Spotlight: Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide by Jackie M. Baker
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Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide is a heartfelt, faith forward companion for mothers navigating the unimaginable pain of losing a child to suicide.
Drawing from personal experience and grounded in Scripture, Jackie M. Baker offers compassionate understanding, practical support, and gentle encouragement for the long road of grief. This book makes room for sorrow without rushing healing, offers language for honest questions, and reminds grieving mothers that they are not alone.
Through personal reflection, biblical wisdom, and practical guidance, Messy Mourning helps readers find light in the darkness and take one small step at a time toward hope.
Excerpt
When Someone Notices You in Your Grief
This excerpt comes from a moment shortly before Sebastian’s death, when Jackie was sitting alone in a church lobby in Bend, Oregon, feeling invisible in her fear and grief—until another grieving mother noticed her.
I sat near the espresso maker in a church lobby near Bend, Oregon. I tried not to listen to the hissing and gurgling noises as it produced steam, similar to a locomotive working hard to climb a hill. After preparing each coffee, the unusually perky barista repeatedly banged a portafilter in the sink. Streams of people walked in front of me, behind me, and next to me; they were laughing, sharing jokes, hugging, and discussing lunch plans that involved their family and friends. No one seemed to notice me sitting alone on this tall stool, waiting for someone to initiate a conversation.
Our son, Sebastian, had recommended this church. He had attended it a few times during his stay at a nearby inpatient rehabilitation center, and he really liked it. Our family had been driving the three-and-a-half-hour journey from Vancouver, Washington, to Bend, Oregon at least twice a month to support Sebastian in his recovery.
However, Sebastian was not improving as we had hoped. His struggle with mental health issues was taking a toll on him, and consequently, on our family.
Sebastian, who had turned twenty-three in April, had recently been readmitted to a psychiatric unit for two weeks because of worsening suicidal thoughts. He had attempted suicide six months earlier. Sebastian had started on a new medication, Lithium, intended to stabilize and manage the unrelenting voices in his head, but its effectiveness still appeared uncertain. Visiting hours at the hospital began around noon; therefore, my husband, Steve, and I decided to visit the church Sebastian had recommended before seeing him.
As I sat in the church service, I couldn’t help feel a wave of mixed emotions. The familiar songs of worship comforted me, and I found myself raising my hands, tears streaming down my face. I was part of the congregation, yet I felt significantly alone in my grief, surrounded by people who seemed to have no understanding of the pain I was going through.
After the service, the pastor invited individuals seeking prayer to proceed to the “wall of prayer” on the left side of the sanctuary. Steve said, “I’m going to the wall for prayer. I need all the prayer I can get.”
I could not go with him. Prayer was still a struggle for me. I was angry and confused about why God would allow my son to suffer like this, and I was not ready to have some unknown person lay hands on me and pray over me. “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” I said.
I left the aisle feeling more alone, caught in the crowd streaming out of the sanctuary, like some salmon fighting upstream, until I eventually ended up near the coffee maker.
As I waited for Steve to finish his prayers, I grew increasingly anxious and felt an urgent need to leave the church. Cheerful people continued to pass me by, get coffee, and laugh as if they had no cares in the world. Couldn’t they see my pain? Glancing around for Steve and the nearest exit, I decided I would wait outside and text him where to find me.
“Hello, I saw you sitting here. Is this your first time at our church?”
Surprised, I looked up from my phone and saw a woman about my age smiling at me and extending her hand in greeting. I took it with my sweaty palm and smiled nervously back.
“Yes, my husband and I are visiting. Our son has come here a few times, and he recommended it.”
“Does your son live in Bend?” she asked, with genuine concern.
Without warning, I blurted everything out in one breath. “For the last four months my son has been at a rehabilitation program for teens and adults struggling with addictions, but now he’s at the hospital on the psych unit for suicidal thoughts. He’s a mess, but he’s my mess. We’re here to support him and help him where we can.”
She smiled again and told me her name was Meg. “My husband is the senior pastor here.” It then dawned on me who Meg was. This was no accidental meeting. God had sent her to me in my distress.
“You lost your son,” I blurted out, embarrassed by my bluntness. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a little over a year,” she said, her voice steady. “His name was Ben. We loved him, and I miss him every day. He had his struggles too, but I’m comforted by knowing he’s home now. I don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Her words, filled with quiet strength and acceptance, brought reassurance and hope to my heart. My son was still alive; her son was dead, and yet she still reached out to me in my distress. Despite her suffering, she approached me and found me among all those people.
She saw the stranger and welcomed me. I was humbled.
We continued to talk, sharing stories about our sons and our husbands. We found common ground in our shared experiences, and our conversation contained tears and laughter. Despite the weight of our grief, we discovered moments of lightness in our shared messiness. Then she asked if she could pray for me, and I readily accepted.
After our amen, Steve finally arrived, and I introduced him to my new friend. We hugged, said our goodbyes, and I left the church with a renewed sense of hope and connection, believing we would soon be back again.
But that sense of hope and connection soon vanished because two weeks later, Sebastian died after falling off Smith Rock.
I’ve never been back to Bend.
Within days after Sebastian’s death, I remembered Meg’s kind words in that church lobby. Our meeting was no accident. In the same way Ben was home, Sebastian was now home in heaven. I, too, did not have to worry about him anymore. Her words of encouragement were such a comfort to me during the aftermath of Sebastian’s suicide. They gave me a glimmer of hope as I struggled to get through each day.
Excerpted from Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide by Jackie M Baker. Used with permission.
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About the Author
Jackie M. Baker is the author of Messy Mourning: Hope for Mothers Grieving the Loss of a Child by Suicide, a faith-forward companion offering hope, practical support, and steady companionship to mothers grieving the loss of a child to suicide.
