professional to readers, and helps deliver information that is difficult to convey when writing in first person.

Looking at examples of press releases by other authors is helpful in crafting your own. Here is the release I wrote for my novel Doubly Dead:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

Yukon author releases debut novel

 

YUKON, OK, October 23, 2017 – Lisa Wessel, resident of Yukon, has released her first novel, a mystery entitled DOUBLY DEAD. The novel follows Sophie Cahill’s struggle against sabotage and her own family history as she attempts to launch Covenant Falls, Colorado’s first Founders Day.

Published by Bold Vision Books, DOUBLY DEAD is available on Amazon and at Barnes and Noble. Before publication, it won American Christian Fiction Writers 2014 First Impressions Contest.

Early reviewers say, “The book kept me in suspense until the very end,” and “It was a great mystery read with a love story for a sweet topping.”

In addition to writing, Lisa Wessel has spent twenty years in Oklahoma’s public schools. She’s taught elementary grades in OKCPS and Putnam City, and currently teaches third grade in Mustang Public School District. She lives in Yukon with her husband and son.

Contact Lisa at lisawessel67@gmail.com or visit her website, www.lisawessel.com.

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     A well-written press release is a prize for a journalist looking for copy. After all, you’ve done all the work for them. Make sure your release is publication ready. Before you hit send, double and triple check for misspellings and grammatical errors. When you are satisfied that it’s perfect, ask someone else to read it. Authors often miss mistakes because of their familiarity with their own work. They see what they expect to see. A beta reader can root out errors the author overlooked.

Being concise is key. Space is limited in small papers. However, if your release captures a journalist’s interest, he or she may request an interview to expand on it. These can be done in person or over the phone. The journalist will strive to work within your comfort zone.

Remember, you are trying to make it easy for journalists to publish your press release. Give them everything they need so they don’t have to request it. Send images or links to images along with your release. A professional head and shoulders shot of yourself, as well as a clear image file of your book cover will increase the chances of your release getting into print.

Don’t underestimate the power of a press release in a small paper. You never know where it will end up. A mom may pick it up in the dentist’s waiting room and tell her friend, “You have to read this book by my daughter’s teacher!” Your grandmother might pass it around the retirement center, and your uncle at the car dealership could give copies to customers.

To see how three different newspapers used my press release, visit my website, lisawessel.com. A press release is a simple way to net publicity for your book. No new skills are required. Writing is already an arrow in your quiver, so aim at your local papers and watch your readership grow.

 

 

My son got to meet Billy Graham today.

February 21st will be remembered by the world as the day the charismatic evangelist passed away. But February 21st was already a watershed day in my life. It’s the day my child died.

He had eighty-four less years on earth than the Reverend Billy Graham did, but they entered heaven on the same day, eight years apart. They even shared the same first name, though William became Billy for one and Will for the other. Today, an ice storm prevents me from taking fifteen white roses to Will’s grave, but it doesn’t prevent me from thinking about him. Eight years after losing him, here’s what I’d like to tell him.

“My sweet baby boy, I miss you so much. Eight years ago today, on a Sunday morning, you died suddenly, unexpectedly. If you hadn’t, you’d be a year out of college. What would you have become?

On your birthday I think about the little boy that you were, blond hair, blue eyes, dimples, perfect baby teeth. At bedtime, toddler batteries finally exhausted, you’d lift chubby arms and say, “Hold you?” I remember how you liked to watch ‘101 Dogmations’, and carry your ‘rainbrella’. I remember how you’d run into the kitchen when I was cooking to put my oven mitts on your feet. I remember your fearless abandon, jumping off the back of Grandpa’s pontoon boat into his outstretched arms. I remember the boundless joy with which you explored your first snowfall.

But on February 21st I think about the beyond. I wonder how the world would be different if you’d been allowed to live longer than 15 years, 3 months, and 11 days. What path would you follow, what career would you choose? Those questions may never be answered. When I see you again, the concerns of this world will have faded away. I may never know what you would have become.

But I know what you were, what you still are to everyone who knew you. A boy who never knew a stranger, who put no age limits on friendship. A boy with a positive outlook on life, who met each new experience with exuberance and joy. A boy who didn’t give up on his dreams because they were hard to reach. A boy whose smile brightened every room he walked into. A boy who would’ve cherished the opportunity to sit and talk with Billy Graham.

Time marches on, and blessings rain down in the wake of tragedy, but the world is a little poorer for not knowing the man that you would have become.

Your death, as well as your life, has taught me so much. Over the past eight years I’ve learned that an opportunity to take a photo should never be missed, that a calendar packed with wrestling meets and concerts is better than an empty one, and that even mundane moments are precious.

If I’m granted a normal life span, I could live another thirty years without you. If I’m granted a generous one, I might live another forty-nine years, as long as Billy Graham. If I’m honest, I’m not really interested in that. Having outlived one loved one, I’d rather not repeat the experience.

Don’t get me wrong, Will. I know that you see things with an eternal perspective now, and in your eyes, our reunion is not far off. I try to remember that. In the meantime, I want to live what remains of my life to the fullest. I believe that honors God, and serves as a tribute to you.

In a few years, I want to enjoy a long retirement with my husband, a man you never met, but I know you would love. I look forward to road-tripping, dog-walking, hiking in the mountains, and writing. I want to watch your brother mature into adulthood and follow his dreams. I hope to love and spoil grandchildren.

But since you died, I look at death differently. Yes, death before your time, like you experienced, is a tragedy. Death out of order is unspeakable. And death due to preventable causes, or outright evil, is a horrendous theft of potential and possibility.

But death at the end of a long life, well lived and well loved, is not tragic. It’s not a quiet slipping into oblivion. It’s a reawakening into eternal fellowship with Jesus. It’s freedom from fear, conflict, and pain.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death, sadness, crying, or pain, because all the old ways are gone.” Revelation 21:4

This knowledge, coupled with the promise of seeing you again, makes extreme old age unappealing to me. Why linger here in a diminished capacity when renewed life awaits me in heaven? I’d rather be there with you, and Jesus, and Billy.”

Those are the words I’d say to my son. But none of us knows the number of our days. If I live to be 99, come sit with me a while. Pull up a rocking chair next to mine, and in the manner of old folks since time immemorial, I’ll tell you about my family. I’ll tell you about the husband I found in middle age, who brought joy and hope to the second half of my life. I’ll tell about my sons. “They’ve made me so proud,” I’ll say. “My youngest is 68. My oldest is 15, and I’ll be seeing him soon.

My two deepest desires stared up at me from the words of Psalm 62: 9-11.

     Man as such is smoke,

woman as such, a mirage.

Put them together, they’re nothing;

two times nothing is nothing.

And a windfall, if it comes –

don’t make too much of it.

God said this once and for all;

how many times have I heard it repeated?

“Strength comes straight from God.” The Message

I first read those words in the summer of 2013. I’d been a divorced, single mom for thirteen years. In 2010, my oldest son Will was killed in an accident. I was just beginning to emerge from a bitter, self-imposed breach from God. During my summer break from teaching, I was diving deep into his word, seeking direction and purpose for my future.

I knew what I wanted my future to hold. There were two things that I longed for above all else. My prayers went something like this:

God, I’ve been wandering in the wilderness for thirteen years. I don’t want to be alone the rest of my life. The son that I have left will soon be grown. I want a companion to walk through life with, someone I can respect, cherish, and enjoy, who in turn respects and honors me. Please bring me a Godly husband, the one you have ordained just for me.

And –

God, you’ve given me the gift of writing. I enjoyed it in childhood, and as an adult it’s sustained me through my darkest days. Now I want to pursue it as more than a hobby. I want to be a traditionally published author in the Christian fiction genre. Please bless my writing and take it where you want it to go.

But as I prayed I was plagued by doubt. Was it selfish to pray for my dreams to come true, or should I just pray for God’s will to be done in my life? What if the things I prayed so desperately for weren’t in his will for me? What would become of all those prayers then? Was I wasting time and energy praying for things God never intended to give me?

On the other hand, why should God give me what I never bothered to ask for? I tried to split the difference by praying Psalm 38:9. Lord, my longings are sitting in plain sight, my groans an old story to you. The Message

I thought, God already knows what I want. I don’t need to specifically name things every time I pray. But this felt like a cop-out, like I wasn’t taking an active role in my own life. I never hesitated to pray for specific things for my son, including a Godly spouse for him in the future. Was my hesitation to pray for specific blessings for myself born out of a fear that God wouldn’t answer, or that he’d see me as selfish?

Later that summer a Bible study directed me to read Matthew 20. In verses 29-34, Jesus passes two blind men who cry out to him.

Jesus stopped and called over, “What do you want from me?” They answered, “Master, we want our eyes opened. We want to see!” Deeply moved, Jesus touched their eyes. They had their sight back that very instant, and joined the procession. The Message

Not only did Jesus stop and listen to the two blind men, he asked them what they wanted of him. They told him exactly, specifically, what that was. Whether he restored their sight or not was up to him, but he was deeply moved by their request, touched by their faith that he could restore their sight if he chose to. He wasn’t offended or disgusted by their petition.

Like the blind men, my eyes were opened. God wanted to hear my requests, so I would pray specifically for them. But were my desires in line with God’s will? Did he want what I wanted? I didn’t know, but my discovery of Psalm 62 made me realize that God was cognizant of my desires, and he listened to and cared about my prayers.

Man as such is smoke, woman as such, a mirage. Put them together, they’re nothing. Two times nothing is nothing.  Psalm 62:9 

In my mind, this verse clearly referred to marriage. The negativity in it startled me, until I read verse 11.

How many times have I heard it repeated? “Strength comes straight from God.” 

Okay God, I see your point. Even if I was blessed with a Godly marriage, I shouldn’t rely solely on my husband. Strength comes straight from God.

Then there was this part: And a windfall, if it comes – don’t make too much of it. 

I translated windfall as my second request, landing a book contract. Don’t make too much of it. God spoke definitively to me about my requests through this passage. His message was clear –  Realizing your dreams may be thrilling, and though I may grant your requests, nothing is as important as your relationship with me.

I took this message to heart. I continue to ask for the things I deeply desire, when I feel they are in accordance with God’s will. In my limited knowledge, I’m often mistaken about this. I’ve prayed for many specific things that have not come to pass, probably because they would’ve done me more harm than good. But I believe God honors our heartfelt, humble requests, whether he grants them or not.

In November 2014, I met my future husband. He didn’t just appear on my doorstep, although my prayers implied I would prefer it that way. It took persistent friends encouraging me to join eHarmony, then it required a leap of faith to show up and shake hands with a stranger in the Olive Garden lobby. In June 2017 I married the man I had prayed for.

As for my other request, God granted that one too. In 2015 I signed a contract with Bold Vision Books. My first novel, Doubly Dead, was published in March 2017.

I thank God for these blessings every day. Of course, prayer should be more than just asking God to fulfill our desires. Confession, praise, and intercession also play a role in a healthy prayer life. But one thing I thank God for is showing me that he cares about my dreams and desires. Jesus’ conversation with two blind men on the side of a dusty road gives me courage to lay my requests before God.

I entered the workroom at school, relieved to find it empty. Grateful for the quiet, I fed subtraction practice pages into the copy machine. My second graders needed extra practice with two-digit regrouping problems, and I needed a moment of solitude.

At the low-income school where I’d spent the last ten years, behavior problems were the norm. Teachers knew to expect two or three students with extreme anger, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, or a host of other issues to be on their roster each year.

This was part of the deal, and I was accustomed to the routine. Redirect an explosive child to his cool-down spot, pick up the desk he knocked over, soothe the child whose work he tore up, remind the class that those are not the words second graders should use. Call the child’s parent after school to express your concerns, and discover where he learned those words.

But this year was different. My class was loaded with not two or three, but nine students with extreme behavior issues. They set each other off like matches to gasoline, and there wasn’t enough space in the room to keep them separated. I spent most of my time putting out fires rather than teaching.

At this point I’d been a single mom for ten years. Home was a haven after a stressful work day, but no one was there to share my burdens. In addition, two years previously I’d lost Will, my oldest son, in an accident. Grief sapped my strength, leaving little for everyday tasks. Dragging myself out of bed and through the shower was enough of a challenge most days. By the time I arrived at school I had little energy left for dealing with the demands of my students.

The only place I found any hope was in my writing. I started writing stories as a kid, and continued throughout high school. In college I set it aside as a childish hobby. I graduated, got a real job, got married and divorced. A few years into single motherhood, I felt God nudging me to write again. I was 60,000 words into a novel when Will died. Grief derailed my writing for a couple more years.

But recently I’d opened my laptop and begun a new novel.

Writers will tell you that we are divided into two groups, pantsers and plotters. Pantsers write by the seat of their pants, letting the story lead them, while plotters outline and diagram for months before writing a word.

I’m a plotter. I need the security of knowing what’s ahead for my characters, a luxury not afforded people in the real world. I’d meticulously summarized each scene on sticky notes and arranged them on a bulletin board above my desk. Every evening I’d lose myself in the fictional world I created, finding respite from my grief and the trials of my job. It was the only place I experienced enjoyment or hope.

The night before, I finally reached a scene I’d looked forward to writing. It starred a goat who creates havoc at a small town’s Founders Day. Being a suburban girl, I knew little about goats, so I immersed myself in goat research.

Do goats chew cud?
How long do goats live?
What color are goats’ eyes?
How high can goats jump?
Given the chance, would a goat eat vinyl upholstery?

I studied pictures of goats, read articles about goats, watched YouTube videos of goats. I wrote my goat scene and reread it, elated with the outcome. I felt more in tune with God when I wrote than any other time. If only I could write full-time, and never go back to work.

But here I was, back in the fray. I rested my head on the copier as it cranked out pages. That morning a student had bolted from the classroom in anger and run out of the building. He was apprehended and returned by the principal, at which point he crawled under his desk to sulk and hurl out insults. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to return to class after plan time.

Desperation gripped me. I whispered an agonized prayer.

Jesus, I need you to do something to deliver me right now!

I lifted my head. I hadn’t been magically spirited away, and I had ten minutes to return to class. I stared at the empty expanse of white board above the copier.

Only it wasn’t empty. Right in front of me, stuck between the frame and the board, was a bookmark. It had red roses over an aqua background with the slogan, “Take time to eat the flowers.” And at the bottom of the bookmark, a goat.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was I really seeing this? I plucked the bookmark off the board and turned it over. Scholastic, $0.50.  It was a leftover from the book fair we’d just sponsored, but to me, it was so much more than that.

It was an immediate answer to prayer. It was God saying that he saw me in both places, at home when I was writing and happy, and at work where I was weary and miserable. He spoke volumes through that bookmark.

I see you. I know you. I’m always with you. 

I clutched the bookmark as I picked my students up from Art. I opened my desk drawer several times during class to look at it and assure myself it was real. Since that day, goats have become God’s calling card, a kind of secret code between us. Later that year, overwhelmed by weariness on the way to work, I prayed for deliverance again. When I got to school, I discovered the first graders were learning about animals, and the Art teacher, who had a small farm, had brought two goat kids for them to draw. I spent my plan time that day cuddling real, live baby goats.

A few months later I discovered a tray of pendants in a boutique. They were square with letters on them, and had a picture to match the letter. A bear for B, a cat for C, and so on. I sorted through them for an L. I found one, but instead of a lion or a llama, it had a picture of a goat.

A couple of years later my novel was complete. I was ready for the next step, but I knew it needed polishing before I sent my proposal to publishers. I attended an intensive writer’s retreat a couple of hours from home, and got excellent critiques from industry professionals. I left ready to do a final edit, then see where God would take my work. I prayed enthusiastically on the way home.

God, what’s next? Where should I send it? To an agent or a publisher? Tell me what to do!

Crickets…

I felt mildly silly. Had I expected an audible voice? Traffic slowed in front of me and I sighed, waiting my turn to pull out and pass the truck that was going ten miles below the speed limit. Two cars in front of me made their escape, then it was my turn. I scowled at the trailer that was slowing the truck and everyone else down. Something inside caught my eye, and I stared, open-mouthed.

Three goats stared back at me.

Since that day in the copy room, the phrase “God works in mysterious ways” has taken on a new meaning. I don’t expect God to use a goat every time he talks to me, but I have more goat stories than I have room to write about in this post. (One actually turned out to be a bighorn sheep, but at the time I thought it was a goat and that’s all that matters!)

Five years later I still have that bookmark. It lives in my office where I can see it as I work on my second novel. My first novel, with the goat scene that started it all, was published by Bold Vision Books in March 2017. It’s called Doubly Dead. The goat scene is in chapter thirty-five. I hope you’ll read it and tell me what you think.

Everyone’s relationship with God is unique. I believe he tailors his communication to the needs of each person. I’d love to hear stories of how God talks to you!

 

Traditions carried out in the soft glow of Christmas tree lights are endowed with a sacredness that others cannot attain.

As a young mother, one of my greatest joys was creating Christmas traditions with my sons. Navigating the dual minefields of single parenthood and teaching in a low-income public school put a special shine on those two weeks off at the end of the year. Contentment won out over stress as I ate dinner on a TV tray with my boys, who watched the Grinch’s antics with rapt attention.

We’d unfold my old cutting board in front of the paper log burning in the fireplace (the only fire I knew how to build) and put together a Rudolph or Frosty the Snowman puzzle, then preserve it with puzzle glue. When it came out of storage the following year, brittle and bowed, we’d admire our accomplishment, and declare that this year we’d up our game from 500 to 1,000 pieces.

Right before bedtime on Christmas Eve, the boys opened one gift, a new set of pajamas. These morphed from Superman pj’s with Velcro-attached capes to robes or slippers as they grew, but they always had something new to wear for Christmas morning pictures.

The big day happened in two stages: tree presents and stocking presents. We unwrapped tree presents first, taking turns and exclaiming over each gift. We’d take a breather over orange rolls, then repeat the process with stocking gifts. All told, we stretched out opening presents until two in the afternoon.

Traditions carried out in the soft glow of Christmas tree lights are endowed with a sacredness that others cannot attain. The joy of the season and the joy of togetherness combine to renew the hope that life can be more than the drudgery of making ends meet. The promise of Christmas, more than just two weeks off, sustained me through the daunting years of single motherhood.

Then in 2010 my son Will was killed in an accident. He was my firstborn, the one who gave me the best day of my life when he entered the world, and the worst day when he left it. Mere existence became a burden. The thought of celebrating anything was abhorrent.

But Christmas inevitably came. While I preferred to ignore it, I went through the motions for my younger son. My family and friends handled the situation with grace and tenderness, but Will’s absence screamed through my bloodstream with each beat of my heart.

Bitter experience taught me what made the situation worse, and what helped me through it. If you know a bereaved parent, here are five gifts you can give them this Christmas.

A conversation about their child. The mention of a deceased child’s name won’t remind his parents that he is gone. His absence is the musical score of their lives, playing on an endless loop. You can’t make bereaved parents sad by talking about their loss. They’re already sad. Their biggest fear is that the world will forget their child existed. Hearing his name on other people’s lips is a priceless gift.
A place for their child in the celebration. Hang his stocking with everyone else’s, but don’t leave it empty. Set aside a time for loved ones to write him a note and slip it inside. Wrap a special ornament for  him, and when others are opening their gifts, pull it out and hang it in a prominent place on the tree. Sip cocoa while you watch his favorite animated or stop-motion Christmas special.
A gift in their child’s name. Donate to a local food pantry. Give a brood of chickens to an impoverished family in South America. Place Bibles in hotel rooms for weary travelers. International and domestic charities will send cards to the family to let them know how your gift is being used to alleviate suffering. For the mother or father who wonders what their child would have become, it’s a way of letting him make a positive impact on the world when he lost the chance to do it himself.
Space. The first Christmas after the death of a child is excruciating. A casual get-together becomes a torturous ordeal. Listening to friends’ lighthearted conversations about their plans for the upcoming year is like a wire brush on an open wound. Playing Dirty Santa or racing a coworker to unwrap gifts while wearing oven mitts is not something a bereaved parent is capable of. Invite, but don’t pressure. Offer to bring coffee and conversation to them. At family gatherings, let them set the pace for their participation. Sometimes being adjacent to, but not involved in the celebration is enough.
Understanding that you don’t understand. Don’t tell a bereaved parent, “I know how you feel.” Unless  you’ve buried your own child, you don’t. It belittles someone’s unspeakable tragedy to say that you do. You might imagine how awful it would feel, but you can shake it off and go hug your child. Also, please understand that losing a parent does not create solidarity with someone who has lost a child. There is an order to things, and parents are expected to go first. When a mother or father outlives their child, the world no longer makes sense. Don’t compare the loss of an older relative to the loss of a child. Rather, offer a bereaved parent the promise of “Whatever you need.” It may mean taking their other children Christmas shopping, or decorating the tree because they don’t have the energy to do it themselves. Even if they don’t take you up on it, the offer means the world.

Christmas will never be the same for a parent who has lost a child. Eight Christmases after Will’s death, I still approach the season with a mixture of excitement and dread. I’m blessed with family and friends who are sensitive to this, and every year offer me all the gifts listed above. Give one of these gifts to a grieving parent this Christmas. It will take time, but you can bring a little of the joy of the season back to them.

I followed my fourteen year-old into Second Chance Books and Comics. The twenty-five dollars burning a hole in his pocket trumped any concerns about the seedy strip mall. He’d discovered the comic book store on one of his dad’s weekends, and couldn’t wait to initiate me into the thrill of discovering vintage editions for his superhero collection.

I paused inside the door, momentarily overwhelmed by jumbled displays of 1970’s lunchboxes and Loony Toons cookie jars. My tour guide hastened me down an aisle of action figures, then weaved through life-sized cutouts of cloaked video game assassins. The place was Tardis-like, insignificant outside, football-field deep inside.

Comic books filled half the store. My son scanned the new titles on the wall, then turned to the older comics, filed alphabetically in boxes across several tables. He pried a tightly wedged comic out of a box, studied the cover, then seesawed it back in. He repeated the process at the next box, discoursing with casual expertise on the merits of Marvel vs. DC.

“Um-hum,” I murmured, struggling to keep Batman and Thor in their separate universes.

“Anyway Mom,” he said, “you can go look around. I’m going to be here a while.” He opened a Superman comic on top of a box and forgot about me.

Dismissed, I looked around at the goods on offer. But I don’t need a Chewbacca potholder.  I spied a chair beyond a rack of t-shirts and headed for it, wishing I’d brought a book to read. But once I pushed past the t-shirts, I forgot about the chair, because now I could see what had been hidden behind the wall of comics.

Books. Row after row of plank and cinder block shelves, jammed to capacity. Books crammed in vertically and horizontally, books in disordered heaps on the floor between stacks. Why hadn’t I come here sooner? 

I hurried to the front of the store, not wanting to miss a single row. Pictures were taped to the end of each aisle, icons denoting the genre.

Clip art vampires: horror
Dashing rogue and swooning maiden: historical romance
Flying saucers: science fiction
Deerstalker and magnifying glass: mystery

I picked up a worn Agatha Christie and riffled the pages. The smell of newsprint wafted upwards. I replaced the book and turned to see the icon on the next row.

Less fanciful than the others, this was a simple black and white drawing of a cross. There was a scarcity of books here in comparison to the other aisles. No paperback landslides littered the floor. Orderly rows of books lined the shelves, except for a few untidy ends where they toppled over into empty space. ​​

I hesitated at the end cap. Christian fiction wasn’t on my must-read list. I’d laid down my Bible the day my oldest son was killed in an accident, and it had been gathering dust for three years. My Christian heritage prevented me from abandoning my belief in God, but my pain convinced me He didn’t care. I’d stood at my son’s grave and thrown Psalm 91 up at God.

“Nothing bad will happen to you; no disaster will come to your home.

He has put his angels in charge of you to watch over you wherever you go.

They will catch you in their hands so that you will not hit your foot on a rock.”

Liar, my heart chanted as it hardened.

Still, I was curious. Reading was breathing, and mysteries were lifeblood. The unexplored genre of Christian suspense beckoned me.

I stepped into the aisle and picked up a book. Trial by Fire, by Terri Blackstock. I scanned the back cover copy and discovered it was book four in her Newpointe 911 series, chronicling the lives of rescue workers in a small Louisiana town. I found book five also, but the first three in the series were missing.

I still can’t believe I bought them. It’s heresy to read a series out of order. Grudgingly intrigued, I told myself I could trade them in on a return visit. I paid for them after my son purchased a stack of comics.

The first few pages of Trial by Fire revealed a character dealing with the sudden death of his oldest son. The manner of his son’s death, though not identical, was similar to that of my own, My world skidded to a stop.

Really, God? A store with 250,000 books, and this is the one I pick up? The heartless irony nearly buried me.

But I read on. I read about a father who wasn’t sure if God cared about his grief. A father who, though a Christian, found little comfort in the fact that his son was in Heaven. A father who looked for places to cast blame, and who resented people for laughing and talking as if the world hadn’t just ended. I read about a father who questioned God the way I had, who doubted his goodness and love. As the story wrapped up, this father regained his trust in God, if not his understanding of his son’s death.

I could write this off as a coincidence. But then I read book five. About halfway through Line of Duty, a pastor and his wife are sitting in a car, grieving over the death of friends. The wife lashes out.

“And don’t tell me that God’s taking care of everything, because he didn’t. …… Remember the psalm where he said he wouldn’t let us strike our foot on a stone, that if we stumbled he wouldn’t let us hurl headlong? Some of us stumbled the other day, Nick. And some of us were hurled headlong. Explain that to me!”

The same message, if not the same verse in the Psalms, that haunted me. But what resonated with me most was the pastor’s answer. He didn’t have one.

He proclaimed God’s faithfulness, listed ways he’d shown up in the aftermath of tragedy.

He reiterated his trust in God even though he didn’t understand why he’d allowed their friends to die.

That’s when the stone encasing my heart cracked and fell away. When I read about people suffering and questioning as I did, my burden lifted. I still grieved, but I realized that it was okay to be angry, okay to question God. I could feel doubt and anger without shutting God out of my life. I didn’t have to understand why my son died to trust God again.

So I kept the books and ordered the other three. That trip to the comic book store launched me on a journey of discovery. I returned again and again, sometimes without my son, to explore the one aisle of Christian fiction in the used book section. I discovered Robin Carroll, Dee Henderson, Jill Nelson, Brandilyn Collins, Irene Hannon, Colleen Coble, Julie Lessman, and Mary Conneally. I delved into speculative fiction and read Frank Peretti, Erin Healy, Alton Gansky, and Mike Dellosso. Besides just enjoying a good story, I learned something about God from each book.

But the biggest lesson I learned was that while I may have given up on God, he never gave up on me. He knew grief and anger gripped my heart, and I wasn’t going to pick up a Bible. But he also knew I was never without a book, so he led me to a place where he could reach me. God called to me through Terri Blackstock’s characters, in books written years before my tragedy.

I’m here. I never left you. Come home.

I ran from God, but he followed me. When I refused to seek him out, he showed up in the comic book store. He placed in my hands the book that would lead me back to him.

I still grieve for my son. I still have dark days when I cry out why? But I do so secure in the knowledge that God can take it, and when I’m done, his arms will be open.

God sought me out in a second hand comic book store. Have you had an encounter with God in an unexpected place?