Parenting

I’m jealous…

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 1 Comment

Subconsciously I’m in turmoil.

Oh I may look calm, put-together, and self-assured on the surface.  I’ve actually become a master (mistress??) of the look.

You know, the look of “normal.”

The look of a person who has moved forward, despite some crappy circumstances.

The look of a person seemingly content to sit at sporting events, cheering on her kid…alone.

The look of “happy-happy-joy-joy” everyone feels more comfortable being around.

I assume the look to avoid what many have said to me:

“Aren’t you over that yet?” 

“Why don’t you move on?”

“It’s time to let it go.”

You don’t “get over” the loss of a spouse to death.

You don’t “move on” in life.  You can, however, “move forward,” and my family is living proof that can be done.

Let it go?

You’re kidding me, right?

For over two thousand days (2,061 to be exact), I have awakened as a widow.

No matter how wonderful those days may have been (and there have been many more good days than bad), that simple fact remains.

I. Am. A. Widow.

My sons awaken to the realization they are still orphans (Biblical definition: fatherless).

And while we’ve made a new life, one that incorporates the best of their dad’s legacy while still moving forward, they are missing out. Big time.

Today, it hits me like a ton of bricks–my subconscious turmoil is jealousy.

I am jealous.

I am jealous of two-parent households.

I am jealous of kids who have their dads cheering them on from the stands, offering batting stance tips and advice on fielding.

I am jealous of women who awaken as wives, their husbands snuggled in close beside them in their beds.

I am jealous of extended families who make themselves available to help one another with what to me are logistical nightmares at times.

My sons have me.  Period.

Uncles, aunts, and two cousins live states away, as do both grandmothers.

Questions about sex, dating, shaving, and peer pressure?  Fall to me.

Teaching them to drive?  Me.

And while I look all calm and pulled together on the surface, I’m like those ducks you see on ponds, gliding along beautifully—underneath that calm, under water? They’re paddling like crazy.

I’m paddling like crazy to maintain the beautiful glide.

I’m also working on this green-eyed monster, ’cause it doesn’t jive with the whole being a Christian thing.

Naming it and claiming it are good first steps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Savoring the sweet….

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 4 Comments

In this roller coaster ride called life, you’ve got to savor the sweet.

There will be sour, dour, unhappy times–of this you can be sure.  Some folks seem to get more than their fair share of the unhappy, which makes the happy & sweet even more precious to behold.

Every once in awhile, God gives me a glimpse of the bigger picture, one that I have cursed, cried about, begged to have taken from me numerous times in the past almost-six years.

I didn’t want to be a solo parent.

I didn’t want two little boys to be without their daddy.

I didn’t want to learn how to mow the lawn, weed-eat, take the vehicles for oil changes, inspections, and registrations.

I didn’t want to be responsible for making every adult decision in my household.

I didn’t want to even tend the garden out in front of my house.

And that’s just the few things I came up with, right now, off the top of my head.  Heaven knows there are hundreds more.

I still remember the first time I was given a respite, where God, in all His glory, gave me a few moments of peace in the first few months of this gig I have now embraced (if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em).  I was waiting for my boys to come out from their elementary school.  It was a lovely, bright spring day.

I sat at an old picnic table, way past its prime at the time.  There was no one else around.  The wind was blowing slightly, rustling the new leaves in the huge trees above me.  The sun lazily peeked through them; birds were going about their business of courtship, with lovely tunes filling the air.

In that moment, all my worries and sadness slipped away.  I felt content. I felt peace.  I knew my boys and I were going to make it.

That moment lasted maybe 30 seconds.  But it was exactly what I needed to keep plodding along.

There have been other similar moments throughout the past few years, but the first one will always be memorable.

Yesterday, God gave me another.

The eighth grader gets picked up from school first, so we have about 10 minutes of alone time, just the two of us, while heading to the high school to retrieve the freshman & two of his friends.

Some days, we just have small talk.  Some days, we don’t say much at all.  Still on others, we jam to music, singing along if the tune’s worthy of our pipes.

Yesterday, though, Ben clearly had something he wanted to share.

“Mom, I’m really glad you don’t have to work out of town, or crazy shifts, where we wouldn’t get to see you.”

Ben, so am I.  Your daddy and I worked long and hard–we are so very fortunate that I am able to be here for you and your brother.  Many parents don’t get that opportunity.

When I probe a bit further, I find he’s worried about a fellow student.  A student with both parents living.  One works nights, the other, days.  This kid rarely ever sees the one parent, who is either sleeping most of the time the kid isn’t, or when not sleeping seems to have priorities other than family time.

My kid, the one who lost his dad at age 8, is putting himself in another person’s shoes.

“Mom, I feel sorry for him.  I know that he has both his parents.  And I really miss Dad.  But I want to tell you, you’re like having two parents.  You do it all.”

I’m like having two parents. 

That is, most likely, the sweetest sentence I have heard in years, outside of “I love you.”

He’s being all matter-of-fact.  And I just lose it, right there on Kemp Boulevard, next to Applebee’s, in the midst of after-school traffic.

Tears.  Nose running. Laughing and smiling.

“Ben, you’ll never know how much that means to me.  You’ve made my week.  You very well made my month!”

God, once again, knew what I needed whenever I didn’t have a clue.  A spring-time glimpse into the bigger picture.

A picture that evidently includes two empathetic, loving young men, developing beautifully in spite of the fact their dad is in heaven.

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#thanksGod

 

 

The devil’s NOT in my details…

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 3 Comments

james1_6-800x800

I spent this past weekend in bed.

Crippled by a stomach virus that had me running the Texas two-step, unable to keep any liquids down, I was a mess.

I hate being sick for many reasons, not the least of which is I’m a terrible patient.  As solo parent, there’s no one to pass the baton to for daily responsibilities of home and family.  The blessing (if there can be a blessing in this situation) was that it was the weekend.  We had no where we had to be.  No school, no athletic events, just an absence from church.

The hardest part for my family is the fear I see in my sons’ eyes whenever I’m under the weather like this.

I’m supposed to be Superwoman, “I am woman hear me roar,” a badass that can leap tall buildings in a single bound (at least in the eyes of two teenagers).

But when I’m a pale incoherent puddle, barely able to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, unable to speak in complete sentences, much less roar, it is terribly difficult for AJ and Ben.

I reassure them it is “just” a virus.

I tell them I will be fine.

Although they try to believe me, they’ve seen similar circumstances before.  A daddy tells them he’s going in for “routine” surgery but never comes home.  I write this not for sympathy nor empathy–it’s been 5 1/2 years and will always be an integral part of our lives.  Many of our decisions and beliefs and ideas about living and dying have been shaped by this loss.

As I lay, unable to sleep, unable to eat or drink, dreading the night because I know it will be excruciatingly long, my mind wanders.

Call it fever, or weakened immune system, or a mind unable to process any coherent thought, but I was tortured.  By doubts.

Doubts that bubbled to the surface.

I heard, “You’re not good enough to be in charge of this family.  Who do you think you are?”

“What a joke–you think you have your life together?  You’re just going through the motions, everyone sees through the smoke and mirrors.”

“How are you going to afford to send two boys to college as a single parent?”

“What the heck were you thinking, building a cabin in Kansas, two states away.  You must be nuts!”

—and those are just a few of the doubts and thoughts racing through my mind on continuous play for what seemed like an eternity.

I cried out for help and my boys came running.  I assured them I was calling out for God, not them (and that probably really freaked them out.)

Satan took this most perfect opportunity to hit “Superwoman” when she was down.

It was the hardest singular night I’ve had since the day Mark died.

I prayed, the best I could in my dehydrated semi-crazy state, over and over for relief and shelter.

The next morning I was better and could see things more clearly.  Those statements the devil threw in my face are all decisions I made after careful deliberation and prayer.  I remain steadfast and confident in them.  With God, I am enough.

When I was able, I grabbed a Bible and went to my favorite book, James.  These words comforted me:

5 If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking.

6 But when you ask him, be sure that your faith is in God alone. Do not waver, for a person with divided loyalty is as unsettled as a wave of the sea that is blown and tossed by the wind.

7 Such people should not expect to receive anything from the Lord.

8 Their loyalty is divided between God and the world, and they are unstable in everything they do.

 James 1:5-8 (NLT)

Do I still have doubts?

Sure, because I’m human.  I have a lot of irons in the fire.  I’m pulled in a dozen different directions on any given day.

I miss my help mate taking care of me when I am too sick to take care of myself.

I try not to worry about tomorrow because I know God is already there.  I have assurance that He will make our paths straight so we can use our lives for His glory. I trust that He will provide for my family as our needs come down the pike.

I will continue to ask for wisdom.

Without wavering or doubting.

According to James, if I waver I should not expect to receive ANYTHING from the Lord.

I don’t know about you, but I need me lots of good stuff from the Lord.  For my sons.  My larger family.  My sometimes-lonely heart.  My community and my nation.

So the devil is no longer welcome in my details.

I’m leaving my details where they should’ve been all along—at the feet of Jesus.

p.s.  Two teenagers can make it all weekend on pizza delivery, peanut butter sandwiches, Pepsi, and assorted snacks.  On-line pizza ordering, evidently, is a breeze with Mom’s credit card.  How’s that for thriving, Satan?

 

*thanks to hersword.com for the beautiful image above*

Breaking up is hard to do….

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 5 Comments

It’s not you, it’s me.

I have watched as this Presidential election has pitted friend against friend and divided families.

For the most part, my family has tried to stay above the fray, not using social media for anything except positive posts, family photos for the grandmas, and dog/cat logs.

But this morning, things are different.

I thought things would be better on November 9th.

My social media newsfeeds tell me otherwise.

Never one to stick my head in the sand (found out a bit over five years ago that doesn’t work–believe me, I tried!), I have decided I have outgrown social media.

It’s lost the intended purpose for which it was created–a way to stay in touch, a way to share joys and concerns, a way for my sons’ family members living far away to see how much they’ve grown and matured.

So I’m breaking up with you, Facebook.

It’s been real, Twitter.

Except for the occasional grandson picture for Mary Ellen & Sandra, and cross-posting of my blog (which I have greatly neglected BECAUSE of social media), I am done.

Finished.  Stick a fork in me.

For those of you who have not subscribed to my blog, please do so, because here and only here you are going to get me, the real me.  100% of who I am.

Some of you, after reading future posts may decide to unsubscribe 🙂

I’m just a widow, raising two sons, instilling in them a sense of justice, to be colorblind when it comes to skin tone (all souls are the same color, don’t you know?).

They’ll treat women with the respect they deserve, as equals, capable of achieving anything–they see a strong woman leading their family, after all, which is a humbling realization for this left handed girl from Western Kentucky.

They don’t see nationality, gender, religion or lack thereof.  They will treat each and every person as if they have worth–because they DO.

I’m going back to my first love, blogging and writing.  Facebook has been a sorry substitute for what God has called me to do. I’ve spent way too much time staring at a screen, getting my panties in a bunch over crap that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.  The view on social media is much like a racehorse’s wearing blinders; you don’t get the real picture of what’s going on around you.  You see one path, oblivious to anything and everything else.  In the process, you can become jaded.

Don’t get me wrong, that’s not a bad thing when you’re a racehorse.

But it can be dangerous when you’re a human being. Seeing the whole picture is what sets us apart from the racehorse.

The greatest thing He has called me to do is to love.  A close second is be a positive role model for two teenage young men, who are looking to me today for guidance more than they have in years.  I assure them we’re going to be okay.

So if you’ll excuse me, I have a world to change and boys to raise.

In other words, I have bigger fish to fry than “liking” posts or “retweeting” profound prose.  I am weary of social media.  It’s become a cancer instead of a cure.

In the end, when all is said and done, all we take from this earth is love.

As for me and my house, we will continue to love extravagantly without any stipulations, to feel others’ pains and empathize, and most importantly live large (a favorite saying of my late husband).  The three of us want to take so darn much love with us when we head to heaven that we’ll need extra bags to put it all in 🙂

“It’s not you, it’s me….”  And this breakup is amazingly freeing.

I highly recommend you do the same 🙂

“So these three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the best one of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13 (GW)

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.

An open letter to grief

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 3 Comments

Dear grief,

I hate you.

For a bit over four years, I’ve battled you on a daily basis.  In the beginning, I was numb–really I think it was shock.

I’ve lost loved ones in my lifetime prior to this.  Grandparents, a 44 year old uncle, a 46 year old aunt, my dad, my father-in-law, and several close friends.  You took up residence with me for quite awhile.  The most difficult being the loss of my dad, I remember crying in bed on a nightly basis for months.  I was so blessed to have a husband who loved me, who held me close while I cried.

Then a little over four years ago, the unspeakable happened.  That loving husband and daddy to two little boys died.

And grief?  You welled up inside me, spilling over like hot lava from a volcano eruption, pouring out all over my world.

You damaged everything I knew and loved.

Not only was I dealing with my grief, but also the unimaginable grieving of two boys–old enough to grasp the depth of what they had lost, and smart enough to ask the tough questions.

I didn’t know how we’d get through you.

Counseling helped.

Immersing ourselves in our faith, our church, and being surrounded by a loving support group of friends and family also gave us the lifelines we needed.

All I knew for sure was I had two boys depending on me to suck it up, and I needed to find some semblance of normal.  Not the wonderful, safe, lovely normal we previously had, but a new one, fashioned on a wing and a prayer.

If you’ll excuse the language, grief, you are a sonofabitch to live with.

I never know when you’ll rear your ugly head.  For the first two years or so, you were a constant companion, no matter the circumstance.  We assumed you would be with us every waking moment.  You were with us, at times, in our dreams.

Then, slowly and deliberately, you stepped back from the spotlight, content to roam around the periphery of our lives.  We began to laugh again, to have fun, to really enjoy life, all without any guilt.

Oh sure, you decide to pop up when we least expect it, but the times without you are now more numerous than those with you.

Not only do I hate you, grief, but also your siblings: guilt, regret, and fear.

Guilt and regret, when coupled with grief, keep one looking in the past.  “What if I had done this?”  “If I had only…” “Why did he not…?”

None of these are healthy.  Nor do they do my family any good.  It’s a bit like worrying.  Worrying won’t change anything, and will only rob you of joy in the present.

Fear is your worst sibling, I call it the “black sheep” of the family. Fear is the absence of faith.  When fear creeps in, right alongside grief, it’s a one-two punch of bad.  The only way to beat fear is to face it, head on.

But as much as I hate you and your siblings, today I had an epiphany:

I am a better person because of you.

You, with your twisted pain, have molded this family into a unit far stronger than I could have ever imagined.

We’re tough.  We don’t take anyone or anything for granted.

We grab hold of each day as the gift it is.

And my sons?

They are astonishingly normal, in spite of you (and me).  Empathetic, sensitive, confident, full of hope for the great futures that await them.

Secure in the knowledge that even in the midst of a terrible, crappy situation where their dad is in heaven, they are still so blessed.

They are confident, young Christian men who are already making a positive difference in their little corners of the world.

And although I wish their dad were still with us, physically, we know he is with us nonetheless.

Because of you, grief, I am a different person.  A more compassionate person.  A better person.

And I’m going to spend the rest of my days helping others deal with you.

You’re ugly and messy and a hard pill to swallow.  But battling you makes one strong.  When you are cut down to size, with God’s help, you really aren’t so scary.  You’ll always be in the shadows, but you’ve finally learned your place.

Death is a part of life.  Our society sweeps it under the rug, it’s a taboo subject most are too uncomfortable to discuss.

Although you will never be welcome in a household, some good can come from you.

I thank you for the lessons learned, the love that’s multiplied because of you, the hope that’s sprung in our hearts in spite of you.

Hey, grief, don’t get too comfortable…I still hate you.

But you’re evidently an integral part of the plan God has for my future, the future of two boys. So I accept you for who you are.

We’ll tolerate you for the rest of our lives.

Respectfully,

Nancy

God may very well give you more than you can handle—that’s why you need Him.

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 1 Comment

Any temptation you face will be nothing new. But God is faithful, and He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can handle. But He always provides a way of escape so that you will be able to endure and keep moving forward.  1 Corinthians 10:13 (VOICE)

If I see one more quote or social media meme with the flowery, lovely phrase,

“God won’t give you more than you can handle,”

I. Will. Scream.

No where (let me repeat that–NO WHERE!) in the Bible are these words found.  This sugary coated phrase must have originally come from a poor interpretation of the passage above.

Give. Me. A. Break.

Life is messy.

We, as mortals, as humans of free choice, created in God’s glorious image, made sure of that.   Way back in the beginning, in Eden, we had it made.

Everything man and woman could want or desire was at our fingertips.

God was such a good friend that He came and walked in the garden with Adam and Eve.

Imagine that.  God, visiting.  God calling out to us, by name.

But were we satisfied?  Nope.

You know the story.

Temptation.

A chance to know everything God knows turned out to be the beginning of the end of perfection, at least this time around on the planet.

So, instead of living in a perfect place, surrounded with everything we could possibly want or need?  We struggle.

We live in a broken world.

Broken people, broken promises, broken homes, broken hearts.

Life is not fair.

To reduce God to a Deity that willingly and purposely piles on–excuse the word–crap to see how much we can bear?  Blasphemy in my humble opinion.

Life is about choices.  A multitude of them, put in our paths every. single. stinking. day.

The God I serve didn’t take away my loving husband on purpose.

He didn’t intentionally take away a dad from two little boys who desperately needed him.

He’s not up in heaven, checking my status updates, seeing just how much more can be heaped on my plate before I hit maximum capacity.

Because, believe me, dear friends, that plate has tipped over many days, and I’ve thrown up my hands in frustration at my circumstances.

The Bible says He will not allow you to be TEMPTED beyond what you can handle.  That’s an important distinction.

What He does give is the strength, perseverance, and grace to handle what you have.

Until He comes again, in the glorious form of His Son, life will be full of tough stuff.

Brokenness will be the norm, not the exception.

But the brokenness and the strife found in day-to-day living can forge a beauty and a strength which has no limit.

For it’s in the brokenness where we find what we are truly made of.

It’s in the trials we catch a glimmer of the original perfection in the creation God intended us to be.

And until He sends His Son to restore this ugly, sticky, sinful mess of ours into what His original blueprint designated, we will more than likely have more than we can handle.

Saying and believing anything else is just flowery, feel good “Christianity.”

I’m now crawling off of my soapbox and heading out for my morning run.

Together, God and I will handle whatever the world throws at me today, because I cling to the promise that He will help me to not only endure, but also Keep. Moving. Forward.

I’m counting on it.

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Second (or third, or fifty-third) wind…

/ Nancy Heath Howell / Leave a comment

August.

My family survived July; we’re getting our second (or third, or fifty-third) wind, as the summer wanes. And as much as I wanted July to be over—specifically July 30 and 31—I want August to Just. Slow. Down.

Time, as the old Steve Miller Band song pontificates, keeps on slippin’ slippin’ slippin’ into the future.

As I turn the calendar pages to August, the first day of school glares back at me. I don’t want this summer to end.

I long for just a few more days of laziness, of staying up late and sleeping in.

A chance to snuggle on sleepy-eyed, messy-haired boys, before they awaken enough to realize they’re being loved on.

I want a few more evenings of no school-related obligations, where I can sit on the couch between two laughing, increasingly-long legged children as we watch borderline-inappropriate-boy-humor programming.

I want to freeze these moments in time.

I keep two school pictures of the boys on prominent display in our front room–they were always on Mark’s desk at work.  Taken during the last school year he was with us (2010-2011), our boys 3rd and 2nd graders.  

This is how they looked when their daddy was alive.  

This is a moment forever frozen in time.

A time where we all had the world on a string, where laughter and fun echoed throughout our household most every day.  AJ and Ben really didn’t have a care in the world.  Loving parents, a nice home, everything they needed, along with a few things they wanted–they couldn’t ask for more.

As I look at these photos, it seems like a lifetime ago.  

Two little boys, one tow-headed blonde, the other, dark eyes dancing above a snaggle-toothed smile, had no idea how life would change that summer.

And although I want to take away the pain, I cannot.

It’s a pain they will never “get over.”  A longing they will always have.  A void no one or no thing will ever fill.

My job?  To stand in the gap and fill that void as much as I humanly can.   I trust God to fill in the rest.

On days like this, the responsibility overwhelms me.  I have so much to teach them, so much to tell them.

And so little time.

They tell me on a regular basis that I am enough.

I know, deep down, I am only enough with God’s help.

Summer’s waning.  

And I’m not ready to give them back to Barwise Leadership Academy.

Two weeks and counting.

What will you do with your children today?

Whatever it is, make sure it counts.  

For starters here, at least, I’m heading in for some sleepy-eyed snuggle time, then we’re heading to church.  God likes it when we visit His place.

The True God who inhabits sacred space is a father to the fatherless, a defender of widows.

Psalm 68:5 (VOICE)

Christmas 2010

Christmas 2010

July stinks

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 4 Comments

I hate July.

That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I truly dislike this month.

This month holds too many memories.  Most of them wonderful, great, and fun.  Some of them, however, are very, very bad.

July 30, 2011, was the day we lost Mark.  That day, my life forever changed.

That day, our sons’ lives forever changed.

I became a widow.

They became orphans, at least in the biblical sense.

I felt like my arms had been cut off.  I lost my best friend, husband, lover, confidante, and biggest cheerleader.

My boys lost a wonderful role model, someone who was compassionate, just, loving, patient, and had integrity to spare.  They lost a dad who loved them beyond compare.

Life goes on.

We adjust our sails and move forward, because that’s what Mark would want us to do.   I have two boys to raise, and by the grace of God, we’re doing okay.

And while there’s been great healing in all our lives, and we’ve forged a new path, July still takes us back to the surreal place in time where we were forced to say goodbye to not only the best man we’ve ever known, but also a way of life.

So we hurt.

And grieve.

And cry, in the midst of smiles, remembering.

Life’s not fair.  You play the hand you’re dealt.

I’m determined to play the heck outta this hand until the dealer’s out of money and the casino’s closed 🙂

“God in His holy house is a father to those who have no father.

And He keeps the women safe whose husbands have died.”  

Psalms 68:5 (NLV)

Howell, Party of 4, Wilderness Lodge, Walt Disney World, August 2010

Howell, Party of 4, Wilderness Lodge, Walt Disney World, August 2010