Day 133
It is firmly fall
now. Summer has completely faded
away. If Paul were alive, he would have
built the first fire in the woodburner already.
That event, the first of the season, always filled him with glee for
some reason. All the credit card offers
and Ben’s Social Security statements that I’d been stuffing into the woodburner
for months would be gone with that first fire.
We’re going to heat with wood this year. But since we’re about to move it to the
basement, we’ve decided to just use the furnace for now – set at a ridiculously
low temperature. If I didn’t know
better, I’d think Will is eyeing my life insurance policy and hoping that I’ll
freeze to death in my bed some night soon…Life is too short to be this cold
during the duration. I’m going to have
to figure out how to set that thermostat myself – at temperature levels more
suited to the warm blooded than to amphibians.
I feel kind of bad that it
is autumn. Paul isn’t here. Just like when I turned the calendar over to
July after June, now we’ve rolled into a new season – without him. For the rest of my life this will happen over
and over again.
Today the pain is sharp –
like white hot daggers poking at my heart. Other days it’s just a presence located
in the pit of my belly. Today it
migrated north, though.
But God (there’s my
favorite phrase again!) sends encouragement when I most need it. I had just typed those words when my friend,
Don, arrived at my house. I remember
writing about the chairs Paul had brought home the night of his death. They were old 1950s fan-back metal chairs –
severely rusted and coated with numerous layers of paint. Paul was so tickled at his find, though,
knowing how pleased I’d be and promised me that he’d sand them and paint them
whatever color I liked. After Paul’s
death, Don implored me to let him take on that project. I was more than happy to agree. Tonight Don brought me the first completed
chair – new bolts, sanded, and now a cheerful fire-engine red. His wife sent me a goody bag full of
scrapbooking supplies and a sweet card…and a Willow Tree figurine which made me
smile.
It made me smile because I’ve
always loved the simplicity of the Willow Tree line. But I don’t have a single piece. It’s never bothered me. But just a couple of weekends ago at the
craft fair one vendor had Willow Tree pieces and I found myself admiring them
once again, even wondering if they had something for someone in my
situation. I didn’t buy, but laughingly
thought to myself, “Well, maybe sometime, someone will buy one for me!” and
thought nothing more of it.
Until tonight.
Well, what else is going
on in my world? I now have 40 lbs of
chicken in my new freezer. Today was my
first Zaycon pick-up. A friend of mine
in Arizona Des Moines Ankeny
The other day I overheard
Sam complaining to Lizzie after she had simply asked him to get her a straw off
the counter, “You just want me to be your slave, don’t you!” So-o-o…we had a little talk about what
service to one another really means…
I have some new shoes that
I love. But I think I am the only
one. I have noticed in recent months
that my feet hurt. I thought maybe it
was because of my summer sandals. But I
wore my sturdier loafers to the craft fair a couple of weeks ago and I knew
within just a short amount of time that it wasn’t just a sandal problem. My feet were killing me all day. So I went to the Naturalizer store this week
and bought some really expensive shoes.
The brand is called “Walking Cradles.”
They’re wonderful. I tried on
several different pairs, and I explained to the clerk that I was trying to
avoid anything too geriatric looking, but I needed some relief for at least
when I am doing quite a bit of walking (I think I can wear my other, cuter
shoes other times). She laughed and said
she has 95 yr old women come in there and reject certain styles as looking like
they are “for old ladies!” But I found
these. They’re really padded and come up
around my foot and I don’t think they look elderly one bit. I got home and David opened them up out of
curiosity and commented, “Hmm – it’s a good thing you didn’t ask my opinion
about these shoes!” So, yes, I bit and
asked him his opinion. Without missing a
single beat, he spat out, “They’re old lady shoes.” I object.
They are not! Yes, they
may have Velcro closures, but they don’t look like white Velcro tennis you see
in nursing homes (that stuff can actually be quite dangerous – Paul’s grandma
broke her wrist a couple of years ago when the Velcro on her shoes became stuck
to a blanket that got entangled around her legs). They’re black and sleek looking. But now even the Littles are calling them, “Mommy’s
old lady shoes.” Thank you, David! At least my feet won’t hurt – mission accomplished,
even if I have to endure the kids’ wretched opinions. They just need to wait until they’ve been
walking around on their feet for 42 years!
Speaking of old…the other
day Lizzie informed me, “When you get old, Mom, I’m going to help you a lot
with housework!” I hope she doesn’t wait
that long! Not to be outdone, Sam chimed
in, “Well, when you get old, Mom, I’m going to visit you every day!” Now, I can see myself holding him to that
promise!
I called my mortgage
company yesterday. I thought it was a
little strange that I sent them my final payment on the house several weeks ago
and have not heard a word from them. The
representative asked me, “Well, would you like me to send you a letter saying
the mortgage is paid off?” Um…yes,
please! I would think that would be
standard procedure. They told me
insurance is paid up on it for the next 11 months, so I guess I don’t need to
worry about that for awhile. And taxes
aren’t due until March.
I got my bill today from
the monument company. I knew it would be
coming and they did such excellent work on Paul’s stone that I didn’t mind
paying it. As I wrote the check, though,
I realized, that is the final “big” payment of any sort I have to make because
of Paul’s death. It seems like I have
had all sorts of those in the months since, but now I’m done.
I did my bi-monthly
shopping on Monday. I am definitely not
a super-couponer like some of my friends.
But I do clip them out of Sunday’s paper and my All You magazine. I had $35 worth of them Monday (sorry to the
lady in line behind me!) – an all time record.
Paul loved that I clipped coupons (I didn’t start until several years
ago – always claimed I didn’t have the time and wasn’t organized enough to do
so). So I would always brag to him about
my coupon total when I’d get home from shopping. Of course, I’d get really mad if I couldn’t
use a certain coupon because I had misread the requirements or expiration
date. He’d always laugh at me and
exclaim, “Oh, boy – 75 cents is going break us this month!” As I walked out of Walmart with a feeling of
self-satisfaction, I thought, “Just wait until Paul hears how much saved this
time!”
Oh, yeah…
I read a horrible story
this week. It was well-written and kept
my attention, but it was awful, just the same. It was the short story in Good Housekeeping, a
magazine I have been faithfully reading since I was about 8 years old. The story was about a 9-11 widow. As she is organizing a memorial service for
her husband, she goes into his emails for a contact list of people to send
invitations to. And she discovers that
he is carrying on a torrid affair with another woman. It was a fictional story, but it could
have happened. I just found myself so
drawn into the widow’s emotions. What
you do in a situation like that?
Suddenly, you discover that the man you grieving is not the man you
thought you were grieving. But he is no
less dead. And you can’t confront him
and gain any type of resolution to the tremendous hurt of betrayal – not even
an, “I’m sorry.” My mind is still
boggled over that kind of scenario. How horrible. How grateful I am that that is one thing I
never had to worry about Paul. He was so
committed to me. I’ll have to remember
to write sometime about his “eye-bouncing.”
That always made me feel so good, so protected.
This is turning into a
really long post.
Yesterday I encountered an
acquaintance, the mother of one of Ben’s Special Olympic teammates. It’s such a small world - we actually grew up
in the same hometown, 2 hours away. She
was in band with my brother and he once gave her a ride home from
practice. Twenty five years later we
have children with disabilities in the same tiny school district. I don’t know.
Maybe when you live in Iowa
But I found myself
ruminating on her words all evening.
Ministry – me? Could there be
some sort of ministry that arises for me because of widowhood? I’m not talking about anything in a
professional sense, of course. But yet, there
is 1 Corinthians 1:3-4,
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able
to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we
ourselves are comforted by God.
Is this not speaking of
ministry? Just as I have had the ability
for years to comfort other women who have experienced miscarriage and infertility and whose
children have been given devastating diagnoses, like it or not, I will
eventually have the ability to reach out to other, suddenly single, widows and mothers. Right now the thought of extending myself
seems a bit too exhausting, but the day will come when I’ll be better equipped
and ready. I find the thought of this
kind of exciting, really. How is God
going to use this most painful and devastating event? We are promised in Rom. 8:28 that all things
will work together for good. Could some
of the “good” be my ability to minister to other emotionally wounded and
eviscerated women someday? I feel like I’ve
been laying face-down on the ground for a long time. But I’m slowly lifting my head with hope and
curiosity.
I want to be used. I want to be able to take Paul’s death and
have it be an instrument for healing and hope in others’ lives.
In time…on the very last page of
that Good Housekeeping I referenced earlier was a short article by author Anne
Lamont (I just love that name – it sounds so writerly!). She concluded her article – which wasn’t even
about death – with this quote. I loved
it so much I ripped it right out of the magazine.
…you realize the secret of life is patch, patch,
patch. Thread your needle, make a
knot, find one place on the other piece of torn cloth where you can make one
stitch that will hold. And do it
again. And again. And again.
But I don’t think it has much to do with my own
efforts. God is doing the patching,
stitch by stitch by stitch.
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