One year ago today, I posted my first blog entry into An Unimagined Journey.  One year, 365 days, over 525,000 minutes.  I cannot believe the time has passed this quickly.  For it seemed while I was in the midst of it, time practically stood still. 

I vividly remember telling my counselor that I just wanted to “get through the grief,” to get it behind me so I would be better.  But I learned the hard way that you have to walk it, feel it, and experience it without hurrying.  Hurrying just puts a band-aid on the hurt and the grief.  You shove it aside so you can deal with day-to-day life…and when it piles up so high that it spills back into your path, it’s not pretty. 

So, to deal with the intense, raw, all-encompassing grief of losing my spouse, I came here.  Here, in this format, I’ve laid it all out on the pages.  The good, the bad, the scary, the sweet, the poignant, and the funny….I have held absolutely nothing back.  Maybe it’s been a case of “TMI” (too much information) at times, and if so, I sincerely apologize.  I just wanted a way to pour out my thoughts and feelings, and this blog has most definitely served that purpose.

The higher purpose for this blog was for documentation of our journey for my sons.  I hope that someday they will read these entries and see where we were, the three of us, after such a devastating blow.  And they will see the hand of God in it all, even whenever we felt we were being swallowed by grief and pain.  God carried us, and He never has let us down. 

This one year mark is big, and we are doing better than I could ever dream we would be at this juncture, considering where we were.  I go back and re-read some of my early entries, and it’s almost an “out of body” experience for me…I remember those times, and I know I wrote those words.  But the majority of the time, I sit and the words pour out of me–and I really don’t remember composing them.  Is that crazy?  Sometimes, I feel the same way about my weekly newspaper columns.  All I can conclude is that God is supplying me with the words, and I am just His conduit.

Looking at the bigger picture, I have come to the realization that there are many women out there in similar circumstances, widowed, either with or without young children.  If my words can help even one person in their “unimagined journey” it will be worth my putting all those emotions and thoughts out there in cyberspace. 

Are we doing well?  Yes. Are we fully healed?  No.  I don’t expect us to ever be.  If I live to be 100 years old, I will miss my husband and love him, each and every day I have on this earth.  My boys will always wonder “what if” daddy had lived as they grow older.  They’ll mature, go to college, hopefully find two wonderful Christian women to marry someday….but they will always miss the great guy that was their earthly dad. 

We know there is a plan for our lives.  We trust that God is in control.  Whenever I see the faith that my 10 and 9 year olds exhibit on a daily basis, it humbles me.  They are well-adjusted.  They are happy.  They still cry on occasion.  They remember their daddy and laugh through the tears.  They know it’s okay to cry and be sad.  They aren’t afraid to show emotion.  Someday the women that fall in love with them will hopefully thank me for helping bring out that sensitive side. 

My outdoor column for the local newspaper today was my one year summary, as well.  Coincidence?  I think not.  I’ve decided there’s no such thing.  There are only “God things.” 

From September 13, 2011 to September 13, 2012—it has been a long journey.  A journey of sadness, healing, and rebirth.  A journey that has awakened my faith, has given me a new sense of what is truly important in life, and has provided me with a platform to help others in similar situations.  I never dreamed I’d be writing an outdoor column or blogging or be part of Proverbs 31 Ministries through A Widow’s Might a year ago.  But God has plans to prosper my family, and we are beginning to see the fruits of that. 

What’s next for the Howell Party of 3?  I have no idea.  I wouldn’t even dare venture a guess.   I hope that it includes plenty of outdoor activities, a chance to continue my writings through a possible book, magazine articles, and/or syndication of my newspaper column.  I know that it will include time spent in prayer and worship, as we try to discern what God wants us to do, where He wants us to be, and how He will direct us to accomplish those tasks. 

We’re open and ready for anything.  The sky’s the limit.  I can never thank my love, Mark H. Howell, for providing for us.  I can stay at home, be a full-time hands on mother, and still have time to pursue my dreams.  He was one in a million, and he was mine. 

So, tomorrow’s another day.  But it marks the beginning of the second year of my journey.  The healing has taken hold, and we are on the mend.  In an earlier entry, I told of a dream I had.  There was a beautifully constructed Lego house, with intricate detail, right down to the windows, doors, and fence around the yard.  When Mark died, I dreamed the Legos were kicked and broken, strewn around the floor…and I was trying to scurry around and put them back into some semblance of what the structure was before he died.  My counselor told me at that time to leave the “Legos” in a pile, and just focus on taking care of my family. 

I followed his advice.  The Legos that were my perfectly-formed life stayed in a messy pile for months.  But bit by bit, little by little, I’ve begun to pick them up.  With God’s help, I’m building another structure–not the same as what it was before, but structurally-sound and quite lovely in its own unique way.  If I can’t have the original structure back the way it was, then this one fits my family just fine.  The pile is getting smaller and smaller each day, as I find new ways to connect them, to weave the pieces into our “new” normal. 

Wow.  I haven’t posted a blog entry in over 2 weeks.  That’s the longest I’ve gone since I began this journey, almost a year ago. 

Many things have been happening in my family’s lives.  The long lazy days of summer, with the three of us being free to sleep in, stay up late, and indulge in just “being” are over.  School’s entering its third week.  Both boys are adjusting well to their teachers, schedules, and the general 5th and 4th grade elementary scenes. 

A.J. has asked to take the fall season off for sports (he usually plays both basketball and baseball).  I personally did a happy dance inside my head, since it really pushes us to do all the practices and games, but I truly do feel that it will be good for him to focus on school without the extra commitment sports take.

Ben has started back at piano lessons, and decided to participate in school orchestra.  A viola rental is in our (his) near future. 

We adopted another cat, Milo, from the local humane society.  Millie, “Queen of Denial,” is having a bit of a time adjusting to this new family member.  Milo is sweet, loving, and docile, so I hope that eventually she will come to love him as the rest of us do.  Maggie, the wonder dog, accepted him almost instantaneously, as evidenced by her staccato bobbed tail wag.

Labor Day weekend was spent in Kansas, at Mark’s mother’s new place in town.  She’s living in a lovely duplex, and the boys and I were quite comfy sleeping there.  But I knew, a scant 5 hours after our arrival, that I didn’t want to be there.  I wanted to be 9 miles outside the city of McPherson, on a little piece of pasture that is almost like heaven to me and the boys.  I wrote of our experience in my outdoors column last week.  If you are interested, here’s the link:

http://www.timesrecordnews.com/news/2012/sep/06/even-if-texas-is-home-kansas-always-has-a-place/

Basically, the boys and I decided that we need some sort of housing on the land in the country.  A close high school friend of Mark’s has graciously agreed to help me look into the particulars. 

We did not visit Mark’s grave at the church cemetery during this latest visit.  It was just too hard in July.  We know that’s not where he is, anyway, and chose to honor him and his wonderful memory by walking his native grass prairie, checking out his pond, and laughing as we shared Daddy stories among the three of us.  In my humble opinion, that’s better than sitting and crying at a grave any day.  And while in that pasture, the tears come, but they are accompanied by smiles and an occasional giggle, just as he would wish.

Also while in Kansas, the boys and I made the choice not to attend Mark’s home church for Sunday services.  That’s yet another “first” I just don’t think I am ready for.  We saw several church members at a Saturday night neighborhood picnic, and told them as much.  Instead, we travelled to a beautiful Lutheran church on the outskirts of McPherson, just at the edge of the country.  Mark’s younger sister, Amy, was playing organ that day. 

I’ve never stepped foot inside a Lutheran church.  It was gorgeous.  We were made to feel so welcome.  There is just something about a small town.  There’s even something more special about a small church, filled with folks from a small town, all gathered together for the purpose of worshipping God. 

Jay, Amy’s husband, gave us the Reader’s Digest version of the order of worship.  There’s alot of recitations and singing.  We also were there for Communion.  Like the United Methodist faith, Lutheran communion is open to any and all believers, regardless of religious affiliation.  That impressed me, and made me feel even more at home.  The one thing Jay didn’t get the chance to tell us was that we would need to ask for juice, since wine is the norm at Lutheran services.  The boys and I (and grandma) were handed a small cup with something red.  We drank it.  It was not juice….

The boys thankfully didn’t choke, and I would’ve asked for seconds if I could have (sorry, that’s a bad joke, one that Mark would’ve made!).  Amy’s music for prelude, offertory, and postlude was so lovely.  She truly made the pipe organ sing.  As I closed my eyes and listened, I imagined that music in heaven must be something like this.  I also felt Mark there in spirit.  He loved piano and organ music.  Know he was proud of his little sister.

Since returning to Texas late on Labor Day (on what would’ve been our 24th wedding anniversary), I hit the ground running and haven’t slowed down for much.  Thankfully my ankle seems to be healing, and rehab is going well.  I am hopeful I can be jogging again in a month or so, but that’s up to the doctor.

I awoke last Friday morning, September 7, differently than I have since July of 2011.  For over a year, I have grieved and cried.  I have wished for things to have turned out differently. 

But little by little, step by step, with the help of my God and my Saviour, a wonderful counselor, and yes, antidepressants, I have begun to heal.  I mention the antidepressants for only one reason:  if they are necessary, you should never feel guilty for utilizing them.  A former acquaintance mocked and ridiculed me publicly on more than one occasion for taking them and going to counseling.  There is no shame in either, friends. 

The only shame is in a person professing to be a Christian and making fun of someone in that circumstance.  My advice (which with a dollar will buy you a cup of coffee)?  Life is too short to have people like that in your life, sucking the good out.   Set them free.  —off my soapbox—

While I’ve been in the thick of the grief, in the heat of so many painful moments this loss has brought us, our progress has been difficult for me to see.  Thank God for hindsight, for it is there I can see how far the boys and I have come. 

I have joy.  An unexplained joy.  On that very morning, with both boys in separate showers, I sink back into bed with my coffee, enjoying the last two minutes of quiet before I’m called to be mom, fashion expert, hairdresser, cook, and chauffeur.  And I hear it.  Sounds I have not heard in well over a year.  BOTH boys are singing.  In the shower.  In separate bathrooms.  Now, I cannot identify the songs, and I don’t particularly care what they are.  The big thing is they are singing.  They, too, are feeling joy.  I cry tears of joy.

Thank you, God, for showing us that there is joy on the other side of grief.  That there is healing in the midst of intense pain.  That good things can come from bad circumstances.  That we can wake up with a joy that just cannot be explained.  That two little boys can come through losing the most important male in their lives and still be happy enough to sing in the shower.

We have so much to be joyful about.  We know love of close friends, of family.  Of a church that has stood by us and has not let us down. 

As I opened my Bible last night, wanting to read more of 1 Peter, the book being preached by Dr. Ron Smith at our church here for our 3-day series of messages, I find scripture that expresses practically verbatim what I am feeling:

I love the devotion book “Jesus Calling,” by Sarah Young.  My sister in Christ–Mark’s ICU nurse who so lovingly cared for him–brought it to me shortly after his death.  I try to read it daily, but admit that sometimes I get a few days behind.  The devotion for August 9th really struck a chord with me.  I’m not sure why, actually.  But here it is, in its entirety:

I’m wearing a boot.  A blasted black walking boot.  Stepping into a hole off my back porch, a week and a half ago, I thought I just had a bad sprain.  After several days of swelling and pain, I gave in and went to the doctor.  A hairline fracture of the fibula, right above my right ankle bone, is the diagnosis.  It doesn’t really hurt, just aches some, but I will be a good girl and a good patient and wear the boot.  Hopefully it will be healed 100% in a few weeks so I can start my running routine again.

I’ve slowed down considerably, even though I have a list of projects to work on.  Friends tell me the ankle is God’s way of saying “slow down!”, and I tend to agree.  Even though physically I’ve slowed, mentally, I’m going 100 miles per hour.  Last night long after boys were asleep, I could just not shut down my brain.  I was awake well past 2 a.m., making “to do ” lists for here and for Kansas. 

We’ve begun the slow detailed process of separating the boys into their own bedrooms.  Since 1992, our spare bedroom closet has housed miscellaneous stuff.  Anything that didn’t really have a home anywhere else found a cozy one in that closet.  Only problem? That closet must be emptied.  I have an eager 10 year old ready to fill it with his clothes, sports equipment, and games. 

I opened that closet door yesterday.  I kid you not, it was piled eye-level high full.  How in the name of heaven can a family acquire so much “stuff”?   I have no linen closet, so sheets have always been stored there.  Mark had a box of nostalgic things to go through (most of which I saved for the boys).  Winter coats?  All stored there (also no hall closet in this house!).  Gift wrapping supplies?  I got lots of ’em.  Christmas dishes?  Yep, they’re there, too.  Air mattresses (deflated), spare blankets, hunting equipment, Hot Wheels tracks, a box of baby clothes, a sack of antique plastic army men, cowboys, indians, and horses, etc. etc. 

As I began to drag things out, the sheer volume of my “stuff” overwhelmed me.  No one should have this much crap to deal with.  I filled three trashbags for Goodwill.  I filled my trash in the garage. 

I look around at what Mark has left behind.  He was very sentimental, and kept many things.  But the Hot Wheels tracks were deemed trash.  The army men, cowboys, and indians made the cut and will be saved.  So will the adorably-small Bullpups Little League cap & matching small ball glove 🙂  I love them. 

I found newspapers for both boys, saved for the dates of their births–Dec 26, 2001 and June 24, 2003–I just wish he could be the one to give the papers to his sons one day.  I know he’d say, “Son, here’s what was happening in the world, and in Wichita Falls, TX, the day you were born.” 

We’ve rearranged furniture.  We’re tackling one room at a time, designating items to one of 5 boxes:  1) put away (for things not where they belong), 2) throw away, 3) donate to Goodwill, 4) keep, and 5) nostalgia (keep because it has some special meaning to a family member).  So far, it’s working well.  The good thing is that I can sort while the stupid black boot is on…sitting on the floor, it doesn’t feel like it weighs 10 lbs 🙂

I feel God, even as I’m sorting through my possessions.  Mark’s possessions, all left behind whenever he went in that great whirlwind up to heaven last year, are many.  But the ones he cherished?  They are sitting on either side of me as we go through these boxes.  His boys…that’s what matters.  That’s what I’ll nurture.  They are what I would give my life for. 

Thank you God for my two important possessions, my gifts of Andrew and Ben.  As long as I have them, along with You, your Holy Spirit, and your Son, I can get by just fine.  Even if I am clunking around with a heavy, ugly boot that scares my cat 🙂

Amen!

“Mom, if you had the opportunity to either be who you are today, or go back and be, say, 25 again, which would you pick?”  Andrew Joseph asks from the front passenger seat of the Toyota truck. 

Wow.  I had to stop and think about that one for a minute.  You see, when I turned 25, I became engaged to the boys’ daddy, and the next 23 years were filled with love, laughter, and all-out fun.  Each and every day.  I miss those days.  The three of us, well, we’re doing okay, and we laugh together quite often…but it’s not the same as living with “Mr. Fun.”

“A.J., that’s a great question.  And even though it would be wonderful to be 25 again, especially if it meant starting over again with your daddy, I have to say that I would rather be who and where I am today.”  Those words came out of my mouth?  Yes, they most certainly did. 

I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s in the world.  And I really don’t want to be 25 again.  Looking back, I was so naive.  I just hadn’t been out in the world.  I led a sheltered, happy life in Western Kentucky.  I’ll never forget the chairman of the Biology dept. chuckling before our wedding, saying, “Nancy, you’re going to discover there’s a whole big world outside of Mayfield, KY.”  Maryland and Texas were the two states that were home to us as a married couple…Maryland for 2 years, Texas for the other 20. 

Plus, if I went back to being 25, I wouldn’t have my Andrew and my Benjamin—the singularly two best things Mark Howell and I ever did.  Their faith, their strength, and their empathy continually amaze me. 

Don’t get me wrong…they are still 9 and 10 year old boys, prone to disgusting sounds and raunchy humor, just as apt to start wrestling each other in the floor as they are to help around the house.  But they are my 9 and 10 year olds 🙂

I took the afternoon to begin going through things piled in our garage.  I brought home several boxes of miscellaneous treasures from the Kansas farm, leaving practically no place for us to walk between vehicles. 

Mark’s mom kept many things.  We have teased her that she may have kept too much at times, but the things I went through this afternoon were truly keepsakes.  She kept every letter Mark wrote them, and after we were married, we would both write.  It is so funny to read about what he was doing, especially as he was getting ready to “pop the big one” (his term for proposing) to me in April of 1986.  There are letters of him waxing poetic about how content and happy he is, as our wedding approaches.  While he was readying for his TPWD interview while we were in Maryland, he agonizes about the long wait, before hearing he did, in fact, secure the job.  He sends a job notice to his parents, circled in red, with “This is the job I got!” at the bottom.  He wrote them frequently from his work computer, and I never read those letters until today.  Thank you, my sweet mother-in-law, for saving these for me and our boys. 

Mark saved every letter I wrote him.  Every card I sent, too.  I love reading my prose, seeing how young and wide-eyed I was about the world in general.  He was my knight in shining armor, and I thought he could do no wrong.

Twenty five years later, looking back, I may have been naive about many things, but I was 100% on target about him.  He was a great guy, and rarely did do wrong.  He helped me become the woman I am today.  With his encouragement, I gained confidence and self-esteem.  He tirelessly worked to provide for our family, spiritually, intellectually, and monetarily. 

I’m beginning to look at things like these letters and photos, with more of a realistic fondness.  There’s rarely the sobbing and heavy weeping that would’ve accompanied an afternoon of sorting like this 6 months ago.  I can smile, shake my head, and give a little chuckle, while at the same time have a couple of tears run down my cheeks.  He was awesome.  He was mine.  But now he is God’s….

I believe that a deep healing has begun in me.  Not only in me, but in my boys.  The trip to Kansas for the one year mark was difficult, but so very necessary.  As much as we love him and we miss him, life is going on.  We wish he were here physically.  But we know he is here spiritually. 

There will always be a part of me that loves him.  Heck, I’ve loved him since I was 22 years old.  But God is helping me move forward, and is opening new doors for us.  There will never be another Mark Howell.  God pretty much broke the mold with him. 

It is my prayer that my family is content with just us three, but if God sees fit to bring someone else to us down the road, we will welcome that, all of us, with open arms.  These boys have so much love to give.  And I would just like someone to cook for every once in awhile 🙂

I am amazed at the greatness of my God.  He is magnificent, He is my confidante, He is my closest friend.  And I might have never gotten this close to God if I hadn’t walked the difficult path I’ve walked for the past 13 months.  Just goes to show you that God can weave good from anything. 

In some of Mark’s personal papers, I ran across a church directory from his home church, circa 1985.  As I flipped it over, there is a poem, author unknown.  It is beautiful, and I had never heard it before.

It’s 10:30 a.m. on a Friday.  I sit at my dining room table, still in my pajamas, my right foot elevated and wrapped in ice.  I stepped off my back porch and into a small hole last evening, spraining my ankle. 

I was with a contractor, who was showing me my empty beautiful backyard, after he and a crew of 6 worked tirelessly for two full days, removing my jacuzzi, decking, concrete walkway, wisteria, and underlying supports.  The jacuzzi, circa 1985-ish, had seen its best days.  The cover had been chewed by a bird dog.  It was time to get rid of the mess. 

As I stumbled in the hole, the contractor instinctively reached out to support me.  After pulling off my shoes, I continued to walk the backyard with him.  Things looked great, and I paid him. 

Looking down at the ankle only a few minutes later, I see a baseball-sized swelling around the ankle.  Uh oh.  What will I do?  I can’t be hobbling around the house, there’s way too much to do around here!  We’ve been home less than a week, and every day, I’ve had projects to accomplish.  This week alone, there’s been window installation, vinyl siding completion, painting, and backyard demolition.  And that was just as of yesterday. 

But everything stopped as I gingerly walked to Mark’s big recliner, and my two boys brought me pillows, ibuprofen, and a ziploc bag full of ice.  They were so sweet and so attentive.  Anything I needed they helped me with.  We even foolishly ventured out to dinner, and I hobbled into the restaurant, holding onto A.J.’s arm.  I propped the leg up in a spacious booth, and watched as my two boys declined the children’s menu, each devouring a teriyaki sirloin with sides.  By the time we left, I could tell the ankle was worse.  We drove home post haste.

They helped me back into the recliner.  More ice and ibuprofen began to help.  What was I going to do about the wet laundry in the washing machine?  What about the two beds left to put clean sheets on?  The world stopped, and I just sat.  I had the two best nurses taking care of me. 

I’m a “stuffer.”  A person who takes boundary crossings, conflicts, disapproval, and negative comments to heart, “stuffing” them down inside.  You see, I don’t like conflict.  Never have.  Instead of confronting people or issues that hurt or upset me, I bite my tongue, and stuff my true feelings way down deep inside of me. 

At some point, though, I get stuffed beyond my limit.  That’s whenever the rubber meets the road, whenever def con 2 is a real possibility.  At capacity, it may just take one little comment to cause my stuffing to come bursting out.  And woe to the poor person who happens to be on the other side.

 I came to this realization in light of events in my life over the past month.  Listening to Lysa TerKeurst, founder of Proverbs 31 Ministries, and author of the newly-released “Unglued,” I see myself in her descriptions.  The book is a must-read, and has been instrumental in getting my raw emotions under control. 

As I look back over my 49 years, I see it  time and time again.  Lots of stuffing, until I burst.  Then I make a resolution not to allow boundaries to be crossed…but guess what?  It happens again.  And again. 

For example, at age 9, my paternal grandmother was diagnosed with cancer.  By the time I was aged 10, in the fourth grade, she had gotten worse, and was in much pain on a daily basis.  My mother (her daughter-in-law), and various aunts began to take turns staying with her overnight.  She needed constant care.  What a showing of love that was for my grandmother!  But as a 10 year old, I just knew that 2 to 3 times a week, my mom wasn’t going to be at home.  I had to stay with my other grandmother.  To make a long story short(er), I  stuffed.  Big time.  Those feelings of stress, anger at my mom being gone, to other various feelings I had.  The stuffing burst in the form of a stomach ulcer.  Yep, 10 years old with an ulcer.  Do you think I was a worrier?

I kept the peace in friendships at all costs.  If you hurt my feelings, don’t worry about it.  I would never tell you.  If you overstepped your boundaries in our friendship, asking me for something personal like say, money, or some possession?  I’d make up some lame excuse as to why I couldn’t.  I’d never say, “You shouldn’t be asking me for this in the first place.” 

Marrying Mark was the best decision I ever made.  He was strong, forceful, confident.  He was loving, genuine, and hardworking.  But he was not a pushover.  And if someone overstepped their boundaries with him, he would let them know about it, in no uncertain terms.  Oh how I envied that trait!

He was so good at dealing with problems, I basically deferred them all to him.  He couldn’t for the life of him understand why I would allow a few folks to mistreat me, take me for granted.  He urged me to stand up for myself.  But it was easier to do the opposite.

Then he was gone.  In a blink of an eye, I went from a supporting cast member to starring role.  Man, it’s a role I never wanted!   But what you want and what you get are usually two different things, at least in my humble experience. 

I’ve had an awakening, of sorts over the past 6 months.  Now that he’s gone, and I’m responsible for the well-being and care of my family, I find that my stuffing capacity has greatly diminished.  I feel more confident, setting boundaries with relationships and people that I have avoided in the past.

It’s empowering, to say the least.  And scary.  Not to mention folks that have pegged you as a pushover for a decade are seeing a side of you that they may not like very much. 

I admit it.  I make mistakes.  I let go of a multitude of “stuff” a few weeks ago, and I am not proud of the way I handled it. I had to get real about certain situations in my life.  I cannot “fix” them, nor can I continue to enable them to keep disrespecting me. Still,as a Christian, I could have done a better job of ending things.  But I am human.  I sin.  I need to ask for help multiple times per day from my God and my Saviour. 

And though I may not have handled the initial burst of “stuff” in a 100% Christian-like manner, I am proud to say that I have handled the resulting collateral damage as Jesus wants me to.  My response?  Simply no response.  Just prayer for the situation and those involved.

So I continue to work on me.  I’m glad God has patience.  And forgives.  Again and again.  I’m trying my best not to repeat mistakes, because if I am truly repentant, it means I’ve turned 180 degrees and I’m not planning on doing the same bad stuff again.

 I fall.  I get back up.  I fail.  I try again.  I sin.  I ask for forgiveness.  I repent.  I do things differently….sometimes I think I need one of those shirts you see on kids, “Be patient.  God isn’t finished with me yet.” 

My friend Leah, also on A Widow’s Might writing team, tells me of the inscription on Ruth Graham’s (Billy’s wife) tombstone.  It is perfect.  Written on Mrs. Grahams stone is the following:

I’ve had numerous requests for the website I’ve begun writing blog entries for.  Sorry for the shameless self-promotion, but here are the first two devotions written for them:

http://www.awidowsmight.org/2012/07/bent-but-not-broken/

http://www.awidowsmight.org/2012/08/a-new-year-a-new-chapter-by-nancy-howell/

I’m just thankful for the opportunity to reach more widows…..Proverbs 31 Ministries rocks, please check out their website at www.proverbs31.org.

I’m home.  Back in Texas, where the temp here at almost 7pm is 109 degrees.  The boys and I made it through the Kansas trip.  It wasn’t easy, and there were times I wished I could’ve been anywhere but there, but with God’s help we persevered. 

A friend suggested we compile a list of accomplishments, things the boys and I had done since Mark’s death.  Whenever we sat down and thought about it, there were alot of entries.  I asked the boys if they wanted to accompany me to his grave, so I could read the list to him.  They both declined, and I certainly don’t want to force them to do anything such as this before they are ready.  I would be fine if they never went to his grave.  I’ve assured them he’s not there, anyway, it’s just the resting place for his earthly body that couldn’t be healed.

So, while aunts and uncle took boys to the local water park, I grabbed my journal, a box of tissue, a bottle of cold water, and headed for the truck.  I drove the 1/4 mile from the farmhouse to the cemetery.  The grass was so dry and prickly, I ended up sitting on the top of his mausoleum.  I didn’t feel disrespectful, it almost felt like I was sitting on his lap, as I’d done countless times while he was alive.

As a hot breeze swept across the central Kansas prairie, I opened my journal to the list, one and a half pages long.  Before I realized it, I was not just reading it to him.  I was conversing with him, laughing, adding extra commentary, sometimes crying, too.  It felt like he was right there, like I could practically reach out and touch him.  I imagined his smile, big as Texas, as he nodded his agreement, his approval, his pride at what we’ve been able to do without him.

It must’ve been an hour or more before I wrapped up the lop-sided conversation, blew my nose for the umpteenth time, and gathered keys, journal, and water bottle.  I bent forward to kiss the inscribed plate which reads “Mark H. Howell   Oct.25, 1955  July 30, 2011  Phenomenal Dad”.  A few more tears dribbled down my nose onto the granite.

I walked back to his truck and noted a large bird swooping overhead.  It was a bald eagle!  Now, I’ve been visiting Kansas for over 25 years.  Never have I witnessed a bald eagle in that part of the state.  I cranked the truck and slowly drove the 1/4 mile back to the farmhouse.  The eagle swooped, then landed in the top of a cottonwood tree.  Lingering only a few seconds, it took flight again, sort of keeping up with my path, until it landed into a huge tree not 50 feet from the driveway.  After I parked the truck and got out, it took off for places unknown.

I was speechless.  Do I tell my relatives?  If there aren’t any known sightings of eagles in the area, will they think I’m crazy?  But I know what I saw.  It was so majestic, it couldn’t be mistaken for any other bird. 

I decided to phrase my sighting in the form of a question to Mark’s mom, asking if there had been any reports of bald eagles in the area.  Surprisingly yes, she stated, nearby at Lake Kanapolis, and other areas.  Then I felt confident enough to tell my story.  She simply looked at me and said, “That was Mark’s gift to you.  He was there.”  And I believe it.

I now count myself as a one year survivor of widowhood, officially.  It has been a year of ups, downs, and everything in between.  I have gone from the deepest depths of grief and bewilderment to the heights of glory, as God is intricately, actively, and lovingly weaving a beautiful future for my boys and me.  That future, with its possibilities, doesn’t come without a price.  We had to let go of so many dreams we had with Mark whenever he died.  But God knows what He is doing.  He has a plan. 

New dreams and plans are on our horizon.  We may not be moving to Kansas in July 2013, as Mark wanted, but we are building a cabin there on our 51 acres of pasture, hopefully starting this fall.  The cabin will be a place the boys and I can escape to, where we can look out the back door and observe sunrises, where we can walk to our pond and fish for supper, where we can relax on the front porch and watch majestic sunsets, unobstructed views all-round. 

The cabin will be furnished with odds and ends, most taken from that old farmhouse that my husband loved, drafty upstairs and all.  We’ll bring his bird dog there, and she’ll point pheasant and quail for A.J. and me. 

I’ll use the quiet, tranquil spaces to begin on my book, which I’ve been writing in my head for months.   The outdoors column will get countless material from the Kansas landscape, two Howell boys, an unpredictable bird dog, and an outdoors mom.  Mark, I know, is bursting with pride. 

It’s not the same dream….it’s different.  Life is what you make of it.  If plan A doesn’t work, go to plan B.  As long as God is the architect of your dreams, they will turn out to be life-changing and life-affirming. 

I’m following the roadmap Mark left behind, but I’m adapting the details with my own interpretation and twists.  I think he heartily approves. 

Procrastination:  to put off intentionally the doing of something that should be done.

I used to be a world-class procrastinator.  “I’ll put that off until tomorrow…I can put that load of laundry in the dryer in the morning….let’s wait to pay that bill till the 10th of the month…..”  You get the idea. 

But since becoming a widow almost one year ago to the date, I’ve reinvented myself.  There are new habits, a new attitude, a moving from introvert to extrovert, from loving wife/2nd in command to bread winner/1st in command.  My procrastinating days, I thought, were behind me.

So, if that’s true, why can’t I bring myself to pack my suitcase for my Kansas trip tomorrow?  The boys have their things together.  My stuff is piled all over the bedroom, suitcases partially filled with leftovers from my KY/NC trip last week.  Folded clean clothes cover the bed.  I know what I need to do….I just cannot bring myself to do it.  WHY?

I know why.  Somewhere, deep within my soul, I would rather not go.  I’ve been dreading the one year observation of Mark’s death for months now.  No place would be easy for me to be on July 30th.  But being on the land that he loved, that was supposed to be our home in a mere year?  It is cruel, ironic, and sad, all wrapped up in a neat tidy package of “I don’t want to face the facts.” 

He had a deep, intense love affair with Kansas.  Good thing I wasn ‘t the jealous type 🙂  The land that has been in his family’s name for well over 100 years is breathtakingly beautiful.  It’s planted with native grasses.  It has a pond on it.  He had so many meticulous plans for us there.  And it’s hard to let those dreams go. 

Oh, I’ve tried.  I have emptied my hands and my heart of those plans, and I have surrendered my life and the lives of my boys to God.  Where God wants us to go, we’ll go.  What God wants me to do, I’ll do.  What God wants me to say, I’ll try to say.  But God, do You really need me to be in the place he loved most on this earth on the day that hurts me the most?

If I just don’t pack, I can stay here, right?  If I stick my head in the sand, just like the ostrich I used to be, can I pretend that I haven’t lost the love of my life, the father of my two boys?  If I close my eyes and listen really really closely, I can still hear the sound of his voice, the lilt in his laugh.  I can see his eyes look at me with more love than I ever deserved.  I can picture him on the floor of our den, wrestling with his sons, with squeals of laughter radiating from our home.

Lord, I really don’t think I can do this.  The last time we were at the farm was Thanksgiving.  It was a tough trip.  I want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head until July 31st.  Then, the first year will be history, and maybe, just maybe, I can turn the page and close the chapter. 

I’m surprised at the hot, bitter tears that trail down my face today.  I’ve been doing pretty good these past few months.  But all of the memories of a year ago come stampeding through my mind, knocking me off balance.  I had a sure footing just a day or so ago.  Is this normal?  Ha, now that’s a laughable question….if there’s anything I’ve figured out in the past year, there is no normal way to grieve.

In my heart, God has been working to heal me,  as a battle scar forms over the part of my heart that loves Mark.  In some respects, I feel like that part of my heart has closed up, that the doors have been locked.  What I have inside for him will never not be a part of who I am.  Just like my safety deposit box, which holds important papers, vintage baseball cards, and our wedding rings, my heart holds all of the memories and love that we shared. 

I’ve decided that life is just a big test.  It’s not about us.  It’s about how we react to our circumstances, pure and simple.  Life going pretty well?  Then we just glide along, tending to take things for granted.  God may or may not be a part of the puzzle.  But when life isn’t perfect, when things like death and sickness and depression and vindictiveness enter in–that’s when the rubber meets the road.  If you dig in your heels, and grab hold of God’s hand, you’ll weather the storm.  I don’t want to think of the alternative.

I know I have to go to Kansas.  This is not an optional trip.  Mark’s siblings are at the old farmhouse, doing a major sort/reorganization of what Mark’s mom doesn’t need at her new home.  The boys and I need to be with family.  We’ll meet with a realtor, who will manage the house for his mom for renters in the near future.

That means it might be the last time we get to sleep in the drafty old place.  I’ve been travelling there for 25 years, sleeping upstairs whenever it was so cold my antiperspirant froze on the dresser.  It’s been so hot upstairs that a constant fan and open windows didn’t slow down the sweating.  But Mark loved it, every square inch of it.  And because he loved it, I do, as well.

I’ve put off packing long enough.  The tears have dried, at least for the moment.  We’ll take that Toyota truck he was so proud of, and we’ll point it towards north in the morning.  We’ll say a prayer before we leave the driveway, and we will truly use God as our co-pilot.

And whenever July 30th dawns, it will be alright.  It has to be.  I’ll wake up in the home Mark loved so much, and be surrounded by his sons, his siblings, and his mother.  Together we will get through whatever the day has in store. 

This year has been the most difficult of my life.  Yet, in the midst of the difficulties, I have found myself closer to my God than I ever dreamed possible.  I think I will just see how much closer I can get in the next three days. 

If a loved one is nearby, within hugging distance, go right now and tell them how much you love them…what a difference they’ve made in your life….how your life has been better because they are in it.  Don’t waste time disagreeing and procrastinating.

We covet your prayers as we make this journey, both spiritual and physical, to Kansas.  I pray we are ready to turn the page and close the chapter.  I know that God has a new story for us to write.