It's been a while...

Some time ago, while I was having a moment of reflection, I wrote something down.  "At what point do you start to move away from what was, and embrace fully what is?"  Two years into this unexpected chapter of my life, these words have become a proverb.  In the weeks and months following Andrew's death, I felt like Dory from "Finding Nemo".  "Just keep swimmin', just keep swimmin', oh, oh, uh-oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!" (You sang that in your head, didn't you?  Me, too.)  Seriously, though; every day was an exercise in putting one foot in front of the other.  I survived the first year.  Time passed in a blur, and for someone who spent 38 years with an uncanny memory, blurred weeks and months is unsettling.  Regardless, that's what it was.  I found myself recalling time with 'I know it was before Andrew died...' or, 'It was after Andrew died, but before (x, y, z)...'.  Even if I can't remember specifics, I felt every minute of that first year, and the memory of some of those minutes still brings tears to my eyes.  I lost count of the number of times it felt as if I was standing on a precipice, every ounce of my body struggling to keep my balance, lest I fall off the cliff into the abyss.

The honest truth is, though, completely falling apart was never an option, really.  Would it have been justified?  Absolutely.  Expected?  Probably.  Understandable?  You betcha. (I had to; I'm from Minnesota, after all!)  My experience as a widow is mine, and my personality and coping mechanisms have shaped my experience as a widow.  When I share that falling apart was never an option, what I really mean is, at no point in my life has that been an option I have chosen.  When life gets rough, things get real, smelly objects smack the fan, falling apart is not what I do.  Plowing through until the bitter end, regardless of the toll it takes on my mentally and physically?  Absolutely.  One hundred percent.  I'll take care of me when things calm down.  From the moment Andrew went into the hospital on November 1, 2019 (and really the months preceding that date as well), I was in plow-mode.  I got up, got my kids ready, got ready for work, took my children to daycare/school, went to work myself, picked them up, fed them, took them to visit Daddy, got them ready for bed, sometimes remembered to eat dinner myself, collapsed into bed and prayed for sleep.  Initially, I thought I would have to do that alone for a few weeks, maybe a month.  Once the treatment plan for Andrew was established and he was safe, I could take a breath and regroup.  That never happened.  Therefore, I didn't take a breath and regroup.  I continued to plow, yet now with grief and trauma added into the mix.  

The list of reasons why I felt I had to plow through are real and were very relevant to me, but, at this juncture, not important.  I marked the months, the milestones, the anniversaries.  I did a lot of grief work.  A lot.  Time, therapy, prayer, and hard work had helped me move from simply surviving in this new chapter of life to living.  The kids and I had routines.  We ate dinner together at the table.  We had planned meals.  We had bathing and getting ready for school/daycare routines.  I wasn't collapsing into bed at the end of the day wondering how was I going to do this again tomorrow.  I'm not going to lie: solo parenting is no joke.  It is flipping hard.  Last school year, I was teaching elementary school during a pandemic, and many days that was less work and stress than solo parenting.  

I have written about the catharsis that my soul experienced as I lay at Andrew's grave on the one-year anniversary of his death.  November 15, 2019, was a line of demarcation for our family; Andrew's death permanently changed our family as we had known it.  November 15, 2020, was a line of demarcation for me, personally.  We had survived the first year.  We had done all the "firsts".  We had crossed the finish line of the worst marathon anyone can imagine.  As much as the thought startled and unsettled me, I started to think about what the future might look like.  Specifically, I thought about what it would look like to start dating again.  

If I had to list the top 5 experiences I would care to never go through again, dating would be right up there with losing my husband.  Dating was difficult and unpleasant enough for me the first time, and I was a never-married person with no children.  I mean, yes, I did date Andrew, but I told him many times how grateful I was to never have to date again.  Oh the irony.  One the one hand, I wanted to have a marriage again.  I like marriage.  I believe in it.  I missed being someone's wife.  On the other hand, I severely dislike dating.  Meeting strangers, giving the highlight reel of life, training my face not to show every thought running through my head; dating was like a multi-part job interview, and I don't enjoy it.  While I stopped short at arranged marriages (for me), there was a facet of the whole no-dating thing that is quite appealing.  

I definitely took advantage of being in the middle of a raging pandemic.  I made an online profile, and oh, what a profile it was.  I put in there that I was a widow; I had children.  I wrote about their dad and how he was and always will be a part of our family.  I very clearly declared that no one was going to meet my children until I decided, so don't bother asking.  I wrote more that I can't quite remember now, but I'm sure was just as sweet and inviting.  I looked at it as an efficient filtering system.  No coffee shops were open, so I didn't have to do the endless Caribou meet-ups.  Bonus.  Big bonus. (If you've ever done online dating...you know)

I told my therapist, at the beginning of this journey into dating again, if I was really honest, I really wanted to find someone who loves Jesus big time, has never been married before, doesn't have children, and is willing to love and accept my children as his own.  My therapist reminded me that at my age, this was highly unlikely, but, you know, God can do anything.  Buoyed by optimism (snort), I launched myself into the dating world, again.

I wasn't too far into this process when I sent a message to a guy who talked about liking missions trips.  He wrote back.  I wrote some more.  He wrote, too.  Over a month later, he asked for my number.  And never called.  I waited (I wasn't about to call him first).  And he didn't call.  It's very easy to play calm, cool, and dispassionate online.  Eventually, we did manage to talk on the phone.  After some time, we made a date for a Google Meet coffee.  It is exactly what it sounds like: we each made a cup of coffee and did a Google Meet.  His dog totally hogged the camera, kept needing to go out and be let in, I set off the fire alarms (more than once); it was magical.  At the end of coffee, we talked about actually meeting in person.  The only day I would be able to meet is Thursday.  In fact, the only day I could do anything was Thursday.  My kids had sleepover at my parent's on Thursdays.  Since they were not going to be involved in the dating process until there was a valid, serious reason for them to be, I was therefore only available on Thursday.  If a Thursday didn't work, well, we just wouldn't see each other.  

Our first in-person date was at Denny's.  Terrible coffee, awkward conversation, beady-eyed trucker staring me down from another booth; it was a date to remember.  So, we did another.  Over the next few Thursdays, I learned about this guy's love for Jesus, and his servant heart.  We talked about the joys and challenges of working with kids in the schools.  I talked about my kids, and the story of our loss.  Weeks turned into months; occasional Thursdays turned into every Thursday.  By spring, I was even willing to do a Saturday evening, but I'd meet him at a separate location and I had to be back home by bedtime.  

I'll pause at this juncture.  (Hopefully it won't be another year until I get around to summarizing the next phase of this journey.)  I'm still singing.  Some days its melancholy, some days its joyful praise, other days its some quality 80s/90s power ballads, but I'm still singing.  God is good.  So very, very good.