Day 133

DAIRY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

October 16, 2013

 

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 first told me about this company that sells bulk foods below retail price.  I was interested enough to look them up and to sign up for their news alerts.  But at the time they didn’t come to Des Moines.  But a month or so ago I got an email from them letting me know they were coming!  So today I got up at 6 (horrible time of morning) so I could drive up to Ankeny to get my chicken.  They had called me Mon. and asked if I would be willing to help with the distribution.  In return, they’d give me some credits to use toward my next purchase.  That’s why I had to get up so early.  Only – they didn’t need my help.  And that’s good because I discovered that a 40 lb box of chicken is really heavy!  My hip started causing me some severe pain a couple of days ago, although it is doing better now.  I’m really dubious I could have handled lifting those heavy boxes.  I was so tickle by my chicken though!  As soon as I got home I got out a heavy duty knife and started whacking up those breasts and dividing them into 3 lb bags.  I’ll be interested to see how long they last, if one box is enough to last me until the next chicken event in 6 months, or if I really need to be ordering two at a time.  Next Friday I get my bacon.

 

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, that’s the way it happens.  The entire state is its own small world!  I remember her coming to Paul’s visitation and being surprised and touched that she had done that.  But she told me yesterday that she has been reading my blog, as has her mother.  I don’t even know how she knew I blogged.  She was an incredible encouragement to me as she told me how my words were touching her.  She suggested that perhaps I am ministry-bound.  I don’t see that as a possibility right now.  My hands are so full of “ministry” as I raise these kids that it’s hard to see beyond that at the moment.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 129

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

October 12, 2013

 

Day 129

 

My drippy-nosed kids have shared their germs with me.  Ugh – why do they have to be so generous?!

 

Paul’s stone is set up now.  Yesterday morning I had gone upstairs to get clothes for the Littles.  When I came down my phone was chiming to let me know I had a voice mail.  I listened to it and discovered it was from the monument company.  I was so excited!  I whipped the towel off my head, grabbed my camera, and threw on my jacket.  Lizzie looked at my hair and exclaimed, “Mom!  You can’t go out of the house looking like that!”  I was reminded when, a couple of days after Paul’s death, the grave diggers called me and asked me to meet them up at the cemetery.  The plot I had just bought a day earlier was not going to work since there was a dirt pile on top of it and I had to approve a different spot to bury Paul.  As I recall, I had a wet head then, too!

 

But, oh, it is even more beautiful than I imagined.  They did it perfectly.  All our names are on there, they’ve got “Heywood” shaded in black so it stands out, our picture on the stone turned out well – just beautiful!  I love it!  I remember all that angst I experienced in July when I was trying to decide what kind of stone to get – single or double.  I’m so glad I went with the double.  This way we’ll be memorialized together, forever, no matter what ends up happening in the rest of my life.

 

David commented to me that I used to take care of Dad.  Since I can’t do that now, the next best thing is to take care of his grave.  Now that we have the stone, I feel like I can do that.  David put his cross back up there along with his picture of the two of them at the football game in April.  I spent quite a bit of time walking around the cemetery yesterday, which is something I really had not done yet.  Some people have actual little gardens with their stones, complete with garden fencing and all kinds of knick knacks – even bushes and trees they’ve planted.  I know some cemeteries are quite picky about what one is allowed to use for decorations.  I guess one of the perks of living in a small town is that nobody really cares what you do.  One young man who died had his daughter’s baby shoe sitting on the edge of his stone (along with a beer can – actually, several stones featured beer cans as part of their decorations! L  )  I think I am going to bring up one of Paul’s tractors.  Even if the worst happened and it got stolen, he’s got plenty more!

 

Of course, some graves have no decorations.  But I don’t know that that is a bad thing.  Perhaps it just means that everyone who used to miss them is now dead themselves.  That’s ok, too.  Immortality is overrated.

 

 

Sam used the word “huge-normous” this week in talking about something.  Cute!

 

This morning he and his brothers went to the men’s breakfast at church.  Sam was surprised when he found out he was going to this.  He said, “Oh, I thought you had to have a dad to go!”  …sniff…

 

I finished up my thank you notes this last week.  It only took 4 months!  Now I’m good until somebody else does something nice for us!

 

Today Will and I were talking about the bathroom/bedroom project which will commence sometime after the first of the year, probably.  He was more understanding of Paul’s plans for this than I was.  I didn’t realize Paul had planned for our room to be so big or so nice.  I will be happy to have this haven – a place of quiet away from the kids.  But it makes me sad, too.  Paul and I would have enjoyed that room so much!  Our last house had a nice, long bedroom that I know Paul really liked.  In fact, the very first project on that house was redesigning that room a bit.  He was going to do something even grander for this bedroom.  We’ve been sleeping for 9 yrs in a teeny bedroom that’s really too little for a queen bed – and two dressers -  so the change would have been really welcomed by both of us.  I’ll have it now – sooner than I would have on Paul’s schedule -  and I’ll appreciate it, but it just won’t be with quite the level of pleasure I would have had.  Sigh…

 

But the men are planning to start ripping up my upstairs in about a month.  They’re going to knock out the dividing wall between the living room and back room and take down that awful panel board that is still on two walls in the living room.  They’re going to re-do the floor in the back room.  I may have it all done by Christmas, which would be wonderful!  Maybe I need to start looking at carpet samples now!

 

Last night I took the kids to a football game, my first of the season.  Actually, it will be the only one of the season.  Before it started, Ellie suddenly pointed and cried out, “Daddy! Daddy!”  I looked and she was pointing at a middle-aged bearded and bald guy with a stomach pouch.  No wonder she thought it was her dad!  That caused a pang, let me tell you!  I wished so much in that moment that that was Paul.  So often he would meet me at the games, anyway, with his work schedule.  It would have been wonderful if that’s what he was doing last night.

 

During the game I found myself still watching for #7 on the field.  No matter that my #7 was sitting on the bleacher in front of me, holding his squirmy sister!  All those years of watching Will play have firmly etched my brain.  Since I never did learn how football is actually played, I was content to watch only Will.  It was Senior Night, when the senior players are introduced and walk across the field with their parents.  I was immediately transported to a year ago.  A year ago, though, it wasn’t 65 degrees like it was last night.  It was cold!  Paul and I were bundled up in our long johns and winter coats and hats and gloves – and still froze!

 

But life was good then.  A year later, I’m trying to find a new “good.”  Not quite there yet…

 

I think I’ve figured out plans for my anniversary in 4 months.  I know, I know, I know that I do not want to be home that day, moping around and remembering what the day should have been.  We’re going to go to Minneapolis.  That’s where Paul and I honeymooned.  I’m not sure if that part will be good or not.  But, there is now a huge waterpark attached to or at least, right by, Mall of America.  Will went to it a couple of years ago with the youth group and loved it.  I’ve been checking it out on the internet and it is definitely do-able.  I think we’ll go up for 3 days – spend one day at the water park and the others will be spent driving and going to the mall and IKEA and others things we might find.  It gives me something to look forward to.

 

Since we’re going to do this and I’m also planning a summer vacation next year, we’re not going to go out of town for Paul’s birthday like I had originally planned.  We’ll do something special that day – a family-type day probably involving fried chicken (Paul’s favorite), though.

 

Of course, all this will be weather-dependent.  Winter-time can get dicey when it comes to travel.  I have some scary moments of our anniversary trip last year that attests to that!  Planning this gives the kids and I something to look forward to, though.  And right now, having something to anticipate is a really, really good thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

With This Ring

Oct. 10, 2013

 

Dear Paul,

 

This is the first letter I’ve written to you since you died.  I bet that sounds funny to you – “you died.”  I have a feeling you’d be quick to correct me, assuring me that you have never been more alive…But anyway, remember all those letters we wrote when we were dating?  I cleaned out the shed this summer and ran across them.  I’m saving them, of course.  One of these days they will make it into the house and I’ll put them in the hope chest.  We wrote hundreds and hundreds of letters in those 2 ½ years we were apart.  I remember stalking the mailman nearly every day, waiting and hoping that I’d receive another letter from you!  Once we married, though, I quit writing to you.  But you still wrote to me from time to time.  I’ve saved those letters, too.  It was rare that you even gave me a card without a letter enclosed.  I was doing good to sign my name on yours!  And you wrote me poems and funny  limericks, too.  And people thought I was the writer – if only they knew!

 

But I’m writing to you today because I want to tell you something important.  I took off my wedding rings today. 

 

Those rings were so significant.  I remember the first ring you gave me – my promise ring, after we’d been dating 8 months (do young men give promise rings anymore or was that just a fad twenty-some years ago?  I really don’t know.)  After you gave that ring to me we had our first serious conversation about where our relationship was going.  We were pretty sure it was headed straight to the altar.  It was!  And then you gave me my engagement ring on a steamy August night in 1992.  That was followed by my wedding band the following February.  When we had been married for 10 years you caught my loud hint that an anniversary band would be a very nice addition to my wedding set.  I remember we stopped by the jewelry store on our way out of town for our anniversary trip and placed the order.  I was so happy!  All 3 rings were soldered together and I’ve always loved the look of them on my hand.  For twenty years I’ve admired the way the gold glints on the wide bands.  In fact, I toyed with the idea of making the set even wider, thinking that perhaps you should buy me an anniversary band every time we hit another decade mark.  But since we planned to be married for a good 70 years or so, it occurred to me that it wouldn’t be long before my wedding set would cover my knuckle if we did that!  So I think your gift of the grandmother clock last year was definitely a better choice than another ring.  But I was planning to hit you up for a bigger diamond for number 25!

Instead, I will have no ring on that hand on what would have been our 25^th anniversary – or our 21^st next February.

 

Incidentally, you don’t either.  I had the funeral director remove both your wedding ring and watch before the casket was closed.  Those two items were so much a part of you that it almost seemed like they should be buried with you.  But that would have been pointless.  I’d rather have those items to feel closer to you.  Indeed, sometimes I wear your ring on a chain around my neck.

 

I ordered a mother’s ring and a memorial ring in your honor.  I’m going to wear those instead.  You know I always wanted a mother’s ring.  But since we were never quite sure our family was complete yet it seemed silly to spend money on something that might have to be re-done later.  Our family is definitely complete now.  We had that conversation last January, didn’t we?  I asked if you were completely content with just (“just” – as though that isn’t a house full in and of itself!) our six.  You said you were good with it if I was good with it.  I was.  I just wanted to make absolutely sure that we weren’t saying no to another blessing God would want to give us.  But you reminded me of that early conversation we had had when you gave me my promise ring.

 

I had told you at some point that someday I thought I would like to have seven kids (not necessarily with you, though, I pointed out, keeping it cool – just with whomever I ended up marrying.  To be perfectly honest, though, I knew I wanted you to be the father of those seven kids from the time we’d been dating less than a month!).  So you’d given me that ring and the next day you and I sat across from each other in Perkins talking about “someday.”  I was eating a BLT, minus the T. You said, “I like your number.”  My what?  You reminded me that I had said I wanted seven kids someday.  Oh – that number!  And it was decided.  We would have seven children.

 

The realities of parenthood and the difficulty I had delivering our babies made us re-think that number different times.  For a long time it looked like our number would end up being just three.  It could have been just one if Ben had not survived his 2% survival chances and I’d had to have a hysterectomy.  That’s a reminisce for another day, though.  But then we had Sam and the doctors told us “absolutely, positively no more!”  So we made sure of it.  But then, of course, God stirred us both and we pursued adopting the girls, which is also another reminisce for a different day.  Last January when I asked you about our family size you reminded me of our original plan to have seven.  We lost our little one in 2001 and if we count him (I always have) that gives us seven.  We did exactly what we had planned.

 

So I ordered this ring with the birthstones of all six.  I think it’s beautiful.  I somehow wanted to work your stone into the mix as well but discovered it can be frightfully expensive to have rings custom made.   So I had this tiny little ring made instead.  It has your pretty birth stone on it and there’s your name on the left, with Psalm 34:18 on the right. I think it’s pretty neat that the first two letters of Psalms are P and S and with this engraving they actually look larger, too.  “PS” was always our thing – our initials and the way we always ended our letters to each other when dating (“PS – I love you!”)  Throughout the years of marriage if we just scribbled a P and an S on a piece of paper and gave it to the other, we knew what was being said.  Now it’s on my ring.    I discovered that verse in a passage in Psalms after our miscarriage when I was so broken hearted.  It was one of the first verses I thought of the morning after you died.  I like the idea of your ring being at the bottom.  It symbolizes that you were the foundation of our family and that your life and your example is still a support to all these children. The birthstone ring is engraved with the phrase, “Children are a gift from the Lord.”  That was something we always believed, even when our gifts were driving us a little nuts.

 

I’m thankful to have these new rings.  I didn’t want to have a bare hand to look at after removing my rings, but I didn’t want to just wear any old ring, either.  It needed to be something of significance, just like my wedding set always was.

 

With this ring, I thee wed…we said those traditional words nearly 21 years ago to each other.  They were a pledge, a promise, and the rings symbolized that to the world.  We kept that promise, didn’t we?  “Til death we do part…” Death came last June and now we are parted, much, much too soon. 

 

Today’s actions could be viewed as symbolic.  I don’t know that I necessarily feel like I am “moving on”, though.   The grief over your death is still pretty fresh and raw.  There are very few moments that pass that I don’t think about you in one way or another.  But, yet – it is time.  As much as I wish we were still married, we aren’t.  Death severed that connection, but not the bond. 

 

So today I am putting my wedding ring away.  I will get it out from time to time, I’m sure. I may even slip it back on my hand for the briefest of moments.  But it no longer means what it used to.  It is time for me to face the world as a single woman – a widow.

 

You know that I would have worn that ring forever.  Eventually, my skin would have wrinkled and sagged under it but I would have kept it on for all it meant.  You had my heart.  You still do. 

 

Even without your ring.

 

All my love,

 

Sarah

 

PS: I’ve really enjoyed writing to you.  I should have done it more often when you were alive.

 

PPS: PS!  Y

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 126

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

October 9, 2013

Day 126

Tonight at church someone asked me how I am doing.  Normally I respond to that question with a quick, “fine” or, “I’m getting along.”  Tonight I just looked at this person for the longest time and finally just shook my head, unable to articulate an answer. I nearly started crying at the compassion and hurt I saw in her face for me.   I feel like I am lying every time I tell a store clerk “good” when they politely ask me the same question.  But I am quite sure they don’t want to hear, “My husband died 4 months ago, I’m 42 and wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life alone, I have six children, half of whom are quite unruly, my house is torn up, my kids are threatening to leave home if I serve them one more frozen pizza, and my cat keeps missing the litter box!”  It’s just easier to say, “I’m good” than all that.  If I feel guilty about being less than truthful with an anonymous store clerk then I’m going to feel horrible if I present myself untruthfully to someone I care about when asked the same thing.

I’m not good.  I am struggling.  I hurt.  I am mourning.

I probably should not write these things at night.  Things do seem a little bit better by daylight, but not by much.  By daylight I just keep moving, doing what needs to be done next.  There’s no shortage of those things, that’s for sure!   On that note -  single parenting is hard work.  I never knew what a burden those moms carry until I became one myself.  Perhaps it does gets easier, though, when one is not wearing the heavy mantle of grief on top of performing all parenting duties alone.

I am at about my wit’s end with Sam and Lizzie.  Today, we had to go pick out new frames for Sam because yesterday he and Lizzie were horsing around (fighting?  I’m not sure what really happened since everyone has a different story) and the bow on his glasses snapped as they were hurled across the living room.  I do not recall it being this difficult when Will, Ben, and David were small.  I’m reluctant to start spanking because I never really know who is at fault.  Most altercations seem to be the result of one or the other provoking the other.  And of course, each of them is always perfectly innocent and the wounded party.  I need wisdom.

I’ve had a big decision I’ve been wrestling with for several weeks, too.  I won’t get into all the details mainly because they’re tedious and don’t really matter.  The short story is that a friend of Paul’s wanted to take our family on a fantastic trip as a way to do something nice for us and to be an encouragement.  I couldn’t find a logical reason to tell him no so I told him yes.  But then I couldn’t shake this nasty feeling in my gut every time I thought about it.  I prayed and prayed about it, but just didn’t feel like I had a clear answer one way or the other.  I reasoned (and Will reasoned with me, too, because he really wanted to go!) that that feeling was a combination of fear and grief.  Quite honestly, I don’t feel like going anywhere these days.  I didn’t even want to go to Family Camp back in August – but I’m glad I did. So who is to say this trip would have been any different?  I had finally decided I would seek some pastoral counsel on this after our pastor gets back from vacation.  But then last night I finally decided, “enough!”  When Paul died one of my first prayers – and I have continued to beg God for this – is wisdom in all areas.  If I had such a crummy feeling about this trip, then maybe there was a reason beyond what I could logically assess.  To my surprise and gratefulness, Will was very supportive of my decision to turn down the trip.  He is truly a man already.  I was nervous about calling this friend of Paul’s.  He’d put such thought and effort into thinking out this trip.  But he was extraordinarily gracious with me and said he absolutely did not want to do this if I had any reservations at all.  He said he didn’t want to do anything that would cause me stress and seeks only to be a friend to us.  That was a relief to hear!

Of course, now I’m kind of beating myself up.  Did I just screw up a chance for my kids to experience a once-in-a-lifetime trip?  I wish I had confidence in my decisions.  I still don’t know if I listened to fear or to wisdom.  Perhaps the confidence will come in time.  Paul was always so decisive about things (it took him forever to make a decision but once he did, he rarely doubted himself) and that took a lot of the burden off me.  I let him decide most things, which is probably a good way for marriage to work – talking things over, weighing each opinion if they differ, but leaving it to the husband to ultimately make the decision.  This is new territory for me.

I finally had a repairman come out and look at my clock last week.  This is the clock Paul surprised me with on our last anniversary.  It’s a grandmother clock.  Ben broke it a few weeks later when he was in agony with the chicken pox and couldn’t sleep well.  The donging of the clock drove him insane and he grabbed the pendulums and snapped them right off.  Thank you, Ben!  Thank you, Autism…  Paul attempted to fix it but just couldn’t.  That was unusual – he could always fix anything!  So it has sat quiet for seven months.  Shortly after Paul’s death a man in our church asked if there was absolutely anything he could do for us.  He couldn’t do any of the work on the house, but wanted to be used in some way.  I finally thought of the clock and asked him if he had any experience.  He didn’t, but did some research and within a week or so brought me the name of a clock company in Des Moines that does house calls.  I finally called them a few weeks ago and they came out last week.  Since the clock is second-hand, the repair guy did not know if he could even get parts for it.  That made me a little anxious.  I really, really want that clock running again because of its significance.  Well, he called me Tuesday and told me that he can get the parts.  It’s going to cost me, but the cost will be less than half of what I was mentally allotting for this, so I think it’s ok.  I have a feeling Paul might disagree, but this clock is important to me right now. 

Yesterday Ben commented to me about how he finds highway sounds, “soothing.”  He talked about how it’s the nicest, most comforting sound.  I immediately knew what he was talking about.  When I think of highways I think of my grandparents’ home east of Waterloo.  It was a secluded acreage off one highway and near another.  I loved the “shroom” sound of diesel engines coming around the bend.  It was both eerie and comforting at the same time.  I also have memories of riding in the back seat of our family car, coming home from our annual trip to the Wisconsin apple orchards.  I’d be half asleep and my parents might be talking quietly up front or perhaps the Hawkeye post-game show with Jim Zabel would be airing.  The cluck-cluck-cluck sound of tires going over the highway would slowly lull me to sleep. I shared these memories with Ben as we drove along yesterday.

And then I marveled that Ben and I were even having this conversation.  He wasn’t even supposed to live after his birth but here we were, having a normal, adult conversation.  I can remember when he was a preschooler with severe developmental delays, including his speech.  When I asked him a question, all I would get was a “yes” or “no” from him.  He could not talk to me other than that.  I despaired, wondering if this would be the sum of conversation between us his entire life. And then later we realized that autism had taken him even farther away from us and even when he was capable of more speech, he remained locked inside his little mind.  But look at him now!  He’s nearly 17 and he can tell me how he feels and how certain sounds evoke special feelings in his mind.  I used to wonder if he even had any feelings at all!

Do you suppose that someday I will look back on this dark time of grief and marvel how far I have come, just like I do now with Ben?  I have a hard time imagining that, but I could never have imagined Ben talking to me about highway sounds, either.  A handful of hope…

We are being given a tremendous food gift.  A friend called us last night.  She and her husband just butchered a steer and want to give us ¼ of it – about 250 pounds of meat!  She instructed me to call the locker today and tell them how to prepare it.  I did and it will be ready in about two weeks.  I had already been toying with the idea of buying another chest freezer because I just ordered a large amount of chicken breasts and bacon from Zaycon foods.  It’s my first time ordering from them, but I’ve been hearing about them from my friends, so when I received notification that they were coming to Des Moines and I could save all this money by buying in bulk, I ordered a minimal amount (a minimal amount of bacon is 36 pounds (or is it 16? - guess I'll be surprised when I pick it up in a few weeks!) – can’t remember how much chicken I am getting, either) just to try it.  So, today Will and I went freezer shopping.  He assures me that he will be killing lots of deer this December, too, so we’d definitely have need of more freezer space.   I had hoped to find one on Craig’s List, but didn’t.  But Sears was having a sale and Kenmore is a good name and it will pay for itself in the long run,  so…Every morning I watch the Today show while waiting for the school bus with Ben.  They tell me that the economy is about to collapse, interest rates will skyrocket, and milk will soon cost $8 a gallon (all the fault of the Republicans, of course!).  Even if that happens, I don’t think we’re going to starve for while yet.

As a mother, I don’t think there could be a worse feeling than watching your own child starve to death.  We’ve all seen the pictures of dark African women with their hopeless eyes, holding their children, pencil thin and with bloated bellies.  They cannot do a thing for their babies except hold them until they die.  During WWII many English children starved to death.  It’s not something limited to third world countries.  I am thankful that for now, though, I have enough – more than enough.

 

God has not forgotten us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 123

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

October 6, 2013

Day 123

October 6^th…four months ago today.  One third of a year – which is a lot.  Eating one third of a pie might give you a stomach ache.  Giving away one third of your income might make you poor.  Losing one third of your teeth would make it hard to eat.  And being widowed for one third of a year makes you so, so sad…

It has been harder the past few days – week or so, I guess.  Lots of tears…I am reading one of my free kindle books called, “When God Breaks Your Heart.”  I’m not sure who the author is – nobody I’ve ever heard of.  It’s an in-depth study of the story of Lazarus’ death and resurrection.  I am really appreciating it right now.  So far, nothing is setting off alarm bells in my mind.  You have to be careful when reading books about the Bible when you don’t know the author or what kind of church background they have.  But so far, everything seems to ring with some authenticity and I’m appreciating his thoughts on suffering.

I drove out to Council Bluffs yesterday – first time since Paul’s death.  I met up with Kathy and we went to a craft fair.  We’ve done this hundreds of times in the years since we were both married.  She lives on that side of the state and it’s always been important to us to carve out time for our friendship.  She came out here in August, but we both wanted to attend the craft fair and I wanted to re-establish normalcy.  It was a wonderful day, even though I cried for half the trip out there.  I wanted things to be normal, but, of course, they’re not.  As we were saying good-bye, Kathy was fighting tears – for my sake.  Driving home I was reminded of all my other trips like this and how Paul and the kids would be waiting for me at home, happy to see me after my day “off.”  But this time and for every other time for the rest of my life, he wouldn’t be there.  I’m still glad I went, but it’s just one more thing that has changed.

I wonder if Paul is decomposing yet?  That’s a thought that went through my mind recently.  It’s a morbid and ghoulish thought, I know, but that’s the way my mind works.  I’m curious.  I don’t know anything about the embalming process, to know how long it takes for the chemicals to break down.  I wonder how air-tight those coffins and vaults really are.  Sooner or later, all the inhabitants have to end up as skeletons, I would think.  But I don’t know how long.  There are times when I visit Paul’s grave still, that I am seized with the intense desire to dig through the dirt down to him, just to see him once more.  Last night as I drove home and passed the cemetery I thought to myself, “Oh, it’s getting so cold – I hope he’s ok!”  I know he’s perfectly fine in a Heaven that is always temperature controlled.  But I spent all our married life making sure he was covered up enough and old habits are hard to overcome, I guess (I was going to say “die hard” but that didn’t seem quite right!).

Well, I am debt-free now, something Paul and I never managed to achieve in our marriage.  We were getting closer, though.  We had a Dave Ramsey debt snowball going but it was going slow.  And now – I owe nobody anything.  I overnighted a final check to the mortgage company a week and a half ago.  I still haven’t heard confirmation from them that they received it, but I assume all is well.  There’s no feeling of celebration in my heart, though.  Paul and I had talked about how someday when we did achieve debt-free status, we’d drive to Tennessee and do the “debt-free scream” in the lobby of the Financial Peace Headquarters.  Well, mine would have probably been more a debt-free “yay” because I’m not a screamer.  But it would have been an accomplishment.  This is not an accomplishment, although it is a relief.

Tomorrow I am taking Ben and David to Jefferson to visit with the chiropractor out there who has done so much for all our allergies.  Will will have the Littles.  I sure hope they are ok when I get home.  I am getting ready to have Lizzie’s birthday picture done soon.  Yesterday I found the most adorable hand-sewn outfit for her at the craft fair.  I bought her matching hair bows and found some brown loafers to go with it.  All I needed was to find a clear spot on my calendar to take her in.  And then tonight she and Sam got into it and Sam scratched her face and drew blood.  I could have throttled him – not so much for injuring his sister, but because now I have to wait for her face to heal to take her in for pictures!

I suppose I should be mad at Sam for attacking his sister, too.  He’s been doing that quite a bit lately.  A friend of mine who has 6 girls told me that that kind of attack is generally reserved for those of the female persuasion.  But he and Lizzie seem to get quite physical with each other, quite often.  She punches and he scratches.  I’ve talked to him about how it’s the male’s job to protect females and he seems to understand that, but it isn’t stopping him from clawing up his sister when provoked, either.  Sigh…I did catch him washing the girls’ My Little Ponies in the bathroom sink the other day and combing their manes,too.  Maybe he needs to spend more time with his brothers…learn to shoot or go to a monster truck jam or something…

This is a huge area of inadequacy for me.  I just feel so ill-equipped to raise these little ones.  I had Paul when the other boys were small.  That wasn’t always easy, either, but Will was always compliant and helpful.  Ben was a handful, always intent on harming himself, but Paul did a pretty good job of remaining one step ahead of him.  And David was never any trouble – he just whined a lot.  But these three – I suspect that they would all fall somewhere into the “strong-willed child” category!

Well, time to end my day, I think.  I need to get Sam to bed, clean up the house, and get ready to leave in the morning.

Missing Paul tonight…miss him every night, but especially tonight…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 120

DIARY OF AN UNWILLING WIDOW

October 3, 2013

Day 120

My most favorite month of the year has begun…ahhh.  And it’s actually supposed to cool down this weekend, which excites me even further.  But, my joy in autumn is tempered this year, of course, as it is in everything.

It occurred to me today that my body is in mourning.  It’s not just my heart.  Every single cell of my body knows that Paul is gone and is keening the loss.  I’ve heard about some tribes where the wives of dead men will climb to the type of a funeral pyre (not even sure what a “pyre” is really) and just sit there and wail.  I get that.  I’m quiet on the outside, but I am screaming on the inside right now.  I want Paul.  With every fiber of my being, I miss him.  I am lonely.  I need his help in making decisions.  I need his companionship.

I did actually dream about Paul again the night before last.  We were having this glorious reunion.  In the dream, he wasn’t there and suddenly he was and it just seemed so natural.  I didn’t question his appearance.  I remember that I had so much to tell him that my tongue was having a hard time keeping up with my thoughts.  It was so exciting to have him back!

This time when I awoke, though, I didn’t feel sad, like I have with other dreams.  I went and took a shower in the dark like I do every morning.  The spray of water and having to stand upright are a gentle way to wake up.  The dream was still very much on my mind and I felt God whisper to me, “You thought your dream was great?  Just wait until the two of you are reunited in Heaven someday!”  The thought made me smile. 

When Paul died hundreds of Facebook messages poured in.  I did read them at the time and was grateful for each one.  But there was so much commotion coming at me in those early days that a lot of the expressions of comfort really just kind of went over my head.  I was locked in such a cocoon of grief and sorrow that it was hard for a lot of things to even penetrate.  But I hung onto those messages.  I started re-reading some of them today.  I had avoided doing so all summer long thinking that I would be dragged back to the pain of those early days.  Instead, I found myself really comforted as I re-read them today.  I am anxious now to finish them.  I am also wanting to go through all the sympathy cards again at some point.  I have a jumbo ziplock bag in my hope chest just full of them.

The other night Sam decided he wanted to play with the modeling clay and went and retrieved it out of the craft drawers in the basement.  He called to me, “Hey, Mom!”  I looked and he held out a race car made out of the blue clay.  He said, “I forgot that Dad made this for me.”  Paul had done such a good job, too.  I asked Sam if he’d like to save that car and he said he would.  So once we get the boys’ room situated I told him we could put his dad’s car on his bookshelf so he could have it forever.  Hopefully, modeling clay will dry out in the air without falling apart.  I’m not really sure how that stuff works.

In my last post, I wrote about the novel I had recently read about a young, western widow.  A friend pointed out to me since then that nearly all books written about a widowed heroine end up with her getting remarried.  Wow.  I had never thought about that before.  But as I mentally rifled through my files of books I’ve read, I think she’s right.  Now, the older widows – not so much.  There’s often a grandmotherly type of widow who dispenses great wisdom to the younger women in the story and the reader doesn’t expect new love for that character.  But the younger ones do seem to remarry.  Why is that?  Statistically, I don’t know what percentage of widows remarry.  I know I’ve read that most who do  will do so within 5 years of their first husband’s death.  I can see that it would make a great story.  Readers want happy endings.  They want to see their heroine overcome loss and sadness and learn to love again.  They want to see her rewarded by God for her faithfulness.

But what if a widow remains single until she dies?  Does that mean her spiritual life has faltered?  Is God withholding something good?  Is the ultimate source of happiness in life bound up in marriage alone?  Those are just some thoughts I’ve had running through my mind the last couple of days.  I don’t have any definite answers, other than to think, “I should write a story about that!”  Maybe someday.  Right now my creative juices are stewing on a back burner.  But it seems to me a good story might involve that of a younger widow who does not find love again for a very, very long time (maybe never) and instead learns contentment and grace being in the state that God has allowed to her to be. 

It’s where I am now.  I’m working on the contentment part.  I wouldn’t say I’m there yet.  I very much want to be married right now, although only to Paul.  Remarriage is not a part of my thought processes at all.  That may come in time (being willing to consider it and maybe even actually doing it someday…a long, long time from now…).  But in the meantime, there is work to be done.  There is a lot of growing in grace to happen and learning to lean on my heavenly Husband.  Since Paul and I started dating shortly after we both turned 19, I have never really been independent in my life.  I’ve always had someone to take care of me.  I have a distinct feeling that this time is designed to teach me some of those skills – well, interdependence, anyway.  I’m not so sure complete independence is necessarily a desirable thing!  And it’s about trust.  I’m having to trust the Lord like I’ve never had to before.  I am pretty sure He has some more lessons on that He wants me to learn, too.

Two years ago tonight Paul and I drove up to DMAAC for our first PS-MAPP class.  We were so excited – on our way to becoming adoptive parents!  Paul took a picture of me outside the building before going in, I remember.  I’m going to put it in the girls’ adoption scrapbook.  Today I received a letter from the Dept. of Human Services letting me know that they are officially closing my license.  A little bit of irony, date-wise, I think.  But I have to smile, too.  God was moving us along, play by play, to accomplish exactly what He wanted.  He knew of two little girls that would soon need a home and He chose us for them.  Two years to the day later they are Heywoods, firmly my daughters, and perfectly ensconced in our family.

God is good.