Life
in Washington is new and different and wonderful and challenging. I laugh and
cry. I cook (a lot) and drink coffee (a lot). I pray more.
Changes!
Marital status, house, climate, family size and members, grocery bill, free
time, church, friends and family, occupation, sleeping schedule... I remember
learning about the stress scale in nursing school. I'm pretty convinced my
score would pretty high if I calculated it. But I won't.
Because
I know the ONE who has planned all this. The One who holds my hand and fills my
heart. I know He loves me. And I know that what He has called me to do, I can
do well. And those He has called me to love, I can love fully.
All
this transition is not without pain. All eight of us, I think, could tell our
own story of the pain of this change. But I think each of us could also speak
about some joy or some gift that has come as well.
I
will tell only my story here (and maybe a bit of Erika's since I've told hers
all along, and she is too young to care, I think, if her mother tells it)—and leave
the others to tell theirs.
Remarriage
after the death of a spouse is a beautiful thing. It is redemption out of pain and
devastation. Here's the part you don't always hear, though: it is also one of
the most difficult things I have ever done. It has brought more pain and grief
than I have known in many months. It has reminded me of Chris and all that he
was to me. And it has closed completely the "Chris and Emily" chapter
of my life. The life I thought I'd have is most clearly now never-to-be.
Given
my cross-country move, I find also that there is no one around me that knew and
loved Chris. No one says (or even can say), "Remember the way Chris used
to juggle WHILE playing the harmonica?" Or "I was thinking of the
heart Chris had for people. I sure miss him." I tell stories about him to
his little girl, but she recalls so little that we can never swap stories.
There is a comfort in co-remembering, co-missing. So this is a lonely sort of
grief.
That
grief nearly breaks me in two at some moments. And then I look at my best
friend beside me. My husband! He is my gift. My comfort. He too knows the pain
and loss that at times grips me and tears me apart. So I lean into him, and he
leans into me.
I've
learned too, that being married before means not that I know how to live with a
man—it means I know how to live with ONE man. This guy with whom I've agreed to
share a life is awkwardly foreign to me at times—as I am to him. And when we
relax and slip into "the way we did things before," disaster erupts!
Sometimes we laugh about it, and sometimes we cry.
We
speak more of grace and love than we ever have before: God's great grace and
love shown to us—and our deep need to be loved graciously by the other. And then
to let that love and grace spill out all over these six kids.
If
you pray anything for us, will you pray this: that we would learn more fully
what true love is? That we would be known by our love!
So
we find that life is far from easy, but it is sweetly blessed. And it holds joy
and gifts that would never have been possible without all this pain and loss.
How
is it that I, one who has never birthed a child, now find myself surrounded by
6 of them? Infertility was a bitter pill to swallow—but it was medicine all the
same. God used it to cure my heart of pride and self-sufficiency and then
brought to me my precious gift, my Erika Grace. Then widowhood! The very
picture of loneliness and neediness! Yet through it, I have been given another
husband and his five beautiful children. I find myself humbled to stand in for
their dear mother.
Only
God could have done this.
And
my extremely extroverted and social daughter now has a big family—one for which
she was most obviously born! She has playmates nearly every moment (and her
introverted mother gets a bit of a break from the intense socialization)!
Erika
was born with some pretty remarkable qualities for the life she was to have.
She is flexible and loves change. She thrives on the new and the unknown and
the unexpected. She's always up for an adventure and for meeting new people and
going new places. I wish I had a fraction of her adventurous nature! How easy
she makes all of this. If she had a sensitive or inflexible temperament, the
turmoil that change would bring for her would be rather hard for her mom to
watch.
She
does miss her Nana and Papa and Grandpa and cousins and aunts and uncles at
home, though. And she talks often of her beloved Gramma Judy (Chris' mom), who
died suddenly on January 4th. Her loss felt acute to us as we were moving and
leaving our life in Minnesota. It seemed somehow to widen the chasm. We miss
her greatly.
So
we have sadness and joy, loss and gain, goodbyes and hellos. We step forward,
with resolve to see the gifts in life—not to dismiss or ignore the pain—to feel
it all. But sometimes when things get hard, these human minds forget to soak in
the joys and give attention to what's good and whole and beautiful.
My
heart overflows with gratitude for the life, the love, the people I've been
given—past and present.
Happy
Valentine's Day! May we all find ways to love our big people and our little
people better.
(All photos were taken at our wedding by Emily Steffen)
