It’s been a busy two days.  There have been alot of hard questions asked by my boys.  Whenever Mark died, I told them, straight up, that any question that they had about any subject, they could ask me.  In return, I would be as honest and knowledgeable as I could.  And in the event that I didn’t know the answer, I’d tell them that, as well, and that we’d find the answer together. 

The first questions from Benny were immediately after Mark’s death.  “Do we have to get rid of all his stuff?  Are we going to sell his truck?  Do we have to get a new dad now?”  All three of those were asked in quick, staccato-like sound bytes; to all three, I gave an emphatic “no!”  There have been other questions along the way, most of which I’ve been able to deal with, a few I’ve had to utter fast prayers before answering, and we’ve developed a healthy, open dialogue. 

There’s only been one question asked (by Andrew) that I chose to ignore, and he dropped.  It was the dreaded, “What’s sex, Mom?” inquiry, made during the stupid World Series, during one of the too-frequent adult men’s commercials.  Why…why…why! do those commercials play over and over during sporting events on tv?  And even though they’re only 30 seconds long, it seems like an eternity. I dodged the question, but if he’d persisted, we would’ve talked.  If Mark had been here, he would’ve jumped into that discussion with both feet.  Since I’m on my own, I made the split-second decision to let sleeping dogs lie, at least this time.  Those talks will come soon enough, I’m afraid.

The most recent set of questions I’m fielding have come up on several occasions, usually while driving, with both boys sitting in the back seat.  They ask me if I think I will ever remarry.  Remarry?  Me?  I’ve been a widow for less than four months, and my 9 and 8 year old are thinking way down the road.  How do I answer a loaded question like that? 

I tell them that I honestly have no earthly idea.  They know what we had with Mark.  All three of us.  It was great, it was magical, and it was the real deal.  I tell them honestly that I don’t know.  If God has it in His plans, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.  Andrew tells me that he doesn’t want to grow up without a dad, a male figure in this house.  It breaks my heart.  I tell both of them if it’s something they really feel so strongly about, they should pray about it.  That seems to satisfy them, at least for now.

Yesterday, I went clothes shopping for the boys.  Somehow, they had outgrown almost every single piece of fall/winter apparel from last year, so I headed to JC Penney & Old Navy.  At Old Navy, I was browsing and saw a woman I thought I recognized from the boys’ school.  I spoke as I walked by, but whenever she turned to face me, it wasn’t who I originally thought it was.  Instead of a mom from school, it was one of the ICU caregivers from Mark’s July hospital stay.

As soon as I looked into her eyes, I remembered her.  Although she did not directly care for my husband, she cared for me.  She was out in the main area, always ready to talk or console me, to give me encouragement to keep doing what I was doing.  Because what I was doing was hard.  I went from hopeful on Thursday to hopeless on Saturday, as I watched him fight to stay, but slowly slip away.  She, too, had lost a husband at a relatively-young age. 

We small talked for a few minutes, before she looked deep into my eyes and asked how was I really doing?  I told her honestly that we were making it, that it is still hard, but we’re living.  That’s what Mark would want from us, he would be pissed if we weren’t trying to move forward and embrace life and all it has to offer us.  With no hesitation, nor any prompting from me, she said, “You know, he would not want you to be alone.  He was one of the most unselfish people I’ve been around in that situation, and he & God will help you find someone to share your life with, your boys’ lives with, whenever it is time.”  Whew.  Now that one came from left field.  At this point, I cannot imagine sharing my life with anyone else!  I’m just now beginning to come around to the bare sad fact that I’m living my life without him, and getting my ducks in a row, making our little family of three plus one up above function on a day-to-day basis. 

She told me that she grieved the loss of her first husband greatly, he died in the car on the way home from the hospital after bypass surgery.  She visited the cemetery every day for a year after he died.  After a bit more conversation, she introduced me to her current husband, whom she clearly loves deeply. 

I don’t know why I ran into her at Old Navy.  I just know that she made me feel better about my life.  Better about my current choices.  And as I ponder in my heart the questions my boys ask me frequently about our future, I will tuck away her advice for now.  My dreams, my hopes, and my plans for Mark Howell’s sons and me are not written in stone anymore.  We have to trust God to write the script, and faithfully follow along.

As the old gospel song goes, “Many things about tomorrow, I don’t seem to understand.  But I know Who holds tomorrow, and I know Who holds my hand.”

A confession…I’ve been dreading today.  Today was the annual Remembrance of Saints service at our church.  I’ve known it was coming for weeks.  Had to send the church a photo of Mark to be used during the service, all members who have died during the last year were honored as saints.  Their names were to be read as a family member placed a rose in a vase at the front of the church. 

I prepared the boys the best I could, we talked about it, and had a balloon release on All Saint’s Day in their daddy’s honor.  It was a poignant, fun, sad time, but we made it through. 

But who was preparing me for today? 

As I went to the room where approximately 20 or so families were waiting, all of them representing a loved one they and Floral Heights UMC had lost, I prayed a quick prayer for God to help me get through this.  We got our directions and headed to the back of the church, where we walked down to reserved seating near the front of the sanctuary.  Imagine my surprise as I heard handbells as I walked to my pew.  There, in front of me, were the Wesley Ringers, the youth handbell choir.  Two of those members are mine and Mark’s hearts walking around on the outside of us…yes, Andrew Joseph & Benjamin Wallace, dressed in their cobalt blue choir robes, were playing the prelude for me.  My tears, which had already been flowing and dried at least 3 times prior to now, flowed freely once again.

I felt so fortunate to have friends on either side of me, we processed alphabetically.  As the remembrance service began, a photo of each saint flashed up on the wall behind the choir.  Every photo looked like a professional one, not that there’s anything wrong with that, a photo from a family portrait or church directory.  Not Mark Howell’s!  He was in motion, the way he always lived, in his t-ball coaching jersey, walking in our backyard.  Andrew chose the photo, and I cropped him out to use it.  You see, wherever Mark was, his boys were always pretty close by.  I have very few photos of Mark alone.  I have even fewer photos of Mark alone, posing or doing nothing. 

As I put the rose in the vase, I glanced at his two sons, sitting near the front.  They both gave me a knowing smile, and I felt better. 

I felt better until we stood to sing the morning prayer response, my husband’s favorite hymn, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past!”  Then I watches as my sons joined their choir, the high school choir, and chancel choir for a combined anthem that was simply beautiful, simply perfect for this day.  There they stood, front and center, side by side, singing with great enthusiasm, “Deep, Deep Love.”  I don’t know what I did more of, smiling or crying during that song.  For I could see both of us in their faces, but most importantly, I saw the face of God. 

After the service, we headed for home.  Before losing Mark, I had never experienced deep emotional fatigue, the kind of fatigue that is more encompassing than the fatigue I felt after running 13.1 miles in Oklahoma City in May.  Now I know that level of fatigue.  It’s like I’m running a full marathon now, no longer training for a fun run.  It takes dedication.  It takes training.  It takes everything I’ve got inside of me.  

I’m not running just for me, I’m running for our sons.  I’m running in remembrance of an awesome husband and daddy.  I’m running to be both mommy and daddy, provider and head of household, chief cook and bottlewasher, spiritual guide, sometimes-drill sergeant, and everything else under the sun. 

Ben had a PTA program at his school last evening.  Another “first” for us to get through without Mark.  It was a mini-musical about “Stone Soup”, and even though he thought it was “babyish,” his mom and grandma thought it was wonderful.  There’s just something about a large group of children singing on key 🙂   As I was video-ing portions of it, I had to stop to remember that this was something Mark was seeing first-hand from his vantage point, in the past whenever he’d be out of town, I would video it for him to watch whenever he returned.  Ben sang out like an angel through most of it, and told me later that he “was the best singer” on his side of the room. 

Mark loved to sing.  He would sing at the drop of a hat.  He would sing without abandon, loudly and enthusiastically.  He sang like he lived life, without any hesitation, reservations, or regret.  Some of my earliest memories of our dating days revolve around his singing loudly to whatever classic rock song was playing while we were driving somewhere.  In our B.C. (before children) days, there would be plenty of opportunity to listen to either the radio or cassettes or cds while travelling to either Kansas or Kentucky to visit family.  He would always pretend he had a microphone in one hand, while driving with the other.  At specific times during the song, he’d take the invisible mic and stick it under my nose, while I was minding my own business in the passenger seat.  “Inside the box” personality that I have, more often than not I would just shrug my shoulders, shake my head, and point ‘the mic’ back at his face.  How he longed for me to just burst into song, right along with him!  Looking back, I wish I had left my self-consciousness at the curb more often, and just rocked along with him.  He relished the times that I did. 

He was the perfect complement to my “way-A” type personality.  He urged me to take chances.  I was not (am not) a risk taker.  But in him, I saw the most perfect combination of a responsible, hard-working adult that didn’t take himself too seriously.  He was always up for fun and trying new things.  I’d like to think he broadened my horizons, although he never thought I stepped outside the box often enough.

At bedtime last night, I was worn out.  So much so that we all were in bed shortly after 9pm.  I snuggled Andrew for a short while before kissing him and closing his bedroom door.  Just as I was drifting off to a much-needed full night of sleep, I felt him at my bedside.  Crying, he told me, “Mom, I’m really missing Dad.”  I pulled him into the bed beside me, cradling him in my arms.  “I really miss being able to talk to him,” he said.  Man, can I ever identify with that statement.  I told him that’s the thing I miss most about him, too.  Because I could talk to Mark about anything.  Then I told A.J. that he could still talk to his daddy, and if he listened really closely, that his daddy would talk back to him.  I think in the stillness of the night, before sleep comes, is the best time to talk to both God and his daddy. 

He asked me to come back to his bed and lay with him.  Off we went.  As I rubbed his back and dried his tears, I felt both helpless and helpful.  Helpless that I could not bring his daddy back, but helpful in the sense that I could be there for him, a physical, tangible presence that could express a deep love.  I ended up falling asleep with him for awhile, then finally made it back to my bed at some point during the night.  So much for a good night’s sleep…..eh, I’ve decided that sleep is overrated. 

As I drove his truck home this morning after taking the boys to school, I felt overwhelmed again to be without him.  Then a still, not-so-small voice tells me, “I am with you.  I am with you.  I am with you!”  And I am reminded, for the millionth or so time that God has not let go of my hand.  So, I turn up the radio, listening to the contemporary Christian station, and sing without abandon into an invisible microphone,

Amen!

Today has been hard.  I started out crying, as I awakened to a song that reminded me of Mark.  Lying there in the darkness, on my side of our big bed, I cried for all the dreams we had as a family.  I cried because I miss him snoring beside me.  I miss his laugh, his great, strong hugs, and the way he filled a room with that gregarious, infectious personality.  His sons need him. 

But since they can’t have him here physically, it means I have to be enough…so I wake the boys as another school day awaits us.  Andrew notices that I’ve been crying and knows why.  Ben, thankfully, was a bit too sleepy to see my red eyes and drippy nose. 

Ben still insists that I park the vehicle and walk him to class. I don’t mind, and it’s funny….before Mark died, I probably wouldn’t have gone into the school sans makeup, but now, I just throw on my running clothes, slap a ballcap on my head, and I’m on my way.  I do make sure that I match, so I haven’t totally abandoned my formerly-vain self 🙂

There’s actually one other one that seems to keep re-playing, as well, but I will save that one and see what comes of it.  I came home from the trail all cried out, but content.

Mark and I moved to Wichita Falls in 1992.  We knew no one here at that time.  New town, new neighbors, new church, new jobs, new everything.  He jumped in, headfirst, and got involved immediately in city and community work, using his job as a foundation for life-long relationships.  And he was very good at it.  A couple of years after we moved here, he came home and sheepishly said, “Honey, folks are starting to recognize me whenever I’m out and about in town.” I laughed.  My reply?  “You’re full of you-know-what.  There’s no way people are recognizing you this soon after moving to town!” But he insisted, saying residents were, indeed, doing so.  I still didn’t believe him. 

A few weeks later, we were at a gas station.  He was outside, filling the tank, while I sat in the passenger’s seat.  As God as my witness, the guy filling up his truck next to us looked at Mark and said, “Say, aren’t you Mark Howell???”  The look on Mark’s face as he glanced at me was priceless….he beamed that magnificent smile, and replied, “Why yes I am…and you are?”  Man, did I ever take alot of teasing for not believing him.  And, of course, as the years passed, more and more people recognized him.  He was on television often, and had his weekly outdoor column with the local paper for the past 6 years. 

Fast foward to today.  I took the boys to church for choir and handbell practice, then headed to JC Penney for a little shopping therapy.  An older lady working there was straightening sweaters, and I greeted her as I was looking around.  She was so pleasant and sweet, we began discussing sales and the upcoming holidays.  Whenever she mentioned Thanksgiving, I mentioned that I was dreading the holidays since losing my husband at the end of July.  She stopped in her tracks, quizzically looked at me and said, “Are you Mark Howell’s wife?”  And I replied, “Why yes I am.”

She told me how she read his weekly columns.  Of how sad she was whenever she learned of his death.  While reading his obit she asked God why did He have to take him away from his young sons, his wife, and his community that he was doing so much for.  She told of how she’s now following my weekly musings and enjoying them.  We talked for a few more minutes, I encouraged her to join the Texas Master Naturalists group, which he began, and we exchanged goodbyes.

As I crawled into my car to head back to church, I was overcome with a mixture of amazement, sadness, and thankfulness.  Amazed that I had been recognized, only a mere two months after beginning my paper writing.  Sad that Mark wasn’t here to be proudly beaming about it.  And thankful that I had been given the opportunity to continue his work, even in some small way, in this community.  God continues to give me exactly what I need, when I need it.  I needed that moment in Penney’s today. 

I vowed in that car this afternoon that I will try to do more of what he would’ve continued in this community if he had lived.  I’ve applied for one of the vacant positions on the city’s Park Board.  He served on it for more than one term, and I hope to get the opportunity to serve, as well.  I will continue to write for the paper as long as they’ll put up with me.  I’ve been invited to go out on the water with his crew, for trap netting and electrofishing. 

There are other ideas I have, floating around in this sometimes-foggy brain, and we’ll see where God leads me.  Mark left some awfully big shoes to fill, but the path he laid out and walked is crystal clear.  I just need the faith to follow it, put my own spin on it, and continue his work.  Mark believed I could do anything, he told me that on a regular basis.  And you know what?  I’m finally beginning to believe it myself. 

Stay tuned.  This could be the start of something…..

Amen.

Took advantage of the first All Saints’ Day after losing Mark by celebrating and remembering.  You know, in all my years on this earth, I never really took notice of this most holy holiday…..guess up until now, it didn’t really strike a chord with me.  But today was different.  An email from a dear friend here in Wichita Falls with All Saints’ sentiments, coupled with two facebook messages, one from a high school classmate I just re-connected with in July, the other from a local friend who has just lost her father, all spoke to me, albeit in different ways.  Two of the three friends have known Mark personally; the other has never met him.  All  three know the impact this good man has had on both our Howell, family of three, and the greater community. 

One has lost a son to tragic circumstances & can identify with my grief journey.  Another has had her share of trials in life, and knows that my husband loved her and her sons mightily.  The third, who just lost her daddy, tells me that from reading my blog and posts, she feels that she can go on, that the grief doesn’t have to define who she is. 

I feel blessed to call all three of these women friends. All three are from different phases of my life; if you stood us all side-by-side, you might not see our similarities with the naked eye.  Yet, on a spiritual level, we are all sisters in Christ.  We share a bond that can never be broken and will always keep us connected.  Whether you’ve lost a best friend and spouse, a child, a daddy, or dreams & relationships, you grieve.  Each path is different, just as each person is.  But the God of us all never lets go of our hand, even through the valley of the shadow of death, through circumstances that we think that we can never process. 

One told of a balloon release done in honor of her son, and that option had already crossed my mind today.  Her suggestion reinforced my decision, and I took it as a sign from above to move forward with my original plan.  Sunday, 11/6, our church will honor those members who have died this past year, and we’ll place a rose at the altar in Mark’s memory.  What better way to prepare our boys for that ceremony than to make today a celebration of their daddy’s life?  Balloons are fun and festive, and the boys were all for it.  We talked about what a saint was, and they both agreed that Mark was a new saint and deserved a special ceremony to initiate him into the “club.”  I brought home beautiful purple and white balloons, and we traipsed to our big backyard.  One by one, we took turns, holding a balloon in our hands, as we talked to our daddy and husband.  My mom even took a turn.  I loved hearing the boys talk to their daddy, their love and faith is so pure, yet so simple.  How I pray for the level of faith they have!  Sure, there were a few tears…but the smiles and laughs far outnumbered them. 

It’s impossible to remember my husband without smiling—forget that, if you knew him at all, you’d be laughing!  He lived life to the fullest, with gusto, and love, fun, and humor.  He may not have lived long enough, years-wise, but he put more living into 55 years than most folks do if they live to see 100. 

So we laughed through our tears as the balloons sailed away, confident that we’d done Daddy proud.  Now, our sons are more prepared for the Sunday service, and for a service to be held in a couple of weeks at the chapel of the hospital where Mark died. 

I know that Mark’s in great company, up with the rest of the saints, keeping a good watch over loved ones.  I know that he is close by, because I can feel him.  I know that I will see him once again someday.  And I know that he is proud of us and the decisions we are making.  It makes life bearable.  It keeps me honest.  It keeps me praying.  It keeps me smiling and looking upward. And it keeps me going.

Clarity.  It’s an interesting word.  If you look it up in the dictionary, it means “the quality or state of being clear…clearness of thought or style…the quality of being expressed, understood, or remembered in a very exact way.”  In the past three months, I’ve experienced and lived the complete opposite of clarity, which is ambiguity—uncertainty, a lack of decisiveness or commitment.

On July 30, the rug got pulled out from under me.  Mark passed from this earthly dwelling and hit the ground running with his bird dogs up in heaven, and left me with two little boys, a home, two vehicles, a hunting dog, and lots of plans.  Those plans, which included specific life changes, including retirement, moving to his home place in Kansas, and beginning a new exciting chapter of our lives, are now shot. 

It was like my arms had been cut off.  Mark and I were two halves of a whole, we had a close, loving relationship that had weathered the test of time.  From the day I met him, at age 22, I was in love.  It took awhile to get him to come around (lol!), but for almost 25 years we were inseparable.  Never an ill word, never a real argument that whole time.  We could finish each other’s sentences, knew each other’s thoughts and dreams.  A look across the room from him still made me weak in the knees, his smile lit up the room wherever he was.  Our boys worshipped the ground he walked on, as did I (although I would never admit it to him face-to-face). 

For the first few weeks after his death, I was completely numb.  I went through the motions, greeting hundreds of people during visitation and two funeral services in two states.  As I look back, I see that the one thing my life certainly did not have, other than Mark, was clarity.  I did what needed to be done, put one foot in front of the other, and attended to the daily business that had to be accomplished.  My goal?  Keep Andrew and Benjamin  in as normal a routine as humanly possible, even though our world had been turned upside down.  We did the best we could, and still just go through the motions at times.  I didn’t think ahead, down the road, it hurt too much to think of life without him, so I just existed. 

As the shock and numbness wore off, I searched for clarity, for meaning to come once again into our lives.  Trying to make a family out of three that’s used to being nothing but four is tough.  As we struggled to find a “new” normal for the Howell family of three, all of those plans that we had made before Mark’s death were always hovering in the background, a reminder of what was “supposed” to be.  We’d officially began the move to Kansas countdown, July 5, 2013 was to be Mark’s retirement date.  In my mind, I’d already started to begin the sometimes-sad process of separating myself from friendships and other relationships, in anticipation of the big move that loomed in our future.  I was looking forward to it because it had become our dream. 

Do I still stick to his plan of moving to Kansas, even without him?  I know what he wanted for our boys, to be raised in the country, on a farm, where life is definitely different from the city life of Wichita Falls, Texas.  Even though I know that there is no rush, and that I don’t have to make any decision such as this for a long time, it has weighed on me enormously.

Here’s where the clarity part comes in.  I’ve gotten back into my running routine, trying for 5 days a week, 3 to 5 miles a day.  There’s something about pounding the pavement (concrete trail) that frees me and clears my head.  The endorphins, coupled with the prayers and sweet remembrances of our life with Mark, enable me to have clarity on a more regular basis.  I work out my problems while running, I cry for my husband while running, I pray for guidance while running.  And as the issue of whether to move to Kansas or not lurks in the back recesses of my mind (whether I want to admit it or not),  I play out all the possible solutions. 

Friday morning, around mile 3, it hit me.  Smack dab between the eyes, as I round “Howell Pond” (the small borrow pit on the trail before you arrive at Lake Wichita ), it is as crystal clear to me as the beautiful sight of the Canada geese passing over my head.  We are at home.  Yes, Wichita Falls is home.  Everywhere I turn in this city, I see Mark.  I see him in the beauty of the lakes in this area, in River Bend Nature Center, where he served on the board and as interim Director; in the countless number of kids fishing events he helped sponsor.  If I want to raise our sons in a place that their father was well-regarded and helped to make better, then Wichita Falls is where we need to stay, at least for the forseeable future. 

This has put my conscience and my worries at ease.  I know, without a doubt, that I don’t have to uproot my family and move to Kansas.  Kansas is a beautiful place, a place that our sons will always be connected to.  It’s where we buried their daddy. No matter what the future holds for this Howell party of three, they will have the land, because it is their heritage.  They will continue to visit it and grow to love it and appreciate it, as their father did.  Maybe we’ll build a cabin on that beautiful pasture land, and visit there on a frequent basis.  We will hunt on our land next fall, after we feel comfortable with shotguns and a bird dog with a GPS.  Maybe at some point down the road we might consider moving there.  But for now, we will remain Texans. 

My boys whole-heartedly agree with my clarity-driven decision.  They tell me, quietly, that they were not looking forward to leaving their friends.  I assure them that we will stay, past the two-year deadline that we’d been working with prior to losing Mark.  Because even though I am a left handed girl from Western Kentucky, I’ve lived in Texas since 1990, and this dry, dusty, hotter than hell city is full of friends and great memories.  Uprooting these Howell sons from the only home they’ve ever known is not an option on the table anymore.  And I hope Mark can understand and support my decision, even from his heavenly vantage point. 

I’m an impatient person.  Anyone that knows me already knows I have this sometimes-not-so-attractive trait.  Been this way since I was a little kid.  If there’s something I want or something I want to do, I tend to “want it now.”  I’ve tried over the years to rise above this trait, and as an adult, I think I’m much better than I used to be.  The last three months have tested my ability to be patient, that’s for sure.

I was impatient, wanting Mark to have his surgery back in May (he waited until he was ready for it, and that was in late July)….I couldn’t make that decision for him, and it so frustrated me.  Looking back, part of me wonders if he had gone ahead with it earlier, if the outcome would’ve been different….and I think probably not.  He was wiser about these things than I was, and I think deep down within himself, he had an inkling that all was not well.  He just chose not to bother me with the details. 

I remained impatient during the week he was in the hospital, praying for hours for him to be healed, so we could go home together, raise our sons, retire, and head into the beautiful sunset, the four of us, in two short years, in Kansas.  But it wasn’t in the cards.

I’ve been impatient with my grief, wanting to move through whatever stages that manifest as quickly as possible, because it hurts so damn much.  God and my wonderful counselor have convinced me otherwise…I must walk through it in God’s time, not my own, so that I can heal.  My boys deserve no less than a parent who is strong, resilient, and prayerful; if I’m not whole, I can’t expect them to process their tremendous sorrow, either.  Right now, they are doing wonderfully, despite the crappy circumstances, both had high straight As on their report card, and are the student council reps for their respective classes.  If someone didn’t know them, and observed them in any of their activities, they would have absolutely no clue that they have lost their daddy.  And as long as I can keep them in a routine, where we keep up with our daily responsibilities, but allow time to grieve and remember, I will be satisfied.

God is working with me daily, sometimes minute-by-minute, as I struggle with insecurities, grief, impatience, sin, and envy.  I see other “whole” families and wonder why them & not me?  I see little gray-haired couples at the supermarket, and think how I got the short end of the stick….Mark & I were supposed to grow old together.  But the more I pray & study, the more I see that we have no guarantees about anything in life, except that God will be beside us.  What I desire and what I get are many times diametrically opposed. 

I, for one, am thankful that my God is not impatient.  If He were, He would’ve given up on me a very long time ago.  I’m sure He’s thought thousands of times, “Is she ever going to learn?  Is she ever going to let Me work My plan in her life, her family’s life, without trying to hurry? You’d think as smart as she claims to be, that she would be intelligent enough to trust Me, because I will not fail her nor her boys.” 

I bought both boys dogtag-type necklaces at our local Christian bookstore.  The verse inscribed is Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”  They wear them often.  They believe God’s promise, and are a heck of a lot more patient than their mommy.  Last night, my neighbor, who is dealing with a heart-wrenching divorce and a young adult child that is acting out, got a hug from both boys, “just because” they thought she needed it.  Andrew, who was wearing his necklace, showed it to her and read the scripture aloud.  I think we all teared up just a little.  My sons are so filled with God’s spirit that I am continually amazed and astonished. 

Thank You, God, for being constantly and continually patient with me, your lowly servant.  Thank You for blessing me beyond my mere human comprehension with two fine boys from a man that I loved completely.  Thank You for friends, family, and strangers who pray for all of us on a regular basis.  And most of all, thank You for supplying me with what I need, when I need it, to forge ahead on this unknown path. 

Amen.

Today, I celebrated Mark’s birthday.  He would’ve been 56, going on 18….a kid wrapped up in a middle-aged man’s body.  As the day approached, I struggled with whether to celebrate, mourn, make a big deal out of it, or keep it very low-key.  After prayers and soul searching, I took the options to his boys, my sounding boards since his death.  Both wanted to celebrate their dad.  So, celebrate we did.  But I’ll get to that part later.

I began the day searching for a wayward rat trap.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I have (had?) rats in our backyard, they’d gotten so bold that they were bellying up to Maggie’s food & water dishes, in plain sight of the humans in the house and the high-priced bird dog in her doghouse, not 4 feet away.  She seemed unconcerned—maybe only animals with feathers pique her interest.  A snapping plastic rat trap was purchased, the first of which was chewed up by said bird dog; the second was baited, bird dog was crated overnight while the trap lay nearby, and the first rat was caught. Clean kill, as Mark would chortle.  This dainty girl from Western Kentucky shuddered a bit, but took a long-handled shovel, popped open the trap, and deposited the carcass over our back fence into the great wide open.

Feeling pretty good about things last night, I re-crated the dog, re-baited the trap, and hoped for the best.  Before bedtime, after the Rangers handily handled the Cardinals, my mom peeked out to check the trap.  She couldn’t see it.  No problem, I figured she wasn’t looking in the correct location.  But it was missing!  At 11pm last evening, I had a rat, somewhere in my fenced backyard, running around with a trap stuck on its head.  Great.  Just what I needed.  Since I refused to traipse around my big backyard in my pajamas, looking for it with a flashlight, I cut my losses and went to bed.

Sunrise came early enough and I walked out on the back porch.  The trap (with rat) were located nearby, next to my fireplace, not 3 feet from the porch.  I went back inside to report the find to the boys, took my trusty gloves & shovel, and headed back out the door to dispose of the carcass.  Imagine my surprise as the rat began moving around, breathing, and shaking the trap.  Yes, for all of you out there, I did squeal like a girl, just a little.  The boys were oh so interested in seeing this development.  With a dog that needed to be un-crated so she could potty, along with two boys that needed to be transported to school in a few minutes, I struggled with my options.  What should I do?  I’ve never knowingly or deliberately killed anything.  I came back inside to ask Mark’s boys their opinions.  Andrew didn’t hesitate whenever I asked what would Daddy do?  “Dad would take the shovel and whack it, Mom!  I’ve seen him do it.  Just whack it and it will be dead.” 

I reasoned that the poor rodent had been injured and had suffered enough.  I closed my eyes and whacked it with the shovel.  Mercifully, it quit moving.  After another few gulps, and a tiny squeal for good measure, I disengaged the trap from the rat, scooped the carcass into the shovel, and proceeded to walk to the back fence to toss it.  I heard laughter behind me.  As I turned to look, both boys were running behind me, cheering me on.  “Mom, you did it!  You faced your fears!  You whacked it just like Dad would do.  Dad is so proud, and so are we!”  I laughed out loud.  Here on Mark’s birthday, before 8 am in the morning, I was accomplishing something I never thought I could do….because I never had to before.  Mission accomplished.

After writing an outdoor column on the upcoming Texas quail season, I suited up for my daily run.  This is my meditation time, my time to cry all I want while communing with God and nature.  I had alot to pray and think about, as I recalled about 20 years of birthdays with my husband.  I looked at Lake Wichita and the borrow pit nearby, knowing that neither would probably be in existence today without the input Mark gave as part of the Lake Wichita Study Committee and in his role as TPWD District Management Supervisor for this region of North Texas.  Everywhere I look, I see him.  Everytime I close my eyes, I see him.  He’s always smiling that huge, goofy grin that I loved so much.  I returned home dry-eyed and happy, knowing that he is with us, even while he’s running around in heaven.

After lunch, the phone rang.  It was my own personal angel, Mark’s nurse that took care of him in the ICU at United Regional.  I call her my angel, but she is very modest.  She prays for me.  She shows up on my doorstep with cookies, muffins, and devotional books.  She knows my wedding anniversary.  She knows his birthday.  I don’t know how she knows these things, but her faith ministers to me each and every time I see her, talk to her, or read the book she so lovingly gave me.  I feel like I’ve known her all my life.  She tells me that I have, because we are “sisters in Christ”.  As we visit, I cry.  She cries a little, too.  I thank her again for taking such wonderful loving care of Mark for those few days.  She and the rest of the ICU staff are a special group of people, and I will be eternally grateful for what they did for him and for me.

Texts, phone calls, and facebook messages continued throughout the day, everyone checking on my little family of three.  I called his mom, because I know this day is hard for her, too.  He was her oldest, born in Germany a mere 11 months after his parents’ wedding.  He was very much like her in so many ways.  She was looking forward to having him back in Kansas after his retirement, because they shared so many interests and loves.  We cry, we laugh, we reminisce. 

My mom, boys and I head to Chili’s to continue the celebration.  I order the best beer on the menu (Sam Adams) and drink to an awesome daddy and husband.  He would so approve!  Afterwards we head to Hospice’s Building Bridges program, where my adult friends remember this day, and tell me they have been praying for me.  Wow.  I am overwhelmed by the love and support given to my family.  By people that have known us for years, and by people we’ve known only a few weeks. 

As the day winds down, I breathe a sigh of relief.  We made it.  We did it.  It wasn’t easy, but we celebrated the life of a great guy without mourning too much.  As I ran, I listened to my mix of music, and this song really spoke to me today.  I’m a John Mayer fan, and everytime I hear this song, “Bigger Than My Body,” I think of Mark shedding his earthly body and flying.  It makes me smile, cry, and run a little faster.
 

Reflecting on an awesome weekend, I stayed so busy I didn’t even have time to blog 🙂  The World Series game on Saturday was the once-in-a-lifetime experience I had hoped for.  As we drove, getting closer and closer to Arlington, we got more and more excited.  I felt like someone should pinch me, because it was like a dream.  I won’t lie, it was tough being there, knowing I was the permanent substitute for Mark.  Andrew was quiet and subdued for a time, right before the game.  He wanted to sit by me, even though our friends were along; as we stood for the national anthem, I glanced to my side, taking in that profile—blonde hair, blue eyes, holding his Rangers hat over his heart—and I was overcome with a mixture of pride, wonder, and sadness.  He is so much his father’s son. 

Soon after Mark’s death, I worried.  How could I be both father and mother to two young boys who literally worshipped the ground their daddy walked on?  What would I do whenever it came to the inevitable talks about girls, sex, relationships?  How would I handle the absence of all that male testosterone that was present when Mark was physically here?  He rolled, tumbled, rough housed with them.  He played all kinds of ball with them.  He took them fishing, he took them hunting. He was the ringleader of fun, the epitome of a big kid wrapped up in a 55 year old body. 

This overwhelming worry was the reason for alot of prayer early on.  And you know what?  I got the answer…..I am ENOUGH.  God told me that I am enough for our boys.   I will always be enough because I have God on my side.  Even though I’m not going to rough house with them, I can love them, I can be there for them, and I can handle the hard questions.  Taking Andrew to the World Series, I was enough.  He was so impressed that I could rattle off the Texas Rangers’ starting lineup…not bad for a left-handed girl from Western Kentucky 🙂  It would’ve been nice if Mark had been there physically, but boy, was he ever there spiritually.  The sunset before the game was identical to the sunset he showed me in Kansas, the day before we returned to TX in August.  That photo is on the background page of this blog.  He was there.  We both know it.

God is enough for my family.  He has carried us, loved us, given us a great support system.  He is enough.  And even though there is a big void in our lives, a hole that will never be filled, His grace is sufficient.  We continue standing, functioning, and living life because He is enough.

 My devotional for the day recently put it all in perspective:  “The best response to losses or thwarted hopes is praise:  The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.  Remember that all good things—your possessions, your family and friends, your health and abilities, your time—are gifts from Me.  Instead of feeling entitled to all these blessings, respond to them with gratitude.  Be prepared to let go of anything I take from you, but never let go of My hand!”     (from “Jesus Calling” by Sarah Young).

My family’s going to hang on to that hand.  Because that hand will lead us into the bright future He has promised.  He continually reminds us, “I am enough.”  And that, my friends, is good enough for me.

Watched the sun rise this morning on a cool dew-covered Wichita Falls.  Mark’s favorite time of the year, as temps finally begin to turn more seasonable, the World Series is underway, and his birthday’s right around the corner.  I know that we need to commemorate Mark’s day in some manner, just not sure the best way to do so.  Trusting that God will help me out with this dilemma, He hasn’t failed me yet.

Driving in the car the other day, our conversation turned to Daddy, as it often does.  Andrew just quietly stated, “I wish he could’ve been around to see us grow up.”  That statement broke my heart.  I didn’t know how to reply, but the words came tumbling out….”You can bet he’s gonna see you grow up, Andrew, he wouldn’t miss it for the world.  And even though you can’t see him, you can feel him, because he’s here.”  I think that satisfied them both and it comforted me, too.  Because I believe with all my heart that he can see them, he can see me.  Yet another reason to keep plugging along, trying to make him proud of us. 

Family from Kentucky & Illinois should be arriving this afternoon.  It will be good to have them here, but hard to greet them.  This will be my aunt & uncle’s first trip, I haven’t seen them since last summer, during a trip we made as a family to St. Louis.  That was yet another great family adventure, as Mark had a meeting that lent itself to a family vacation.  We sat in the bleachers,  melting in the hot June sun, watching the Cardinals play.  Tomorrow night, Andrew & I will watch the Cards again, this time in Arlington TX in cooler temps, at the World Series.  We’ll leave our Cardinal gear at home, and will wear all Rangers attire. 

Amazing how quickly life and circumstances can change.  I see gray haired couples everywhere I go, shopping, enjoying life together.  Part of me wants to scream, “It’s not fair!”  I never envisioned being alone, widowed at age 48.  We were supposed to retire and grow old together.  We had plans! 

So what do I do?  Well, I adapt.  We’re trying to come up with a new gameplan.  Not sure how it will turn out, but I’m trusting God to help me work out the details.  I don’t want to get so bogged down in the mechanics of my grief and feeling sorry for myself that I miss the big picture.  The big picture is that life goes on.  My boys and I, while honoring Mark, are beginning to make new memories.  They won’t be better than the ones we made together as a family of four, but they will be sweet, nonetheless. 

Deep down inside of me, I know I have the strength I need to get through this.  But it ain’t easy.  And it’s not a whole lot of fun.  But it is what it is, and I will keep on walking.