Grace to Grieve

By Nancy LoRusso

Not very often does a book like Grace to Grieve come along. Nancy LoRusso has penned a precious and very personal gift to anyone who has had to navigate the world of disappointment, despair, and death. In the midst of incredible loss and pain, Nancy has real answers to heartfelt and vulnerable questions, such as, Should a Christian grieve, and if so, what does real grief look like in our joy-focused Christian world? Grace to Grieve is exactly what the title says. Its a handbook to the heart, giving the reader permission to say, as David said, My soul is clinging to the dust, Oh, Lord revive me. This is exactly what this book does. It will revive your soul.

Chris DuPre, pastor, speaker, and author of the book The Wild Love of God

Grief. Every soul encounters its painful intrusion. Some try and resist it with denial and distraction, while others numbly succumb to it as hopeless prisoners. In her book, Grace to Grieve, author Nancy LoRusso humbly, candidly, and compassionately shares her personal journey through the valley of heartbreaking loss and grief into the recovery of hope, peace, and genuine joy. Offering timeless truths, lessons learned, and tender encouragement, this book is like a deep breath that gently realigns the compass of the heart back to hope. An inspirational must-read for anyone touched by loss.

Tammy Riddering, director, Gateway House of Prayer, St. Louis

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512792706

Nancy LoRusso

Nancy LoRusso, a survivor of grief multiple times over, lives life with compassion, love of God and people, and a glass half-full mentality. She is a successful businesswoman, accomplished public speaker, and now author of Grace to Grieve. Her journey of grief is paralleled to her first half-marathon race where, through perseverance and by the grace of God, she finished victoriously. She has been married to Vince for thirty-nine years and oversees a large title agency. She also volunteers time through multiple outlets and loves to travel and spend time with her family.

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Copyright © 2017 Nancy LoRusso.

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This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-9269-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9271-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9270-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910690

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/30/2017

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DEDICATION

To the late Clyde Bud J. Renaud (my father); Robert Bobby Renaud, Thomas Tom Renaud, and John Renaud (my brothers); and Vincent Vinny N. LoRusso (my son). Without your life and death, this story would not be possible.

To my husband, Vincent M. LoRusso, and our children, Melissa, Susie, and Gabe: reasons to keep on living.

To my God, the Lord Jesus Christ, the author and perfector of my faith.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1:     A Peek into the Past

Chapter 2:     Is There a Blueprint for the Grieving Process?

Chapter 3:     Good Night, Dad

Chapter 4:     Father and God

Chapter 5:     It’s Not Fair: A Triple Whammy

Chapter 6:     I Can’t Go On

Chapter 7:     Walk by Faith

Chapter 8:     Welcome Home

Chapter 9:     This Too Shall Pass, Right?

Chapter 10:   To You, O Lord

Chapter 11:   Tell the Story

Chapter 12:   Fear Not

Chapter 13:   The Gift of Grace

Chapter 14:   Broken Dreams

Chapter 15:   One Step at a Time

Chapter 16:   The Journey

Chapter 17:   A Father’s Perspective by Vince LoRusso

Chapter 18:   Treasure the Memories

Chapter 19:   Be Comforted First

Chapter 20:   It Takes Courage

Chapter 21:   Hold Firm and Trust God

Chapter 22:   Run with Endurance the Race Set before You

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

INTRODUCTION

Every day, I am reminded of how precious life is. I marvel at the opportunities that have been afforded to me. I am blessed to have a large family who enjoy getting together, sharing laughter around the table, and offering encouragement and prayer, in good times and in bad. I am fortunate to have found favor in the workplace, working alongside extremely talented, dedicated, and experienced people who support one another through the peaks and valleys of business and in life. I count it a privilege to be married to Vince, my best friend, who can still make me laugh at the drop of a hat, who has stood by me and inspired me, causing me to persevere through thick and thin (even if it was his doing). I love you, Vince. And then to be blessed with four children, Melissa, Susie, Gabe, and Vinny, now a daughter-in-law, Rachael, and four wonderful grandchildren: Aria, Michael, Olivia, and Hazel.

Over the years, many people have encouraged me to write a book. It’s not because I’m a naturally gifted writer. It’s not because I have something to say that’s never been said before. The context would be a compilation, including some comic relief, of weathering the storms of a very active boy named Vinny. My youngest child caused me to question my sanity, test my faith, and keep me in shape (no sitting down in my house). How many times can you hear: Enjoy these moments. You’re going to wish you had them back someday. I did understand that concept, as Melissa was already eight years old when Vinny was born. Where had the time gone? Yet who had time to write? I’m not one who journals, yet secretly I thought that collecting and recording Vinny stories for a rainy day would someday add a measure of validity to the battle with perseverance that we both would enjoy when he attained adulthood (provided we both survived). By faith, I believed his childish ways would eventually take on a maturity that produced a discipline to persevere, a hunger for righteousness, and an unspeakable joy that would last a lifetime.

It was no surprise to Vinny that a book was in the making; he was usually in earshot when the comments were made. Maybe not yet penned on paper, but a continuous video feed of sorts, there never seemed to be a shortage of Vinny stories. One story in particular sticks out: commiserating with the other soccer moms after our boys’ game had just ended, I was abruptly interrupted by Vinny asking me if I was really going to write a book about him and how much we would make. There was an urgency in his voice for an answer that could not wait.

Not sure where he was going with this line of questioning, I answered, Well, yes, I’m going to write a book someday, but it’ll be awhile. Why?

It turned out Vinny wanted a snack from the concession stand and earnestly appealed to his cousin Jason to add it to his tab. It was common knowledge that Jason was allowed this credit service since his dad ran the concession stand. Being the persistent salesman that he was, Vinny bargained today for the payday of book royalties that would later come. To validate his ability to pay Jason back, Vinny turned to me.

Ignoring the timing portion of my answer, Vinny yelled out to his cousin, See, Jason, I told you my mom was going to write a book. You will get paid.

The idea for a book about the adventures of Vinny sat on a shelf, occasionally to be dusted off, a story or two written on scraps of paper, napkins, or tablets of paper. Many more were etched in the recesses of my memory. Time marched on. I relished the accomplishments of each of my children, but especially the day when I could sit still for an entire sporting event: Vinny’s football games. Never was that possible with the other kids, as Vinny could not remain seated and made sure I did not either. Adolescence would be another chapter or two, but surely this too would pass. I was in the homestretch. I mentally scripted that God would honor my faithfulness and allow me to cross the finish line victoriously, as Vinny channeled his energy productively. Yes, the story would play out, the story would be told, and the story would be written. Only the ending of the story that I craftily imagined God would allow for would change. Vinny reached adulthood and died shortly thereafter. The scraps of paper that held tales of his antics would be collected and the stories displayed on memory boards for the two thousand people who waited in line to pay their respects.

The death of a dream. The birth of a vision. The adventures of Vinny would take on a different hue. It would now only be part of the story: a subsection in my journey of grief. To understand the bigger story would cause me to dig deeper into my past, to understand and uncover the feelings and emotions I did not previously understand. I am one of nine children. Each of my parents had ten siblings. Being from a large family, the times of rejoicing far outnumbered the times of struggles. There was always something to celebrate: birthdays, graduations, weddings, babies. On the other hand, my family had their share of deaths to mourn. Only the premature deaths, which robbed the unrealized potential of a life cut short, seemed to outnumber the end-of-life scenarios we all believed was the standard. Whether it was a slow, agonizing disease or a sudden death, how each of us responded was somewhat different yet all hinged on a couple of guiding principles: culture/experiences and our belief in God.

I had been brought up in a house where my oldest brother, Bobby, had died from polio, so I knew that life did go on. Because I had experienced the death of my father when I was a teenager, I knew life held no promises (but I would soon come to realize that God did). Because I had experienced the death of my brother Tom, as a result of suicide, I knew life was not fair. Because I had experienced the slow, agonizing death of my brother John from the incurable disease of ALS, I knew that it was possible for God’s light to shine in the darkness. And then in the aftermath of the sudden death of my son Vinny, from a drug overdose, I came to know how to straddle the inconsolable emotions of grief with God’s grace. Applying the faith from scriptures I had been studying for years allowed God to be part of my mountainous trek, which at times was filled with rugged terrain, valleys of depression, and like waterfalls, cascades of rushing tears. To find comfort and healing for my broken heart meant to tap into, lean onto, and fully embrace the grace of God.

As the calendar of years flipped one to another, the vision became clear, and once again, I heard the still small voice inside say, write the book. It turns out that story had not been abandoned, just postponed. It has now been over twenty years since the act of negotiation played out on the sidelines: Vinny pitching the book with the goal of one day paying back his cousin. I don’t believe Jason ever fronted Vinny the money for the bag of chips, but Jason, you should have taken the deal. His word was his word. You would have cashed in.

This book is not a story about what I have accomplished but about what has always existed, which I had heard, but now have seen and experienced through grace: God’s Word gives comfort, purpose, life, and even joy amidst even the most bleak circumstances. This is the story of my experiences associated with grief. It spans a number of years; the words are few in comparison. I am not a professional in grief counseling. I am not a professional writer. This is not a book about believing for a miracle to save someone’s life (although I believe God can and does do that). It’s about the healing of a broken heart when death comes prematurely. It’s about the grace to walk through the valley of the shadow of death and surviving the experience. I’m not saying I have it any better or worse than others who have gone through similar experiences. This is simply my story.

CHAPTER 1

A Peek into the Past

For everything there is a season … a time to be born and a time to die.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1–2 (NRSV)

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My brother Bobby (3 ½)

May 9, 1953

On a small table in the living room of our modest home was a black-and-white photo of a fair-skinned young boy with platinum-blond hair wearing a white jacket, dress shirt, and bow tie. He appeared angelic. Mom said he was very polite and obedient. He was my parents’ firstborn, the oldest of the four boys. To me, my brother Bobby was a picture in a frame. My other brothers were running and jumping in the house. Although there were other pictures of Bobby in the family photo shoebox, this very special ring bearer picture from Uncle Merl and Aunt Teresa’s wedding is what I remember. Bobby had died from complications of polio before I was born. The details of his death were unknown to me. I was the second child born after his death, so a couple of years had passed. I later learned it wasn’t necessarily that my mom wouldn’t talk about this painful experience, but rarely did anyone ask.

One day in particular stands out, when I was about four years old. I slid open the closet door in the front bedroom and saw, much to my excitement, a small watercolor set. A plastic three-dimensional building, one I associated with a town, was attached to cardboard stock, with barely used watercolors neatly arranged on the right.

Before I could get too excited about finishing this great craft project, my mom, who was standing at the bedroom door, said, Don’t touch that. That’s Bobby’s.

Instantly, there was a connection to the boy in the picture. As much as I wanted to finish that project, I respected this gift for what it was: a tangible item that represented a connection for Mom to the son she had lost.

When I was in elementary school, a classmate’s mother passed away. I was invited over to her home for the family meal after the burial. I thought it was odd. Although we were in the same class, I had never been to Linda’s house before, yet she asked me to come to the funeral meal.

I looked at my mother with quizzical eyes, and she said, Yes, you can go.

We were the only kids. She had older brothers and much older aunts and uncles. We were the ones playing games and walking in and out of the small rooms as the adults gathered in clusters to talk in murmured voices. Two men in black suits stood huddled in a corner, whispering. A couple of women dressed in their Sunday best, with black lace scarves on their heads, sat around the dining room table, conversing too softly to hear. Another couple of men sat motionless in armchairs. It was as if Linda and I were the only ones in color in a black-and-white movie.

Then in junior high, a classmate named Randy died while working on a construction site with his father. This was tough. One day, Randy was talking, laughing, and joking around; the next day, he was gone. The constant reminder of the empty seat in class eventually diminished. Although Randy was one of ten children, I knew it was difficult for his parents.

Often people would comment, Well, at least they have nine other children. Somehow, I knew that was no consolation for a grieving parent.

When I was a teenager, I finally asked my mom what happened to