Day 11
Yesterday was Father’s Day.
We had lots of people sensitive to that fact who made sure we knew we
were loved. But it couldn’t erase the
fact that it was still Father’s Day and my children now have no earthly
father. David said the hardest thing for
him was when they recognized the dads in church and his was not standing up
with all the other men. I wish I could
take that hurt from him.
After church we bought a small balloon for Paul’s grave that
says, “Happy Father’s Day” and tied it to his marker. The kids and I talked about past Father’s
Days as we stood around his grave. We
were reminded of last year. It was the
craziest, nuttiest day. Paul was on call
and I was doing respite care for a trio of foster siblings when one had to go
by ambulance to the hospital because he was goofing around with a neighbor on a
golf cart. Will was leaving for Jumpstart
at FBBC and I had a lady coming to look at my treadmill. But in the midst of all that chaos, we
managed to squeeze in a short Father’s Day celebration for Paul. Didn’t know it would be his last one.
Being a good father was of paramount importance to
Paul. I remember in the months leading up
to Will’s graduation, he asked me several times if I thought he had “done
enough.” I think he did. I had a long conversation with my friend,
Jen, this morning. She commented, “We
know what kind of a man Paul was because we watched Will at his funeral.” Special.
We listened to Will’s testimony again yesterday on the way
to church. Amazing. It’s hard to believe that this mature and
composed young man is someone I gave birth to – someone that Paul and I made
together. He was born to two immature
people and somehow grew into this loving, strong, tender-hearted young man
despite that.
You know the feeling when you’re in a swimming pool and the
water is about waist-deep and you attempt to walk? That’s how I feel about everything right
now. It all takes so much effort. My guess is that that is normal. Not pleasant, though.
I haven’t cried yet today, not even when I woke up. Typically, that’s a hard time because we
usually woke up together. Well, we woke
up together because his alarm would wake me every single morning! Otherwise, I would have been content to sleep
hours past when he typically arose.
Yesterday, I cried more. I would
be dry-eyed and then someone at church would ask me how I was doing and I would
suddenly be a blubbery mess all over again.
We ate lunch with a family at church and I had to escape to the kitchen,
gasping at a sudden wave of pain that came out of nowhere.
The cards continue to roll in. I must have a stack that is at least 7” tall
– unbelievable. I had a letter and card
today from my old first grade teacher, of all people. She said that the church I grew up in (my
parents haven’t attended there since ’96) printed an announcement of Paul’s
death which was how she learned of it.
My Jewels of Encouragement group sent me a stack of Bible verses today
that have my name inserted into them.
I’m guessing there are about 40 of these, all printed onto beautiful
cardstock. They have a little plate stand
and I can have a new verse every day. I
am so touched. I never realized that
tragedy inspired such generosity in others.
Why would I? I’ve never been
affected by it before. My mom told me
last night she is ordering some books on grief and widowhood for me. I am looking forward to those. A friend of mine prayed around the clock for
me, every hour on the hour, retreating to her prayer closet (a literal walk-in
closet in her home) last Monday and Tuesday.
I told another friend today that I am reminded of those scenes on tv or
movies where a building is on fire so the firemen whip out this parachute type
of deal and put it above the ground to catch the falling victims of the
fire. We’re the victims, our whole world
is on fire, and that parachute is composed of the prayers of others.
I had a letter last week from one of Paul’s customers. He had a number of customers who insisted
every time that only Paul come work on their furnaces. I would assume all the service techs had
this. This lady heard of Paul’s death,
got my address, and wrote me a glowing letter about how wonderful and patient
Paul had always been with them. I
know Paul had a special place in his
heart for his elderly customers. He
would always tell me that he wished he had more time to spend with these older,
lonely people. Her letter touched
me. I will have to write her back. Today, the wife of one of Paul’s co-workers
called me. She said that another of
Paul’s regulars had called in, requesting him, and was given the bad news. So they sent out Mike, my friend’s
husband. She said that Mike got there
and the lady harrumphed and said, “Well, you’re not as cute as Paul, but I
guess you’ll do!” I think that was the
first time I laughed since Paul died.
She told me that all the service techs agreed that they are not going to
cover up Paul’s stickers on the furnaces (the guys would leave Loziers stickers
with their names on them so that future techs would know who had last serviced
and to whom they could direct any questions).
I’ve been thinking lately about the manner in which Paul
died – the suddenness. Is it better to
have a long good-bye, such as with cancer or no good-bye at all, like we
had? Fortunately, we don’t get to make
that choice. Paul didn’t suffer. He
didn’t rack up medical bills. When we
went to bed on Wed. night we were laughing together about one of the kids. He kissed me goodnight and said, “I love you”
like he always did. And that was
it. But if I had known it was the last
time – there’s so much I could have told him.
I would have told him he was my life. That I loved him. And as much as I loathe the term, “soulmate”
he was that and more to me. I would have
told him how proud I was of him. I would
have told him that my heart still jumps when I hear his van crunch over the
gravel in the alley and his footstep sounds on the back step. How the timbre of his voice still sent
shivers down my insides. I hope he knew
all that because I never told him enough.
David commented that the “days seem to be longer” now. I agree.
The days – even the years and decades to come – stretch out in front of
me right now as a bleak and barren landscape.
Death is so final. As
horrible as it would have been, I think I could have survived a death of a
child more easily than this. At least
Paul and I would have had eachother to hold onto.
If I am realistic, I know that the suffering and sorrow is
only for a season. Psalms repeatedly
reminds me of that. There will come a
day when my heart is not nearly so raw and empty. But right now I find it difficult to believe
that I will ever have a reason to smile again.
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