Sunday Slowdown

a storytelling email from Purpose + Grit designed to make space for purposeful reflection and intention as you reset for the week ahead

Today, we hold space for the brokenhearted mamas. Every year on the first Sunday in May, International Bereaved Mother’s Day honors mothers who have lost a child. It’s also a day to recognize women who cannot be a mother due to infertility or other health reasons. This Sunday Slowdown is filled with prayers and stories to hold space for these brokenhearted mamas and their children who live in heaven.

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As a Prayer Artist, I use art as a form of prayer. It's a way for me to connect with my Maker when the words just aren't there. When I get really lucky, the words fall upon the piece as I paint allowing me to reconcile my head and my heart. Sometimes, when the words hit just right, I feel called to share them with the world and they become my Prayer Art Collections, like this one titled Worth the Weight.​

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When I originally sat down to create this collection about child loss, an image of elephants came to mind. I had no idea why, until I dug a little deeper and found this...

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"When a baby elephant dies, it’s mother has been known to lift it with her trunk. She then places it in an area where the calf is covered with ground debris like twigs, sticks, and dirt. The other female members of the herd assist in this ritual. Upon completion, the rest of the herd will join the mother paying homage. This is one of many beautiful rituals of the death in the animal kingdom. Research has documented that mother elephants both in the wild and in sanctuaries, have been known to stand watch and grieve for days." (Clock's Timeless Pets, 2022)

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Wow! I had no idea. God continued to lead me in this painting through conversations with grieving moms as they described the weight of their grief, and how no matter how bad the pain was, their love with their child was still worth every minute they had together...

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And that is how Worth the Weight was born.

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Written Across the Sky

A story by Melissa Godber as published in Gritty Faith: Above​

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I’ve always been a sky watcher. Those of us inhabiting the South Dakota prairie have a clear view of the vast sky above on a daily basis. But always, the sky is different, sometimes shifting drastically as the day wears on. I have a vivid memory of my dad standing at the edge of our concrete driveway, scanning the sky as the heat and humidity gave way to dark, ominous cloud banks along the western horizon. My dad was a farmer, working long hours in the field or farmyard, and our very livelihood depended on whatever the sky decided to dole out each day. But when storms loomed, and he happened to be home, I felt secure, protected from whatever was unleashed by the sky above. But not even he could protect us from the encroaching storm many years into the future.

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The day my son, Will, died, we were all shattered. My dad, who was already in the late stages of cancer at the time, was crushed. A town kid, living hours away from the family farm, Will was starting to show an interest in farming, spending a few weeks of his summer surrounded by corn. Here was my dad’s flesh and blood, interested in learning about the family legacy. But whatever time my dad had left was cut short by the grief over his grandson’s death. My dad died just two months after my son did. My youngest brother gave the eulogy at dad’s funeral, and he spoke of how he had never seen dad cry, until the day his grandson died.

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Time ticked by at an alarmingly slow pace in those days after Will died. I would sit for what felt like hours in the living room chair, crying, but when I looked at the clock, only a few minutes had passed. The mountain of grief seemed insurmountable. The only time I felt relief was when darkness descended, and I knew with the dawning of a new day, I was one step closer to seeing Will again in heaven. As the weeks passed, I started taking small walks outside, adding more steps to each day’s route. But always as I walked, I looked to the sky. My favorite time to walk, even now six years later, is near sunset. No sunset is ever the same on the prairie, and I always find myself catching my breath as the sun slips toward the horizon, the sky a bowl of strawberry orange sherbet.

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No matter the season, I’m always looking up, hoping for a signal of some sort from God, to bring me a sense of peace. One Sunday in October, my son and I were on our way to church when our gaze was drawn skyward. The sky was a crisp cerulean blue, etched with wispy, white clouds which resembled penmanship from days past, elegant cursive letters stretched across the parchment with a flourish. Why can’t God just write his messages in the sky, where I can clearly decipher what He has planned for this life I must live while my son is there with Him?

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But then one April night in 2023, I did see His handwriting in the sky above. The Aurora Borealis came to the prairie. Super-powerful solar storms sent charged particles into the Earth’s atmosphere, causing the elusive lights to dance across the skies of South Dakota. On that April night, I climbed into my car and drove west, leaving the city lights behind. I pulled off the highway and parked on an approach, where I doused the headlights and opened my sunroof.

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As I gazed north, my eyes adjusted to the night sky, and I could just make out a gray haze in the distance. I played with the camera on my phone, and miraculously, I somehow managed to capture a somewhat-clear, but obviously amateur photograph of the aurora. A large pink pillar, surrounded by undulating green waves, stretched toward heaven. Then I turned my gaze to the sky straight above. The lights pulsated and shimmered, as if a strobe light in heaven was aimed toward earth.

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I was overcome. In that moment I felt the majestic presence of God. I felt He was sending the heavenly lights my way in order to calm my anxious heart. Less than a month after I witnessed the extraordinary sight, my son Will’s class graduated high school. My heart was heavy all spring and dread was settling into my soul at an alarming rate. But somehow, watching the lights dance above me brought comfort to my soul. I could see clearly the message He wanted to impart—I am in control, your boy is safe here until the day you are scheduled to arrive at the final, and ultimate destination.

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A prairie girl at heart, Melissa Nachtigal Godber grew up on a farm in South Dakota. She currently lives in Tea, South Dakota with her husband Mark and their children, Claire and Jesse. Her son, Will, died in November 2017, and she eagerly anticipates their heavenly reunion someday. Melissa enjoys exploring Sioux Falls history at her museum job. Her other passions include reading and reviewing books @msnightingaleshappyreadingyear on Instagram.

Gritty Faith is available in a free digital edition and a stunning coffee-table-worthy physical edition.​

Through my work with Gritty Faith Magazine and leading Painted Prayer workshops, I have had the honor of holding space for many brokenhearted mamas as they share the stories of their children who now live with Jesus. Although I have not personally experienced child loss, I have witnessed this heart-wrenching life-long grief in my own parents after the loss of my sister in 2017. The loss of a child is different than all other losses. No matter if it is the loss of a living child, a miscarriage, or a struggle with infertility, a loss of this magnitude stays with a woman for life. It is always on her mind.

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I know this is a hard and heavy topic for our first Sunday Slowdown, and yet, this date on the calendar deserves recognition. If God is nudging you, please take a moment to share this email to connect with the brokenhearted mama on your heart. The spark of that connection and the space you hold for her grief means more than you will ever know. That, my friends, is God at work through us.

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May you be blessed this Sunday with rest, refuge and unexpected connections.

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