On my way home from Florida last week, my mom asked me why I didn’t blog anymore. I told her I have about 20 drafts saved but feel like I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said better by someone else. I don’t know where my voice belongs in conversations that I care about and are important to me (the Church, racism, injustice, privilege…). Nor do I think sharing my thoughts would help create the needed cohesion and change I’m desperate to see.
But on Christmas Eve during the candlelight service, as my 5-year-old sat on my lap, I realized it’s probably the last Christmas he will fit on my lap. I also realized I have a few things to say that can only be said by me. Austin and I are in marriage counseling and I’m surprised by how often we talk about my childhood trauma. Not at all what I expected to be talking about when we started about a year ago. I mentioned this to our therapist on Wednesday and she gently pointed out some experiences, like the loss of a sibling (and subsequently life as I knew it for 11 years) don’t just resolve. They get processed differently as an adult than they do as a child. Which seems obvious and makes perfect sense as the tears have flowed fast and hot the past two sessions as I try to talk about my brother and all the ways his death has impacted my experience as a parent. Most of the time, it’s a running internal dialogue, trying to stash as many memories as possible. Like on Christmas Eve, taking in the weight of my son on my lap, trying to memorize what that feels like, not because he might not fit on my lap next year, but more because “what if…”. It’s not being able to help but see the resemblance between my brother Nick and my son Nick as his hair fades from blonde to brown, the moles on his stomach rolls, and his genuine heart for Jesus and people. Although my two younger children don’t share as many physical characteristics as my oldest, I still find myself trying to etch the sound of Jade’s laughter on my heart forever, remembering my brother’s belly laugh at the top of the stairs at our Ivanrest house as we listen to a recording of my dad singing How Great Thou Art and taking snapshots of Brayden’s smile when it’s clear he’s headed towards mischief. It's trying to hold my kids so unbelievably tight at the same time I try to hold my hands wide open to what God’s plans are for their lives. It is confusing, and takes so much effort to live in moments, knowing I will likely share with them with my kids as adults someday and not only as treasured memories in my heart. Remembering my brother this holiday season has been unexpectedly raw and painful. There are moments I feel like an 11-year-old sister stuck in those early days of grief and can’t believe I’m 30-years-old with three beautiful kids of my own. To know someone who's love was so pure, who had such deep impact on my life and community has been one of my life’s greatest blessings and source of pain. I look forward to the day all of the hope, joy, peace, and love the representation of Jesus in a manager becomes eternity. Nicholas Scott Stegeman, you are missed. Your love for me and the impact of your death has helped me notice so many small things about life and my kids that I think I would have otherwise missed. My son has your looks and heart. My daughter has your sense of humor and care for others. My youngest son has your mischief and love. I have your legacy, and the hope of Heaven.
1 Comment
Julie Fisher
1/2/2022 06:02:36 pm
Thank you for sharing. I am so sorry for your loss. I have five brothers and sisters but lost my brother Jim who was mentally disabled from 2 months of age. We had him with us much longer than you had your brother, but the loss is great. God is good and I know we will be together again as you will be with your brother. May you and your family be blessed with health and prosperity in 2022. 💛
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Hi! I'm Haley. Archives
May 2019
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