Bittersweet

I wonder how many people bite their lip when they read my happy news on here. Oh, I know many read it with great joy. But I began writing publicly to discuss pain and how much it hurts and how Jesus heals. So I wonder if I am alienating hurting people now? And how many of you come here to read about Chris—one whom you loved very much? And hearing about my new man hurts you a little. You realize that he really is gone. And Emily isn’t “Chris’ wife” anymore. Maybe I was a connection to Chris somehow, and now you wonder if that connection is gone.

It seems to me that quite often, people surrounding a widow—or widower—are a little surprised to see them “moving on.” (Though I really prefer the phrase “moving forward.”  I will never be over Chris—what do I need to get over, after all?) And I’m very aware of how hearing my news of an engagement this time is quite different than when you heard it the first time—when I was 20 and dreaming of growing old with Chris. You all dreamed it for me too. And I love you for it.

And then, you all rallied around me when my dream was dashed. You let me sit in the chair in my bedroom for countless hours—first from sheer caregiver exhaustion and then from intense grief. You cared for my sweet, confused daughter because I could not. You texted me and usually received no response. You delivered flowers and yarn and chili chocolate torte to me. You sent me books and cards and emails. You prayed. You made me food—and I didn’t even care if it was good or not. I cared about very little. And I remember very little.

But you cared about me. And because you cared about me, you put your grief for Chris aside to help me through my own. Because my loss trumped yours. It was my life that was in ruins. It was my daughter that had no father. A lot of life left but no partner with whom to live it. And I fully entered into grief. It washed over me and completely consumed me. I did nothing but was completely exhausted. And those of you who are well-versed in grief told me, “Grief is hard work. You are doing something.”

And then healing started! The Great Healer—through this hard work of grief—started to bind up my wounds.

And now, maybe you feel the weight of his loss. You see that I’m ok, so it’s finally safe for you to be sad about Chris. And seeing me smiling with a man who is not Chris feels jarring and maybe even shocking. It’s interrupting your postponed grief and feels abrupt. Sometimes I feel a little sad that there is not the same joyful freedom in talking about Scotty—and all the things I love about him—as there was when I fell in love with Chris. No one has made me to feel that I cannot have that freedom. It’s just that I am conscious that this all must feel so bittersweet to some of you. It appears to be “Plan B.”

But it’s God’s “Plan A”, and that knowledge brings me great peace.

And so, I just wanted to acknowledge your pain in all this. And I wanted to thank you for your support through your pain.

(Oh, and I know that I promised more details…I have not forgotten. They are coming soon!)

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.