Month: September 2015

Focusing on what you have…

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 3 Comments

“He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has.” Epictetus

My 13 year old, who lives-breathes-dreams-sleeps basketball (baseball is a close second), is out front, practicing his shots and moves.

After a 3 month ordeal in getting a replacement backboard for our basketball goal (that saga is best saved for another posting), AJ is back in business.  He’s making up for lost time before basketball tryouts at his middle school.

On this occasion, one of the cooler days of late summer, I put aside my “to do” list.  Instead, I pull up a lawn chair in the shade and watch.

Tall I am, but not blessed with the natural athletic abilities he has–I’ve found it much better to sit on the sidelines and cheer him on.

His lanky, increasingly-muscular frame moves gracefully as he dribbles and shoots.  “Nothing but net” from practically every spot he shoots.  Lay ups, hook shots, free throws, 3-pointers—the boy’s got game.  And that’s just not the opinion of a loving mother; I grew up in a family where two uncles played Division 1 college ball (both on full scholarships).  I know game when I see it.

A smile sneaks across my face as I watch him do his thing.

And then I glance at my watch.

It’s 5:17 p.m.

The smile remains, but the tears come.

My son is playing basketball in our front driveway alone.

If his dad were still alive, this would be the exact time his Toyota truck would be turning onto our cul-de-sac.  The boys and I joke we recognized his motor sound.  And instead of slowing down as he turned onto the street, he would punch the accelerator, getting that little silver truck into the garage as soon as possible so he could spend time with his two treasures, Andrew and Ben.

I’m sure I was a close second on his list, but they were more fun to play with.

He should be here.

He should be exiting his vehicle, grabbing the ball from his older son, and taking it to the hoop.

He should be giving him advice on blocking, shot technique, and zone defense.

It’s not fair.

This boy–who picked up a ball before he could crawl, whose first word after “dada” was “ball,”  who got his first t-ball set up at age 1 1/2, his first basketball goal at age 2–needs his father.  So does his younger brother, blessed with a set of talents very different but still amazing.

They don’t get him.

And as AJ continues the dribble, bob and weave, shoot routine, my tears continue to flow.  He glances my direction and immediately comes to my side, asking what’s wrong.

Over the past 4 years our tears have come easily.  We all 3 cry.  Tears, for us, are healing.  For awhile in public I tried to hide them, or explain them away when folks would notice.

No more.

We cry.  We laugh.  We sometimes do it simultaneously.

aj collage for blog

After he finishes up, I search for the photos seen on the left side of this collage.  Mark helping AJ make his first basket on a regulation-sized goal.  He was 20 months old.  On the right, AJ as a 13 year old player.

He may look like he’s alone in these, but both he and I know better.

His dad, although not here in the physical sense, is right alongside him.  He’s whispering advice, giving encouragement, and busting with pride as his mini-me conquers the court and his opponents.

We are called to rejoice for what we have instead of grieving the things we have not.

Life’s not fair.  It’s a gigantic bitter pill our sons had to swallow at ages 8 & 9.

Grief has made them stronger, more resilient, more empathetic, and better people, in spite of their loss—one they will never recover from.  It’s an integral part of their souls.  It’s a big part of who they are, who they will be as adults.

I tell AJ I’d give a million dollars to have his daddy drive up in his truck and join in on the fun.  I don’t have that kind of money, and even if I did, it wouldn’t bring him back.

Instead we have to rejoice for the time we had him.

Moving forward doesn’t mean moving on.  It means living life to the fullest each day, despite great loss.

We’re getting pretty damn good at it.

Let us be transparent

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 1 Comment

My paternal grandmother died of an aggressive form of colon cancer when I was just 10 years old.

It was the early 1970s, well before the advent of modern chemotherapy, radiation, and experimental treatments.  Surgery was, at best, the only viable option.

I don’t remember specifics, but I do remember that she kept her symptoms from her grown children for months before her diagnosis.  You see, she didn’t want to worry or inconvenience anyone.

Her surgery was deemed “successful.”  Her oncologist assured our family that he’d gotten it all.  “She’ll die from something else like old age, but not this cancer.”

(insert famous last words here)

Within a couple of months, the cancer was back, with a vengeance.  Short of a miracle, her frail body would succumb to this awful disease.

Someone in the family, one of her children, decided that we would not discuss her terminal situation in her presence.

So we didn’t.

We didn’t get the opportunity to tell her goodbye.

Instead, we washed our faces clean of the tears, plastered on fake smiles, and talked optimistically about life.  Her future.  Her getting better.

At the time, I didn’t understand why we were lying to her.

She knew how sick she was.  She was no dummy.

She was a strong Christian, a Pentecostal lady who spent Sundays shouting and praising her Lord, even while standing in the kitchen, preparing lunch for a dozen people.

She knew.

And now, 40 years after the fact, I look back and realize what a mistake that was.

We didn’t tell her what she meant to us.  We didn’t get to say goodbye properly.  We danced around the elephant in the room, day after day, night after night.

It was a long, arduous, painful process, her death.  She knew how much she was loved.  I just wish I could’ve told her one more time.

Here in the 21st century, folks still generally deal with death like an awkward teenager’s first attempt at driving a car.

We don’t know what the heck we’re doing.

Let’s don’t talk about it and maybe it will go away.

It’s like sitting in the driver’s seat of a car for the first time.  You see the steering wheel, the gear shift, and the pedals in the floorboard.  You know the goal (driving said car), but putting all of the working parts together takes time and practice.

That’s your soul journey in a nutshell.  Your soul sits in the driver’s seat of your life.  You see all the gadgets and pedals and gears, but putting it all together?  Takes a lifetime to get it right.

And the best way to live your journey is to be transparent.

My grandmother should have been told, “You are going to die from this awful, terrible disease. We’re going to spend whatever time you have left telling you how much you are loved.  How much you mean to us.  We want you to tell us stories, give us some pearls of wisdom to get us through the difficult days ahead.  Let your faith be our guide.”

She died in 1973.  I miss her every day.  She was one of the biggest Christian influences in my life.

Honesty.  Transparency.  Facing the tough diagnoses.  Choosing to live well in spite of the bad.

It’s what quenches souls.

It’s what connects you to others.

It’s what sustains you while in this imperfect dance called life.

That, my friends, is where God is glorified.

While my soul’s sitting in the driver’s seat of this temporal life, I’m going to tell it like it is for anyone that cares to listen.  I’m teaching my sons the same.

Transparency sometimes comes after hitting rock bottom.  It’s a freeing moment when there are no more secrets.

Transparency allows those who practice it the ability to live without regrets or hidden agendas.

If nothing else it certainly makes for an interesting dress rehearsal 🙂

“Happily ever after??”

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 1 Comment

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The reality is you have no idea where your life will take you tomorrow. You are like a mist that appears one moment and then vanishes another.

James 4:14 (VOICE)

“And they lived happily ever after… The End.”

How many times have you seen the above words, either at the close of a fairy tale or the end of a movie?

How many times have you, as a parent, read a story to your children that concluded in this manner?

Attention, people of Earth:  There is no such thing as “happily ever after” this side of Heaven.

It’s a crock, a pie-in-the-sky term which plays to our romantic side and wistful daydreaming.

No one, no matter how lovely the life or the relationship or the family, lives happily ever after.  “Happily ever after” gives a false sense of security, a technicolor existence that can never live up to those three words.

“Ever afters” eventually come to an end.

And endings are not pretty, at least the ones I’ve experienced in my life.

Endings are messy.  The majority are not wanted by at least one of the parties involved.

Endings may evoke sadness, helplessness, hopelessness, and anger.  They may cause great pain.  Lives are forever changed by endings.

Death is the ending feared most by the human race.  But let’s face it by taking the bull by the horns.   We’re going to die some day.  As James so eloquently puts it, we’re like a mist, a vapor–here today, gone tomorrow.

Endings are inevitable.  We cannot get around them.

Embrace that reality.  Incorporate it into your daily living.

The sooner that simple fact sinks in to our sometimes-thick skulls, the sooner we can go about the business of living “happily every day.”

Whether you like it or not, at some point in your life (or at many points in your life), an ending you’re not prepared for will occur.

Your “happily ever after” stops.

The best way to deal with the reality of endings is to live fully in the moment.

Every minute of every day, every day of every month, year after year after year–don’t take your happy for granted.

Choose it.  Live it.  Experience it.  Love it.

Instead of happily ever after, live happily every day.

Then when “the end” comes, you can face it with no regrets.