Transition - the "T" word

My husband and I went through a lot of transition throughout our married lives. We were in missions; we moved around a lot (31 beds in the first 6 weeks of our marriage due to some complications about where we were to live); we moved to four different countries in the first three years; we walked through infertility; we adopted older children (just getting to the point of having a match was a two year odyssey of waiting); and the process of adoption was the biggest and hardest transition I've ever had to face - aside from living without my sweetie.

Transition is not a beginning, but it comes as a result of an ending. And it is in the letting go of what was (even if it's a good thing to embrace the new) that creates the transitional feelings of uncertainty.

William Bridges' book, Transition, is available in part on Google Books, and I'm skimming through it now. What I've read so far would all be underlined if I owned this book. Here are a couple of snippets:

"Change is situational. Transition, on the other hand, is psychological. It's not those events, but rather the inner reorientation and self-redefinition that you have to go through in order to incorporate any of these events into your life."

"We have to let go of the old thing before we can pick up the new one - not just outwardly, but inwardly, where we keep our connection to people and places that act as definitions of who we are... We usually fail to discover our need for an ending until we have made most of our necessary external changes. There we are, in the new house or on the new job or in the midst of the new relationship, waking up to find that we have not yet let go of our old ties."

The death of a spouse creates forced transition. We are on a journey we don't want to be on. In fact, for those of us whose spouse died from suicide, the journey was more like having the house burned to the ground: not only is it the worst possible situation, but we've also lost just about everything and nothing is the same any more. Yes, I'm alive and I have survived, but everything else must be renegotiated and redefined.

Becoming a parent, at any stage of the process, is a complete and total transition. For many adoptive parents, it's like being thrown in at the deep end. Attachment is a much bigger issue than anyone would ever let on, and becomes more of a challenge as the child approaches adolescence.

At the base of all of this, is the critical thing: IDENTITY.

Who am I now? I was a wife, a lover, a partner, a best friend and a cherished woman. Now, I am still some of these things in different ways, but the identity has shifted. I am best friends to others, but it's not the same (that doesn't make it bad or worse than what I had, just different). I am cherished by some, but it's not like being cherished by my husband was. My identity is not what it was.

And in a strange way, I feel like the person I was before I was with my husband. Some of those old traits have resurfaced. I had forgotten about them, and they obviously weren't critical to my identity in our marriage, because they dropped aside. I didn't really miss them. But now they have reappeared. Once again, I long to write, to express my thoughts. Once again, I am getting involved and doing things with others. My husband was more of a home body, and free time was often spent at home companionably working side by side (or in the same house at the same time). When the children came, we went out, but it often felt like we wished THEY would go out so we could have the house to ourselves.

But transition comes back. I am always glad to see the back of it, knowing it will be waiting for me just around the corner. For transition is part of life. It's part of what happens, on one level or another, to everyone.

My identity has shifted because my life has completely shifted. I do not know my life now compared to what it was in February 2012. In some ways, I would not want to go back. In other ways, I wish I could negotiate a way around what happened and fashion a new reality which includes my husband and my older daughter. But that is not to be.

I have just started reading "Saturday Night Widows" by Becky Aikman. I know, it sounds like the Friday Night Knitting Club or the Jane Austen Book Club, but it's more of a real story. One of the characters' husbands dies in an accident - his ATV goes off a cliff. Another husband dies from suicide and a third as a result of complications from his alcoholism. Those characters reflect on something which rocked me more than a little: "It's hard when your husband dies and it totally affects your whole life to think that it didn't have anything to do with you."

Lots of food for thought there, but particularly important is to let go of the old before embracing the new. Think about it. I'm hanging on the cliff face, only a branch and nothing below. Are you expecting me to let go? It reminds me of that joke when the man is clinging to the edge and calls out "God are you there?" He answers. "Yes, now let go." The man thinks for a moment and then says "Is there anyone else out there?".

I have books and books about waiting (one friend in particular sent me at least three or four of them) while I was waiting, hoping and praying for a breakthrough when trying to get pregnant. None came, but I read a lot of books about waiting, patiently hoping, etc. I have received lectures (some helpful, most not) about waiting, patience and trusting the Lord. I have listened to sermons about transition - some of which have inspired me.

But Proverbs says, A hope deferred makes the heart sick. And at the end of the day, there is no nice and neat way to go around it. Transition, like grief, is work. It has to run its course and take the time it takes to be fully complete. Life and transition are part of one another. Some transitions are pleasant, but still require adjustment and letting go. There is no way to hang on to everything. Some of that stuff is dead wood and needs to be cut off. And some of it we never wanted to lose, on any level, but still it is gone and now we have to carry on somehow.

So how do you transition from the greatest trauma, the greatest loss? There is no way that hope will bring him back. There is no way to prevent this hope from being deferred for the rest of my life here on earth.

There is no easy answer that will tie this post up, but I can say what I've said before. God is a Redeemer and that is what He will do. I will find the path as I go forward. My intention is to go forward, even though everything within me wants to stay where I was in the safe cocoon of loving my husband (even while he was severely depressed) and hanging firmly on to the hopes I had for my life and my future.

Now, without him, and without the family I had dreamed of, my hopes are very different - well, almost non-existent to be honest. I am trying to be hopeful that this transition, as unwelcome and unpleasant as it has been, will result in something new being formed.

I am thinking of the growth in the forest after the fire has gone through, or the rebuilding that takes place after a natural disaster.

It will never be the same again. It will build on what was before. It can still be good, although different. I will never forget what was or what could have been. This grief is part of the fabric of my life, but it doesn't need to define me forever. Having said that, I never want to let go of or lose who my husband was, who I was as his wife and the life we had together. However flawed it was, it is mine and it was still good.

Transition with me. Choose to do it. Not that you WANT to, but that you are willing to because this is the only way through this. Don't avoid transition. It's hard, it's unsettling, it's uncomfortable, but God is with us. He is making something new out of this old stuff. I want to trust Him, but I need your help. Let's do it together.