Big News!

Father of the fatherless and defender of widows is God in His holy habitation. He sets the solitary in families… (Psalm 68:5-6)

These verses have been my frequent meditation, prayer, and praise these last 18 months. And now I stand amazed at what God has done. He has turned mourning into rejoicing. Ashes into beauty.

An amazing man, Scotty—with whom I have been in contact these last several months—has asked me to be his wife. He has asked for Erika and me to become his family. And I said “yes”! An intimate, family wedding at Christmastime is planned.  

I love him deeply, and we both feel God has called us to each other and to continue our journeys together. We both lost the loves of our lives last year and stand amazed at the capacity to love again and love fully.

We have promised to love and sacrifice for each other—and for each others’ children—for as long as we have left on earth. And how full of gratitude and excitement and peace I am!

Rejoice with me! (More to come…) And I thank you, my friends, for being in my life, reading my words, praying and caring for my daughter and me. Much love. 

Fall is here-- and change with it!

Life has become significantly busier! Change seems to be coming all at once. I work more, socialize less, drive more, write less... (If you have called, texted, emailed me lately and received no response, it's not personal! Please forgive me. I need to get the hang of all of this.)

Although I miss slow mornings--sometimes in our pjs--all this change does feel right. And exciting. And it feels truly that my "Heavenly Father knows what you need before you ask him" (Matt. 6:8).

Erika could not be happier with this preschool gig. She wonders why she can't go every day. She tells me about the other kids and her teacher and all the songs they sing and games they play and projects they do. Bless you, preschool teachers. I could never captivate kids the way you do--not to mention practice patience AND actually impart knowledge!

Work--though challenging and exhausting in this steep learning curve--is the perfect fit for me. Days fly by, and I find myself looking forward to the next day. And at the same time, looking forward to the weekend.

In other news, These chillier temps awaken the knitting monster in me. I am obsessed. I have spent a fair amount of that earned money at my local yarn shop and actually have a list on a post-it note of the projects waiting to be knit. The yarn is in your possession, so don't buy more, Emily. Finish these. Then, by all means, buy more! Knitting retreat coming up in October...

That's the news from these parts!

Child Grief

I keep learning in all of this.

With time, the full weight of the loss seems to grow less heavy. It falls away a bit. Or maybe it just becomes easier to bear. For me.

But for my little one, it is quite different. With each new developmental stage, Erika seems to uncover more of what this loss means for her. More of her life and her future is touched as she grows. Age brings understanding. And with it, new grief.

My grief is old grief. A feeling and re-feeling of the many aspects and reaches of the Chris' death. Healing comes bit by bit--and sometimes even in bunches.


But for my baby girl, grief is a new and different thing. A growing brain discovering and feeling new aspects of the loss at every turn.

It seems to come about every 4 months or so. Conversation about Daddy heats up. Lots of questions. Lots of pretend play and phone calls to Daddy.

This week she is grappling with the finality of death.

"When Daddy comes back, we are going to play hide and seek."

And I don't know what to do. I probably say the wrong thing. I tell her Daddy is not coming back--he can't come back. We will see him when we go to heaven, but he will not live here with us again.

Maybe I should just let it go. Let her talk. Let her pretend. Because when I tell her the sad news, she runs to her room and won't come out. Won't let me touch her or hug her or even talk to her.

I--along with every other parent in the world--can't bear to see my child in pain. I want to rescue her. Stop the hurt. But there is nothing I can do.

Pray for my sweet girl?

Family Vacation

"Is that our lake, Mom?"

It's everybody's lake, Baby.

Here we are again--in Bayfield for the week for the annual Seifert family vacation. And the kids love it. Maybe because their parents love it so much.

What a perfect way to end the summer. State fair, work, and preschool await. But for now, we are soaking up "our lake." And wishing Daddy could be here too.

Family

Two nights ago, I took Erika on a date to the little local restaurant after I got home from work. This new full-time schedule of mine seems to be a bit of an adjustment for her (and me too!). She needed some one-on-one time with me.

She, of course, charmed every last one of the servers and customers on that patio. And I felt so proud of her.  She has this magnetic personality that draws people to her. And last night she was joyful and sweet and polite. And she finished the last of her dinner snuggling on my lap. And I wished in that moment—more than I have in a long time—that her daddy could be there with us. That we could smile at each other across the table—so happy with our little family.

Sometimes it’s hard to feel like “family” with just Erika and me. I find that now when I say “my family”, I mean what I meant when I was a teenager. Erika is “my daughter”, but I rarely refer to the two of us as “family”. Chris seems to be the missing link to the “family” chain. I know it’s not true. But it feels true.

I’m not sure if it is because we are only TWO, or if it is because the loss of him makes such a void that it is hard to figure out what we are without him. And our car conversation on the way home deepened the ache.

“What’s my last name?”

Drager. Just like Mama’s. And Daddy’s.

“What’s Gus’ last name?”

Seifert. Just like Uncle Matt and Auntie Julie.

And so we went through the family names for most people in her life. And I explained to her that families share the same last name. We have Daddy’s last name. And then she reminded me.

“But Daddy’s not here anymore.”

No, but we are still a family, Baby. (I’m saying this to myself mostly.)

We miss him, don’t we?

“Yeah”

So the two of us cuddled up in the chair in her room and watched “Daddy movies” for a while. To hear and to see and to remember. And Erika touched the iPod screen at one point when she saw her Daddy on it and whispered,

“Come back”

My silent tears fell into her beautiful blonde hair; and I held her soft, sweet body a little tighter. Family.

Pour your heart out before Him; God is a refuge for us.

(Psalm 62:8)

Time Away

My room's sunrise view

At a very wise woman's urging (my dear mother), I am away for a couple days in my beloved Bayfield (Wisconsin). Change is on the horizon (the very near horizon), and it seems I needed some quiet reflection and relaxation time.

On Monday, I accept a promotion and begin working full-time. It feels a culmination of my career pursuits and a perfect fit for me. Yet, this life does not look the way I imagined. The way I dreamed. All this mixture of sweet and bitter things have come together to make up this life I share with my best girl.

And I feel filled with emotion. Gratitude. Grief. Hope.

Anniversary

 July 26, 2002 (11 years ago today):

I wore white. It didn't seem real. I wondered if I was dreaming. Had this day really come? I held my dad's arm and was glad for it. There was a quivering inside me. He gave stability as we walked down the aisle—to my beloved waiting expectantly for me. Everyone watched me. With a tear and a smile.

 
I listened to sober words—words about love, fidelity, respect. My heart leapt within me as I held Chris' hand. We promised things to each other. We promised to love. As long as we both lived. Sickness. Health. Good times. Bad.
 
And we soaked in this moment. This very good, very happy moment. We kissed. We were granted the titles for which we longed—husband and wife. Side-by-side, we greeted the ones that love us. We thanked them for coming—to celebrate with us.

March 5, 2012 (nearly 17 months ago):

I wore black. It didn't seem real. I wondered if I was dreaming. Had this day really come? I held my dad's arm and was glad for it. There was a quivering inside me. He gave stability as we walked down the aisle—to a chair and Kleenex box waiting for me. Everyone watched me. With tears but no smiles.
 
I listened to sober words. About death, hope, love. My heart nearly failed me. There was no hand to hold, no arm around my shoulders. We had promised to love. As long as we both lived. Sickness. Health. Good times. Bad.
 
And I felt the full weight of the moment. This very hard, very sad moment. I hung my head and looked down at my empty hands. I had been granted the title I so dreaded—widow. Alone, I greeted the ones that love us. I thanked them for coming—to grieve with me.

July 26, 2013 (today):

I contrast these two days in mind. Over and over again. I remember our 9+ years of living out those vows—being stretched more than we ever thought we would. And falling deeper in love with each other. And finally being torn from each other. Companionship. Fellowship. And then sudden aloneness. No partner—the one to whom I told all my secrets. The one who held my heart. And I ache for him.

I look at his picture on my shelf. And at times, I feel I could reach out and touch him. I remember the feel of his hand holding mine. I remember his scent. I remember the soft place below his collar bone and the little gray patch in his goatee. The bump behind his ear. His broad, muscular chest.

And other times, I look hard at that picture and I can’t quite remember what it was like to be with him. I can’t quite hear his voice. I can’t quite remember the comfort of living with him and being held by him. He seems almost a figment of my imagination. A separate life. A lifetime ago.

Today there is a deep ache that seems may never really go away. So I do again what I have done countless times these past two years—through all the illness, the pain, the dying, the separation. I remind myself of the One who holds me up. The One who will never leave me truly alone. And in this I can rest—no matter my past and no matter my future.