Day 41

July 17, 2013

 

Day 41

 

It’s been a pretty good day today, aside from the perpetual weight in my chest. I wonder if that weight will be a constant companion for the rest of my days.  Guess that depends on how long I end up living.

 

Speaking of which, I received a call from my insurance agent.  I’ve been approved for life insurance!  What a relief!  I have no idea yet how much this is going to cost me, but I almost do not care.  I have been SO concerned about this.  I was only approved for $100,000; my agent is going to push for more, so I don’t have final figures yet.  Five years ago when we bought Paul’s life insurance policy we attempted to buy some for me but were turned down because of my stroke history.  I guess enough time has passed now that that is no longer as much of a concern to the underwriters.  Since Paul’s death I have been very concerned about what will happen to the kids in the event of my early death.  Now that this is nearly taken care of I can start the process of figuring out guardianship for the kids.  I just want to have all this stuff together and ready to go so that if something happens to me, transitions can be made as easily as possible.  I now have my grave purchased and one of these days I’m even going to write my own obituary and have it ready in my lock box.  I would rather imagine some of this is fueled, too, by my great desire to join Paul right now in Heaven.  I want to die in the worst way (figure of speech – I don’t want to die in the worst way because that might hurt and I try to avoid pain as much as possible).  Of course, I want to live for my children.  I know God still has a purpose for keeping me on earth – the kids may very well be that reason.  But if I had my druthers, I’d already be Home.

 

I ordered our stone this week.  It was one of the odder experiences of my life.  I just felt so empty inside after placing the order and writing the check.  Normally, shopping makes me happy!  To spend this much money at one time ought to make me really happy.  But of course, it didn’t.  The lady at the monument place was really kind and spent quite a bit of time with me, helping me design the stone.  While we were doing this, two other ladies came in to the place and waited in the waiting area, chatting loudly to each other the entire time.  I found myself really irritated.  How could they be blathering on about such unimportant things when I’m in the next room, designing a stone for my 42 year old husband who died way before I thought he should, leaving me all alone and with kids still to raise to adulthood?  It wasn’t their fault and there is no way they could have known.  But they just seemed too happy to me in light of the reason I was there.  I don’t know – should anyone ever be happy when they are in a gravestone monument establishment?  Ugh.  But anyway, the stone should be up this fall.  I bought my plot, now my name will be on the stone.  All that remains is for me to die and my body to be plopped next to Paul’s…in forty or fifty years…ugh, again.  That long, Lord?

 

Last Sat. when the men were working at our place I spent time cleaning out our shed.  The thing needs to be burned and the next time the guys come out that’s going to be on the agenda.  The termites have had a field day in there and boards are broken out of the walls.  It’s a mess.  I was pretty ruthless.  I threw away all kinds of stuff – old craft supplies, books, homeschool stuff from past years.  I just wanted it gone.  As I sorted and pitched I began to feel like I was throwing away a huge chunk of my previous life.  I threw out Bridal magazines from 1992 that I had hung onto.  I threw away marriage books.  I threw away Paul’s college books.  Actually, I threw away a lot of Paul’s stuff.  He doesn’t need it anymore and neither do we.  I burned toys and journals.  I did save some things.  I found my wedding shoes.  They’ve never turned yellow – still as white and satiny as the one day I wore them.  I saved some things from my senior year of high school.  I saved  the boys’ baby memorabilia.  I felt like I was kind of drawing a line down that shed – old life and new life.  My old life is gone now and most of what was in there pertained to that life.  A few things will follow me into my new life, but not much.  It was emotional, to say the least.  Eventually, I will have to do that here in the house when I finally sort through all of Paul’s things.

 

 

I was looking at my left hand this week.  I’m still wearing my wedding ring and I think I will for quite awhile.  I will know when it’s time to take it off.  Right now, I can’t bear that thought.  But in thinking about the day I do take it off for good I find myself dreading the thought of having such a bare hand.  My ring finger will look especially odd.  My wedding set is wide and the skin underneath is paler than the rest of my white, white skin – hard to believe, but it is possible to be paler than pale!  And my finger itself is now oddly shaped from years of being compressed into the ring.  But I had the thought that I could get a mother’s ring to wear on that hand when the day comes I do remove my wedding ring.  That would make my hand less bare.  I’ll probably need a big ring to fit all my kids on there.  Maybe there would be a way to fit Paul’s stone on there, as well.  I’ve got plenty of time for this, but I was glad I thought of it.   It makes the thought of what I will eventually do less painful. 

 

My friend Sara sent us a care package last weekend – full of goodies for all of us.  I think most of the sympathy cards have finished arriving, but now I have friends that are sending, “thinking of you” cards just to let me know that we are still in their thoughts and prayers.  It makes me feel grateful.  Today I did receive an anonymous sympathy card from Minnesota.  I’m not sure I actually know anyone in Minnesota.  They sent us money and a note that said they were a fellow, Christian family who had heard of us and wanted to help us out.  How incredible! 

 

I’m still not thankful Paul died.  I don’t know if I ever will be thankful for losing my husband.  But I am finding more things to be thankful about in this situation.  I’ve thought numerous times and shared before with others and on this blog how thankful I am that he did die and was not left brain-injured instead.  God would have provided and given grace in that terrible kind of situation, but, just the same, I’m glad that was not the path He chose for us.

 

I am thankful that Paul will never experience the pain of losing a spouse.  Since one of us had to experience this, I’m glad it was me and not him.  That would have been so painful for him if I had died.

Paul will never know what it is like to grow old and to have a body that falters with age.

 

Paul will never have to worry about providing for us after his working years are over.

 

For years, he prayed about, read about, toyed with the idea of starting his own business.  Now he never has to worry about that kind of decision again.

 

He will never experience the pain of having a child or grandchild that walks away from the Lord.

 

He’ll not have to mess with old houses and shoddy construction ever, ever again.

 

No more getting up in the middle of the night to keep a fire stoked so the children (and wife) stay warm…

 

No more worries, no more pain, no more seizures, no more drugs, no more work, no more frustration, no more 100 hour work weeks, no more remodeling, no more cranky vehicles, no more messy garage, no more dry eyes, no more laying blocks, no more boring vocal concerts, no more IEP meetings, no more difficult children, no more leaky faucets and flooded ceilings, no more PMSing wife, no more drywall dust and marauding termites, no more pinching pennies…

 

No more…only Jesus.  And, now, he wants for no more.

 

My sorrow is not for Paul.  It’s for me and for what our family has lost and how my life has permanently changed.  But there is nothing to cry about where Paul is concerned.  He escaped this sin-shackled world and his human body long before we thought he would.  He’s the fortunate one!

 

I am reading a fantastic book right now called, From One Widow to Another by Miriam Neff.  It’s one my mom ordered for me.  There’s just so much in here.  I will probably have to re-read it before too long.  Today I read the following paragraph and I thought it was so excellent as I ponder the why of Paul’s death.  As I’ve written about before, I don’t spend too much time thinking about that; it’s not for me to know.  If anything, I’d be tickled someday to be able to find some good things that have come from Paul’s death, but I honestly do not expect God to lay out for me exactly why He decided to take Paul Home.  I don’t even think I need to know that when I get to Heaven someday.  There’s a point where you have to trust God to be Who He is – God.  Miriam says:

 

It would be unfair of me to call Him my God and then require Him to think and reason like I do.  I would have to live a lie to accept his sovereignty and then require that His acts compute with my human brain.  It would be hypocritical to call Him Lord, and expect Him to run His plans through my grid of influence and advice before He, Creator and God of the universe, could act.

 

I ran across this verse today:  Isaiah 61:3, “To console those who mourn in Zion, to give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, that they may be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.”

 

That He may be glorified…isn’t that supposed to be the chief aim in everything?  I remember when Ben was little finding such comfort in the story of the blind man in John 9.  The disciples asked Jesus which of the man’s parents had sinned that would have caused him to be born with such an affliction.  I can’t imagine living in such a time period like that when parents, already saddled with the difficulty and grief of having a child with special needs (and zero social services to assist), would also bear the condemnation and blame of society for producing such a child in the first place!  But Jesus informed the disciples and those around that the man’s parents had done nothing.  The man was blind so that “the works of the Father may be glorified.”  That phrase has always felt like a comforting blanket around my shoulders.  The ultimate reason for Ben’s disabilities is so that God can be glorified.  And then reading this verse today I see that God’s comfort in our time of mourning is also so that He can be glorified. 

 

Paul’s death is not in vain.  He didn’t die because he had seizure and suffocated to death.  He died so that God could be glorified.

 

Wow…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 40

July 16, 2013

 

Day 40

 

Forty days…40 was a common theme in the Bible.  Jesus was in the wilderness for 40 days.  It rained for 40 days and 40 nights while Noah and his family rode out the storm in the ark.   Moses tended his flocks for 40 years after fleeing Egypt.  The Israelites wandered for 40 years.  Caanan was spied on for 40 days.  Goliath taunted Saul’s army for 40 days.  Forty seems to be a number associated with trials and sometimes punishment.  So does it have any significance for me?  Oh, I don’t really think so.  I doubt I’m going to awaken tomorrow on day 41 and realize that I have passed from darkness into light.  It takes longer than 40 days for broken hearts to heal.  But I do find the whole concept of numerology interesting.  I think sometime I’d like to do a study on all the times “forty” is mentioned in the Bible.

  

I had Paul officially removed from our bank account today.  At first, the lady at the bank said they couldn’t do that.  Looking back, I think she was assuming this was a divorce situation.  I told her I didn’t want to change bank accounts because of the automatic debits I have and we’d just have to leave Paul on the account then.  Later, she suddenly decided that she could remove him!  So I got that taken care of and opened another savings account at the same time.  It was sad.  Bit by bit I am erasing Paul out of my life.

 

It’s big because not only is Paul leaving but I am having to assume sole responsibility for things I used to share, like our finances.  That’s scary.  I bought a microwave today, all by myself.  I’ve never done that before.  We’ve been through several of them, and as appliances go, a microwave is not that big of a deal.  But still – we used to make these kind of decisions together.

 

Bigger than that even, I verbally committed to purchasing a vehicle from a lady at a church and I expect to write her a check and drive off in my new van this coming weekend.  I am confident in this decision and I had some help in making it.  But, it hurts because we always, always consulted on big things together and made the decisions as a team.  I have help, I’m not alone.  But I don’t want help.  I want Paul!

 

Today was difficult.  I just miss him so much.  I am told that time will help, but I am baffled how a half a person ever becomes whole again.

 

At the same time, I am recognizing that I have a choice.  I can spend the rest of my life lamenting about what could have been, what should have been, and all the dreams that have now been smashed to pieces.  I can remain mentally stuck in the past.  Or, I can choose to embrace my new life.  I don’t want a new life.  I want what I used to have.  But I don’t have that choice.  My only choice is my attitude.  I don’t think I’m at the point of “embracing” yet but I know eventually I will have to choose it.

 

Last night I went to my mom’s of sp. Needs group.  I love those women – absolutely love them.  As a group we have grown so close, especially in the last year I would say.  Amy, who heads us up, made the comment that we tend to view the trials in life as “detours.”  We’re so anxious to get back on our regular path after being forced to take one of these detours.  What we don’t realize is that these detours aren’t really detours after all.  They are the path that God intended for us to take all along.  Of course, right now I feel like I’m sitting by the side of the road, kicking my heels on the rocks.  I don’t want this path!  It has sharp rocks and there are weeds poking at my ankles when I walk. It has so many sharp twists and turns that I can’t see very far ahead.   The other path I was on had the occasional loose stone, but it was pretty smooth.  It was familiar.  I knew where it was going. 

 

I got home around 11 last night, which was not unusual.  My friend Jenny and I went to Orange Leaf afterwards.  We love that place.  Actually, the last time I was there was on Paul’s and my last date in May.  We had gone out to eat and then I insisted we go to Orange Leaf.  He was in awe of the different choices and as we ate our frozen yogurt, he asked, “Why hadn’t you taken me here before?!”  So that rushed through my mind as Jenny and I stepped in the door.  We had a really, really nice time talking.  I got home and about had to peel David off the ceiling.  He was worried sick that I was dead on the highway because I was so late.  Poor kid.  I just didn’t even think to call him because it has never been unusual for me to get home late on these nights.  But he didn’t know that.  And all those other times he still had two living parents.  He sobbed, “I’m just so worried that you’re going to die, too!”  Oh-h-h, David…my heart cracked a little bit when he expressed that.  These poor kids – they seem to be doing so well most of the time, but their lives have been shattered just like mine.

 

David spent last week at camp.  He said he enjoyed himself, which made me glad.  Camp would post pictures every couple of days on Facebook and I would anxiously pore through them, looking for ones of David.  I never saw any of him which fed my fears that he was spending the week in his cabin, crying.  But he said he made a friend, which is what I had prayed for him.  My sweet boy spent his money on a gift for me at the camp’s gift shop.  That didn’t surprise me because that is David.  But I was still touched.  He found a hand-crafted sign on a rustic looking piece of tree with Psalm 147:3 lettered on it, “The Lord heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds.”  He said, “I thought we all could use this right now, Mom.”   I hung it in the back room.  It may never come down.

 

Sunday night, as per custom, the just –returned campers gave a testimony to the church of their week.  David spoke about things he had learned, including facing “impossible circumstances,” which is kind of the theme up at camp this summer.  He commented that had been very helpful to him since he is in his own “impossible circumstance” right now with the death of his dad.  He spoke very eloquently and I was both proud of him and touched by what he said. Because of his age and his personality, though,  David lacks the self-assurance and confidence that Will has when speaking publicly.    Later he lamented to me that he had forgotten half of what he had intended to say.  I told him that he had said exactly what God wanted him to say.

 

All this heavy stuff…but I actually do have something funny to end with.  I think I am laughing more these days.  It’s progress.  Today I happened to look up in time to see Lizzie hauling off and hitting Sam.  Of course, I was all over her about that in a nano-second.  Sam chimed in, “Yeah, my Sunday School teacher told us that the Bible says it’s very wrong to ever hit people back!”  Wait a minute…hit people back?  I turned to Sam and asked, “Did you hit Lizzie first?”  He shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “Well, yeah!” 

 

“Did you know that Bible also says that people should not hit other people first?”

 

A note of wonder crept into his voice, “It does?”

 

“Yes, Sam…it does!”

 

Oh, boy…and I’m supposed to do this all by myself from now on?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 37

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

July 13, 2013

 

 

Day 37

 

I am so-o-o tired tonight!  Our church had a work day out here.  I shouldn’t be surprised anymore by the outpouring of love we continue to receive – but I am.  So many guys showed up!  Friends came and whisked away Ben and the Littles, another friend came to help keep things moving in the kitchen.  It’s like I have a whole new property now.  For nine years our garage accumulated and accumulated…Paul greatly desired to get that thing cleaned out but his time was so limited and the house needs were so pressing.  Also, he was a saver, just knowing he was going to need whatever for some project someday.  I think it physically hurt him to throw things away!  I, on the other hand, get a rush from throwing things out!  We threw out a lot today.  I would have thrown out more, but Will is his father’s son…

 

The garage is completely cleaned out.  So is the shed.  The dog kennel was torn down.  Weeds were ripped out and whacked away.  Scrap metal was loaded into a trailer.  My weeping willow tree was trimmed.  A few missing pieces of siding on the house were found and nailed into place.  Wood was split and stacked for the winter.  I may have enough out there for the entire upcoming winter; I don’t know.   We burned SO much stuff.  The baseboard trim was put up in the kitchen and our old couch was moved into the basement.  The extra tv and kitchen cabinets came up out of the basement.

 

My hips hurt, I broke most of my nails, and dirtied my favorite Toms shoes, and I’m so tired I can barely think straight, but I feel so, so good!  At times I wondered today if Paul would be protesting at all his stuff we were throwing out.  That’s kind of a moot point since he’s not here and that’s why we got rid of so much.  But he wouldn’t have been surprised at the turn-out we had.  He would have said simply, “This is what the church does.”  And he would have been right.

 

Mid-morning it got to be a bit much for me and I had to escape to my bedroom for a good cry.  While I’m thrilled to finally have my place cleaned up the way I’ve always wanted it to be I just hate that this is the reason it had to happen.  I would have happily lived with his messes forever if it meant I was still living with him. 

 

But I probably would have still been complaining about his stuff!

 

 

Will has officially decided to not attend college this fall.  Yesterday we drove up to Faith and let them know of his decision.  They were very understanding, of course.  A year from now I would rather imagine that his mental state will be a lot more stable.  And, this gives him a year to really pray about God’s direction for his life.  Plus, Will is kind of excited about the idea of being able to pay cash for his first year of college, which he’ll be able to do after working full-time for a year.  I want Will to be able to enjoy his year(s) at Faith.  While he will never, ever be the same care-free, happy freshman that he would have been had his dad not died, a year from now I think he’ll be a little more prepared to actually have some fun, as well as to be able to focus on his studies a little bit better.

 

While up there I visited the Faith bookstore.  I had a purpose in mind.  Paul bought me a McArthur study Bible a few years ago.  It didn’t hold up that well, to the point that he performed “surgery” (he called it) on it awhile back.  He used epoxy and a vise clamp to hold it together.  It’s worked pretty well since then.  But he ever since he died I’ve been using that Bible a lot more than I used to.  And it completely fell apart.  I was distraught at first because he had inscribed the front very sweetly to me and I didn’t want to lose that.  But I bought another McArthur yesterday (and they were 40% off, to boot!) and when I got home I took an exacto knife and cut out the inscription page from my previous Bible and glued it onto the same in the new one.

 

While driving up there Will and I were talking and I was telling him about someone who had tried to assure me quite earnestly this past week that “Paul is still here!”  She had gone on to tell me that wherever I go Paul is with me and watching out for me.  It’s not quite as bad as the person who exclaimed to me shortly after Paul’s death, “Now you have your own, personal angel!” but it’s close.  I was telling Will that even if that were true (that Paul was with me) I wouldn’t want him to be hovering around.  Heaven is so magnificent and wonderful that nobody would ever want to leave that splendor for even just a moment to flit back down to earth, with its sin-cursed drudgery and pain.  Perhaps God “rolls back” the floor of Heaven from time to time in order to give glimpses of His children's earth-bound loved ones' big, earthly moments – I don’t know.  I like to think that happens, but I have no way of knowing, of course.  But Heaven is too glorious to want to spend any time around the earth.  But then it hit me – that’s what God did.  Jesus left the splendor of Heaven for dreary earth.  And even now, God sends the Comforter to be with us in our sorrow.  How much He loves us!

 

The other day I wrote about the statistics of friend loss after death.  I learned about this in my current widowhood book.  I forgot to add something important, though.  The author points out that when Jesus fed the 5000, he was at the height of his popularity.  Theologians estimate there were probably more like 12,000 people in the crowd that day.  But by John chapter 6, Jesus had lost so many of his followers that He even asked His disciples if they, too, wished to go away (v. 67).  When we’re told that God understands our every hurt, He truly does.  He has experienced every emotion and pain known to man, even the loss of friends.

 

 

 

Earlier this week I had the self-pitying thought of wondering who would bring me flowers now that Paul is gone.  He was such a romantic man and I received flowers pretty regularly throughout the 23 years we were together.  But things have changed now.  Yesterday three older ladies from church came to visit me; two are widows, as well.  They brought me chocolate cupcakes and candy for the kids…and one, perfect rose.

 

Have I mentioned lately how much I still adore my kitty?  Of course, she was Paul’s last birthday present to me.  He hated indoor animals and I used to (ironically, now) think that having a house cat would be a perk of widowhood someday.  Little did I know…But he got me that cat in March and she has been the best animal.  She never tries to go outside, never bites the kids and they are quite rough with her.  In fact, one of Ben’s teachers commented to me this week that I will never want to get another cat because there will never be another  one as calm and gentle as Bella.  She has been a comfort to me the last 37 days.  I think she lost one of her nine lives the other night, though.  I am still amazed by this.  Sam took a bath and forgot to drain the water.  I was on the computer until quite late, uploading two and half months worth of pictures to Facebook from two different computers.  What a job!  Around 11:30 I went into the bathroom to take my bath an was horrified to find Bella in the water!  She had fallen into the tub and was just holding her little head above the water, thoroughly soaked.  She wasn’t meowing (she only ever meows if someone steps on her), just standing there, bravely waiting to be rescued.  I’m guessing she was probably in there a good two hours.   I scooped her out and dried her off with a bath towel.  She then made a bee-line for her litter box!  What a good kitty!  I felt so bad for her.  I thought cats were total spazzes when it came to water, but I guess they all aren’t.  At least Bella isn’t.

 

I was thinking about my heart last night, which made me think of my uterus.  Yeah, I know – that sounds kind of weird.  But I was thinking about how I ended my last post, with the word picture of God carefully and deliberately mending broken hearts.  Nearly 17 years ago my uterus rupture during Ben’s birth.  Even with an epidural, that was a mind-blowingly painful experience.  In all my life, I have never experienced that degree of physical pain as I did that long-ago Sunday morning in the delivery room.  When ruptures happen, it’s not uncommon for doctors to then remove them, depending on the severity of the rupture.  But Ben was so bad off following his birth that he was not expected to live.  My dr. was fearful that if she did a hysterectomy we would be left with one live child and no chances of having more.  So she took that broken uterus and carefully sewed the edges together.  It was shredded in some parts and she had to re-form the back side, overlapping the pieces.  She used the tiniest, most careful of stitches and spent a great deal of time with her repair in hopes that someday we might be able to use that uterus again.

 

Of course, we did – twice more, in fact.  I remember after my c-section with David, my doctor took that uterus completely out of my body and laid it on top of my abdomen.  I had requested mirrors to be placed above the operating table so I could see David’s birth (only another dr. stepped into my vision path – grrr…) and I was able to see my uterus sitting there on top of me.  As I recall it looked like a cooked chicken…But I will never forget my dr’s clucks of satisfaction as she examined the organ.  She then told me that my uterus was now stronger because of the repair job than if it had never ruptured in the first place.  The repairs she did increased the actual strength of my uterus.

 

Suppose hearts are like that?  I rather imagine so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 34

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

July 10, 2013

 

Day 34

 

Five weeks ago tonight…That thought caught me by surprise.  Five weeks is kind of a long time.  Why doesn’t it seem like that long of time has passed?  It feels like it’s been maybe only a few days.  But it’s been five weeks.

  

Earlier this week I had a few nights where I was waking up cold in the morning.  I could not figure that out.  I have the exact same blankets on my bed as we have always had in the summertime and the ceiling fan is on the exact same speed it always is this time of year.  Then it dawned on me…body heat.

 

I got another blanket out of the linen cupboard.

 

Nights have been rough this week, especially – lots of tears and the pain of loss gripping my insides so tightly I can’t catch my breath.  But I’ve had several – at least three – friends message me different nights to tell me that they are especially burdened for me right then.  They want me to know they are praying.  In my darkest moments, He is carrying me.

 

I’ve had a vision of an hourglass in my head lately – you know, the old fashioned ones with sand running through them.  My kids still get little plastic versions from their dentist at every visit.  The colored sand is supposed to show them how long they are to brush their teeth.  I don’t think they’ve ever been used for that purpose, though.  They just like playing with them and then the gadgets invariably end up at the bottom of the toy box or rolled to the nether regions of the mini-van.  A lot of times I throw them away in frustration after I’ve looked at one stuck underneath the cupboards for a week.  Anyway, I’ve been envisioning this hourglass that represents Paul’s life.  More than that, though, it symbolizes the life that used to be mine.

 

As a new bride it was full, the pieces of sand slipping slowly into the bottom of the glass.  Forever stretched in front of us. 

 

Death touched us halfway through our marriage with the loss of our fourth child – miscarriage.  For the first time, Heaven seemed closer.  But death for us was a long way off.  The grains continued to fall.

 

Sam was born.  Paul cried in the delivery room.  The sand fell faster.  But we didn’t know it.  A new baby had just been born, which meant that a daddy had years.  After all, he has to be there to throw a football and show a boy how to hold a hammer.  He has to talk to him about girls and teach him about driving.  He has to be there to counsel him about college.  He has to teach the baby about God.  Daddies can’t die until they’ve done all those things.

 

We felt God’s nudge about adoption.  Paul urged me to act quickly and conquer my fears.  Doors flew open, two scared little sisters arrived, and the grains fell faster and faster.

 

A frenetic period of activity arrived while we counted down the months to our first graduation party.  There was a house to get ready, a kitchen to remodel, a porch to rebuild…the hour glass grew warmer and warmer.

 

A 20^th anniversary arrived in the winter.  We hopped on a plane and flew to Colorado with no children – our first big “adventure.”  We healed from a rough patch, we loved, we explored, we held hands and vowed we’d never fall away from eachother again.  We laughed – oh, how we laughed.  We snapped picture after picture of the mountains, of little towns, of eachother.  We decided this trip was better than our honeymoon two decades before and declared we would, henceforth, travel every year on our anniversary.  The sand moved faster and faster. 

 

The big day arrived.  We walked across the aisle and handed our firstborn his high school diploma.  The house was perfect, the food was ready, the scrapbooks detailing Will’s life laid out for guests to peruse.  Paul told me he didn’t like my scrapbooks.  Mystified, I asked why.  Then, I looked at him closer.  Tears brimmed in his eyes.  My scrapbooks had made him cry.  Only a few grains of sand remained in our hourglass, but we didn’t know.

 

The summer stretched out before us, we thought.  We bid our last guest good-bye late that night, stretched out in bed together, and exclaimed, “We did it!”  We talked about the rest of season.  I reminded Paul that there would be NO more construction work until wintertime – no projects, no drywalling, no digging, no roofing.  It was to be a summer of relaxation.  The boys would go to camp, Paul would counsel for one of the weeks (he was excited and wistful at the same time because it would be Will’s final  year of camping), the adoption would take place.  We discussed some dates for our upcoming trip to South Dakota in August.  We fell asleep, not knowing that the hourglass now burned red from the heat of the falling sand, running more and more quickly through the glass.  The grains tumbled over eachother, barely able to keep up with the quick descent.

 

Five weeks ago tonight arrived.  The last grain slid down the tiny chute.  And then, the hourglass broke, shattering hearts and lives.

 ******************************************************************************

 

Ahh, but there’s another analogy at work now.  I’ve written about my broken and bleeding heart numerous times.  This week my sister-in-law sent me a word picture.  She asked me to visualize God holding my injured heart.  Slowly – oh so slowly – God is taking a needle and with fine, delicate, stitches He is mending that heart.  I can’t see it right now, I can’t feel it right now because my heart is still so battered and wounded.  But bit by bit the master Craftsman intends to repair that broken organ.  It’s going to take a long time and it will forever bear the scars of its great injury.  But just the same, one day it will beat again, healthy and whole.

 

Mended.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 32

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

July 8, 2013

 

 

Day 32

 

I did some more tombstone shopping today.  I knew there were two outfits in Knoxville that do this.  I could only find one.  I looked and looked for the other – finally figured, phooey, they didn’t want to be found!  Besides, I really liked this one place I went to first down there.   The lady was so, so nice.  And, I’m not sure, but there is a chance she could be a Believer.  We were talking about Paul’s death and how you just don’t realize how quickly things can change.  She made the comment, “All we can do is be ready.”  I assume she was talking about spiritual matters.  I don’t know – maybe she meant we should be ready with prepaid grave markers!  She talked to me about the idea of buying a double marker for both Paul and myself.  I really had not given that a lot of thought, but the more I think about it the more I like it. Financially, it makes sense and I kind of like the idea of tying together our lives as we lay there, dead together.  My only concern has to do with a possible remarriage down the road.  So I wrote a nice long email to my pastor laying out my concerns and asking for his opinion.  I would not want to be disloyal to a future spouse by making arrangements for burial by a former one.  You know what Paul would say?  He would look at me and ask, “Does it really matter?”  Of course this is the guy that wanted to be buried in our backyard in an old appliance box…

 

I worked some more on Paul’s desk yesterday.  That is really hard.  I am anxious to get it organized my way so I can access financial info easily.  I’m also purging quite a bit.  Paul was scared to throw anything away.  I throw away too much.  But at least I can fit everything into one desk!  I worked on his top, middle drawer.  In this he stuffed all kinds of Menards receipts for the work on the house.  All the business cards he had collected over the years were in there.  He had his favorite mechanical pencils and the super-fine lead he would refill them with.  He had pictures he had taken of the different remodeling projects he had done, in various stages of completion.  I found stickers he had bought five years ago to decorate some cards he had made for me for our 15^th anniversary when he sent me 15 gifts to commemorate the day.  I kept those.

 

My heart felt raw again this morning when I awoke.  I visualize it as this piece of meat now.  What used to be whole and healthy and vibrantly alive, has now been smashed into this barely recognizable pile of pulp.  It’s dripping blood and oozing matter everywhere.  Nobody would ever know that five weeks ago it worked just fine.  Five weeks ago it did exactly what it was supposed to.  Five weeks ago it wasn’t hurting.

 

I was reminded recently of my wedding day.  Pastor Young married us, of course.  I remember that he made the comment that that day God was soldering our lives together.  We were becoming one flesh.  He warned us that if we were ever to separate, those two pieces could come apart but it would not happen without great personal injury to each piece.  That imagery made such an impression on me that I never forgot it.  I imagined two porcelain figurines being superglued together.  And then I tried to visualize what would happen if one tugged and tugged on the pieces until they separated.  It wouldn’t be a clean break.  Of course, he was referring to the possibility of separation or divorce that day.  But I never thought about how death would do the same thing.  My piece has been greatly damaged.

 

I have heard it said often that divorce is worse than the death of a mate.  I can see how people would say that.  With divorce there would be years of hurt and then the animosity of the divorce itself, which would then create even more hurt and definitely anger.  But, I was reading one of my widowhood books the other day and the author pointed out in the book, that unlike death, at least when there is divorce, there is always hope for reconciliation, or at the very least, some sort of “closure” over the whole thing.  You don’t get that when your spouse dies.  It’s final.  There will never be reconciliation or even a final goodbye, a final kiss, a final hug, a final, “I love you.”  It’s over. 

 

Forever.

 

Will is outside working on the junk on Paul’s trailer that needs to be hauled in.  I happened to glance out the window as he passed by and for a moment, the sight of him took my breath away.  From the side he looks so much like Paul.  Up close, he looks like me J  but from a distance, I would have sworn he was his dad.

 

It’s funny how the mind works when it is hurting.  Lately, I have found myself so encouraged by the thought of history, when I hear it referred to in books, or snippets on tv or the radio – any  period of history, it doesn’t matter when it is.  You know why I am liking history so much these days?  Because all the people that lived in the past are now dead.  Someday my era will be history and I’ll be dead, too – no more hurting, raw, heart and eternity with Jesus and Paul.  What could be better?  I’m definitely not suicidal, but I’m so ready to be done living.  Living hurts.

 

In the current widow book I’m reading the author asserts that a widow will lose 75% of her friends after widowhood.  Apparently she didn’t make up that statistic because she says that when she was widowed she was quite sure that would not happen to her.  But it did.  I am horrified by that possibility.  I am supposed to lose my husband AND ¾ of all my friendships?  Why will people not want to be friends with me any longer simply because I lost my husband?  One reason she gives is that single women are regarded as a “threat” by married women.  That just makes me laugh (sarcastically).  I don’t think middle-aged widows of a half dozen children who are bleary-eyed and sallow with grief are going to be exactly “hot commodities” when it comes to men.  And besides, for married women to feel that way is really insulting to both the widowed and the integrity of their own husbands.  So I seriously hope that is not an attitude I ever run into.

 

And as wonderful as the majority of my friends have been, I have wondered about some who seem to have pulled away already.  I like to think that they just aren’t sure what to say or think that I am still constantly surrounded by others right now (I’m not) and would be in the way (they wouldn’t).  But I have to admit it does hurt when I haven’t heard from some my friends other than just at the immediate time of Paul’s death and funeral.  I am so grateful for those that are dropping me notes or texts now with just a quick message – “how are you today?”  “How can I pray for you right now?”  It means a lot.  Silence from others speaks volumes, even if I’m misunderstanding the silence.  I understand that during trials we tend to expect others to know exactly what we need.  Many do.  But some just don’t.  And I have to be willing to extend grace to them as well.

 

But I have some responsibility here, too.  Just yesterday David and I were talking about people that disappoint us, referencing a different subject altogether.  I reminded him that even in those situations we have a choice as to where we place our focus.  Is it going to be on those who let us down or on those that go above and beyond for us?  That doesn’t let those that hurt us off the hook, necessarily, but it does mean that we can choose where to allow our focus to linger.

 

I still hope I don’t lose 75% of my friends, though.

 

David left for camp this morning.  I hope he does ok this week.  Last year Paul was his counselor for Junior High.  This year David is the only boy from our church so he’ll be in a cabin with strangers.  I have been praying that God will provide a special friend for him this week.  I also hope that his counselor, whoever he is, reaches out to David. 

 

And here’s another “God” story:  a few weeks ago a friend suggested to me that I should have something special done with Paul’s clothing.  I thought about it and decided that I would love to have a quilt made out of his shirts and jeans.  But while I have a number of different friends who quilt and who, I know, would instantly agree to such a project for me, I was reluctant to ask anyone.  I think I was reluctant because I knew they would say yes.  And so many have done SO much for me in the past 4 ½ weeks.  I just don’t ever want to get to the point that I am a burden to people.  But the more I thought about snuggling under a quilt made out of the things Paul used to wear, that I used to wash and dry and fold for him, the more I wanted it.  So, I asked the Lord for it!  I asked him to send someone to me, volunteering to make me such a thing.

 

Today my friend and neighbor, Lynne, popped in.  Her daughter is just two months younger than Lizzie (in fact her little Baylee and Paul shared a birthday) and the girls have recently discovered eachother.  They are constant playmates once Baylee gets home every afternoon from daycare.  Lynne said to me, “Do you have any plans for Paul’s clothing?”  She went on to explain that she and her “crafty” cousin that I met at Lynne and her husband’s July 4^th party a week ago, had come up with the idea of taking Paul’s clothes and sewing them into quilts for me and for all the kids.  I’m not sure he has enough clothes for all that, but she said maybe they could do throws for the kids.  They want to embroider the kids’ names and a Bible verse on each quilt.  I looked at Lynne earnestly and informed her that her offer was an answer to prayer.  Why do I ever doubt that God cares?

 

Paul had a hook in the corner of the bathroom, between the linen cabinet and the wall where he would hang his clothes that he could probably wear again before washing.  Just last night I realized that two of his shirts were hanging there.  I eagerly stuck my nose in them, knowing that he had worn them last and hoping that I could still smell his wonderful, natural scent.  They just smelled like dust.  It’s time to re-purpose them, to move on.

 

But, oh, how I miss his smell!  And his footsteps.  His work-worn hands, so rough, but so gentle…the timbre of his voice…his annoying little throat sounds…his silky hair…the ripped and oil stained work shirts he wore when working around the house…his silly jokes…his grin…the passion in his eyes that was mine alone…

 

I really don’t know how I am going to live the rest of my life without him.  Can hearts this  shattered  ever really heal?