Sketch of chameleon by my father, Staff Sergeant Wesley Dahlberg, while he served in Egypt during WWII © Craig Dahlberg
I shuffle carefully, avoiding lizards drowsing on the warming cement sidewalk outside my front door. They repeat this ritual daily, eyes fixed, scarcely evading my shuffling feet.
Eight months ago, I also searched for a warm landing place. Having lost my wife to cancer, I was newly inducted into the Widowers’ Club, a membership with no waiting list. Like the lizards, I searched for warmth.
I’m not alone. Grief spawns several offspring: divorce, illness, disability, and a myriad of other losses—relationships, independence, home, career.
When my wife and I married, we vowed, “For better or for worse…” We wanted a forever marriage.
We so enjoyed the “better” of fifty years of marriage. We saw the best in each other—the joys, quirks, marital flow, the sometimes-ridiculous humor. We even learned to treasure the occasional sour days.
Then, abruptly, it ended. A sudden upheaval. With her passing, I transitioned from the “better” to the “worse” side of that promise. With half my bed unoccupied, the beige goose-down comforter rested inert, the pillow needed no plumping, the pillowcase remained mascara-free. Date nights and medical appointments slid off my calendar like soggy sticky notes.
I kept asking myself, “Will my life ever become whole again?”
Friends coaxed me to join a club, volunteer, re-start a hobby, begin dating, or celebrate our fifty years together.
But none of that landed. I was bruised to the bone. All I felt was that the decades of companionship … suddenly vaporized.
For months, I heard a voice in the night—my hollow, unanswered wail, like a coyote in a tunnel.
Then, unexpected events started seeping in. An unexpected trickle—an artesian spring—found its way up through the cracks in my foundation. Other voices in the nighttime spoke quiet, unfamiliar dialogues, uninvited but welcome first-time visitors.
An angelic presence seemed to carry me—“Come along. Look ahead.”
Then, during waking hours, I noticed another subtle shift. Like a sailing ship with battered masts, I felt the storm of grief quieting. Sunlight lay ahead. Calming waters lapped gently. A newfound peace and quiet gratitude warmed my chill.
I was not “moving on” from loss. Instead, I “moved with” the recovering grace.
I was certain that my wife did not intend for my life to end with hers.
I am “moving with,” gradually, gratefully, departing the ranks of the heat-seeking sidewalk lizards, ever watchful and ready to scatter.
I am more like a chameleon at rest—eyes peering both backward and ahead, observing where I have been, yet strengthened to watch the path unfolding before me.
At night, I still lie awake and grope across the bed, still uncertain how to move forward. Yet a bridge toward hope is being built, one plank at a time.
Through hope, we are tutored by both remembering the past and recalling how God led us through it.
“For better or for worse…” conveys the spirit of commitment. It expresses gratitude for the marital past and sorrow for the present. But “for worse” need not describe the rest of the story.
So, I submit this amendment:
“For better or for worse…
…and for better again.”