Wheat on the Howell family land in Kansas–2011


Letting go.

It’s something I’ve never been good at.  I am a hopeless romantic at heart, a sentimental Southern girl who will always have deep roots in three places:  my birthplace, Kentucky, where I spent my first 25 years; Texas, where I have lived almost 24 years; and Kansas, my late husband’s birthplace, the land he loved and cherished his entire life.  Because of his love for the land, I grew to love it, too. 

So much so that we were planning on moving there this year, in July, after he retired. 

It’s a beautiful place, with wheat fields as far as the eye can see. Young green wheat covers the rich black soil in the wintertime, in stark contrast to the sometimes-brutal snowy landscape. To me, the greenness serves as a subtle reminder that spring cannot be too far away.  And with spring, the wheat grows, first into strong green plants, and by early summer, into the golden color seen above.  I never truly appreciated the phrase in the song “America the Beautiful” (‘amber waves of grain’) until my first visit to Kansas, during wheat harvest in 1987.  There’s nothing more spectacular than the wind rippling through thousands of acres of ripening wheat fields, as far as the eye can see.

I stumbled across the scripture above this morning.  I say “stumble,” but I know I was supposed to read it today. 

I’ve tried to “let go” of my life since becoming a widow.  On the surface I have succeeded.  I’m doing well, despite the fact that my best friend, my love, the great daddy to my two sons, is now in heaven.

We’ve established a new normal, one that is beginning to feel comfortable, much like my favorite pair of running shoes.

We aren’t sitting at home, twiddling our thumbs…we’re living each day like both our Heavenly Daddy and our earthly one would want–no regrets, thankful for all that we have been given–still, though, I have insecurities, doubts in the back recesses of my mind.

All of that came rushing to the surface a couple of weeks ago, on Sunday, April 14th.  It was the anniversary of the day Mark proposed to me, one day before my 25th birthday.  This year, I turned 50.  The entire day Sunday I was a complete mess.  I spent much of it chauffeuring boys to and from activities, so there was a fair amount of time I was alone in the car, just me and God. 

I was dumbfounded to feel my chest tighten, and deep sobs coming from within.  I felt alone.  A quarter century ago, my life changed on April 14th.  My boyfriend became my fiancée, and a whole new chapter of my life began.  Hands down, the most memorable day of my life up until that point.  We were young, in love, on the edge of a great adventure that we could only imagine at that time.

The dreams that we had came true, and God blessed us beyond what we imagined.  We had a great marriage, a partnership that worked, day in, day out.  We planned two children at a time in our lives when we could slow down and enjoy them, after spending 12 years as a couple, which allowed us to be ready to sacrifice everything in order to focus on our children.  We got all the running around done before the boys came, and were just content to be a little family at home. 

But I digress.  April 14th was hard.  I cried every bit of makeup off of my face.  I didn’t care. In my mind, I was getting ready to turn 50–a half century old!–and I suddenly felt apprehensive about what my next 25 years would hold.  Where would we live, long term?  Would God put another wonderful Christian man in our lives, to make us once again a two-parent family?  I’ve done well thus far, but do I really have what it takes to lead this family through the upcoming years?  God, what am I supposed to do?  When will You tell me?

I’ve struggled and prayed about those fears (and more) in the two weeks since that lapse.  And this scripture is my answer. 

I must let go of everything.  I cannot hold on to one grain of the life I had or imagined I must have.  And I am guilty of holding at least one little thing back, in reserve, in order to feel safe.  A connection to my former life, you know, the one I had for 25 years.

For life to be lived fully, for God’s kingdom to be magnified in my life and in my family’s life, I must open my hand up and allow that last little piece of grain to fall to the ground. 

Hopefully it will fall on tilled soil, where it will sprout and grow.  It will be tender and green and young for awhile, but with cultivation and love and proper care, it will grow strong and bear much fruit. 

I know that only God has the answers I want for my life.  I can only trust that He will reveal them to me in His perfect time.

In the meantime, I will try to be patient and tend the ground and crops that He wants me to care for. 

I am letting go.  It’s hard, but I’m doing it. 

By letting go of life, I can embrace every circumstance with a combination of reckless love and awe.  Then and only then can I truly understand that my life is eternal, real, and forever a testimony to the power of my great and powerful Father.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some “ground” to tend to.

my latest for “A Widow’s Might”:

Keeping up appearances…

Tonight I feel a bit alone.  Not lonely…there is a difference.  With two rambunctious boys sharing my life, I am never lonely.  But feeling alone?  It hits me sometimes, without any rhyme or reason. 

From the ages of 22 to 48, I was with someone who loved me.  He was strong, forceful, a great Christian husband, daddy, and friend.  He took the reins.  He filled in the cracks of our lives, making each and every day one big happy adventure.  I was never alone.  Even whenever he travelled out of town, and I was left here to man the household and our sons, I felt safe.  Comforted in the fact that he was the head of our household, the man in charge.  The one with the big strong arms that would hold me if I needed him to.  He would be coming back, and whenever he entered the house, and his big thundering voice greeted the three of us, all was once again right in our little world.

Now it’s me.  And I’m not nearly as together as he was.  Never will be.  His self-confidence and awareness of his world, and of his place and mission in it were unmatched.  I’ve never known anyone else that could come close to that.

Maybe he knew, on some level, that he wouldn’t be around to relax and enjoy his golden years.  That’s why he packed more living into 55 years than most people do in 80 or more. 

But the aloneness I feel is selfish.  For I know, as a Christian, that I am never alone.  All I have to do is call out for God, and He’s there. 

I haven’t posted to my forum much as of late.  It’s not that I don’t have things to say, believe me, I am never at a loss for words.  But I began this blog for my sons, so I could document what we went through after losing their daddy, my best friend and first love.  It has been a good friend and a patient listener. 

I began this blog a mere six weeks after becoming a widow.  I dove in, headfirst, blogging several times a week for months.  Putting my emotions and feelings in print has definitely been a factor in my family of three’s healing.  It’s a big reason the boys and I are doing as well as we are now.  I’ve been made fun of by former acquaintances who accused me of putting myself up on a pedestal, of using this forum as a bullying stance, of touting my supposed “holier than thou” attitude.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I have had nothing but the most genuine of motives for this blog, to use it as a diary of sorts, a documentation of our unimagined journey.  Looking back now, I see those rumblings were the best thing to happen to my little family.  It showed me who my true friends are.  And like my fellow blogger, Kitty Hinkle, at A Widow’s Might, I have had to end relationships since becoming a widow that were toxic for my family.  It is my prayer that those folks find happiness somewhere in their lives.

My declaration for today is this:  God is healing me.  And I will shout it from the rooftops, if need be.  Andrew, Ben, and I are doing fine.  We still cry and wonder “what if,” and Mark Harold Howell left a big imprint on our lives and in our hearts.  We will never “be over” losing him, but we see our lives in a new light now, as the Great Restorer is working in all three of us.  It is an active, on-going process.  As I talked to Mark during the 16 hours I was given to tell him goodbye, I told him many things.  Private things, of a love so enormous and full and nothing but non-stop fun for almost 25 years.  One of the last things I whispered in his ear before God took him home was this:  “If you have to go, then go.  Your body’s tired and you have put up an unbelievable fight.  The boys and I will be okay.  We won’t be “fine” for a long time, but we will be okay.”  I knew deep within my heart that God could reach down at any moment and heal him.  But I also saw the handwriting on the wall. And not 30 minutes later, his heart stopped–he was released from a body that just flat gave out on him. 

That’s why I want you to re-read the first three sentences in the previous paragraph.  We. Are. Fine.  As the tears flow yet again, this is the first time in 18 months (yes, we’ve been without Mark now for a whole year and a half) that I have written the word “fine” when describing my boys and me.  And it feels so good, like a burden has been lifted off of our shoulders. 

I am open to new possibilities, new relationships, as God sees fit to bring them into my life.  I have a clear focus now, I know what I am supposed to do for me.  And while doing what I am supposed to do for me, I will glorify God.  Because without Him, I am nothing. 

So, I turn the page.  I may have been heading a certain way, but I’ve done a 180.  No more whining.  No more excuses.  No more putting off tomorrow what God needs me to do today. 

My new favorite song to get me going?  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeowkHpYPUc

The restoration is actively underway.  Thanks be to God. 

My latest post for A Widow’s Might….

I will praise you, Lord,

Apprehension builds.  I feel like I’m in a pressure cooker, the lid’s on tight, it has sealed, and the heat is on.  I’ve put all of this on myself, so I have no one else to blame.  In typical Nancy fashion, I have thought way too hard and way too long about our upcoming Kansas Thanksgiving trip. 

You see, I’ve purchased hunting licenses for both A.J. and myself.  For the first time since losing Mark, we will step out on our land, with Maggie leading the way, to hunt for pheasant and quail.  I’ve never hunted for pheasant and quail in my life.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve walked with Mark dozens of times, carrying a camera.  But this time is different.  HE should be the parent taking our son out for the first time.  It’s a time honored generational passage from father to son.  Unfortunately for this family, daddy’s not around in the physical sense anymore.  And mama is feeling like a poor substitute, at best. 

A.J. is stoked.  Major.  I can’t decide who is more revved up about this trip, he or the dog.  A few days ago, I grabbed my unloaded 12 gauge shotgun, put the whistle around my neck, and walked out into the backyard.  The dog did a double-take.  She’s given up looking for Mark, although I still see her eyes, squinting through the seam in the gate everytime I pull up driving his truck.  I think there’s still a little part of her that wishes it would be his tall lanky frame that exits the vehicle instead of mine.  That may be the last remnant of her wishing for him, at least to my limited knowledge. 

But I digress.  She stops dead in her tracks.  It’s like she cannot believe that I, the female she once tried to oust from the “pack,” have a gun in my hands.  I blow one short tweet on the whistle, and she bounds toward me.  I really believe she would’ve rubbed her eyes in disbelief if she could have.  She gave me one more cursory glance of unsurety until I pumped the gun.  Reassured, she put her nose to the ground, beginning to work our half acre smack dab inside Wichita Falls’ city limits. 

Maybe she will obey me.  But I’ll bring along the training collar just for backup.  There’s also a doggy GPS, I’ll get the techno-minded 9 year old to read up on its operation during the 6 hour drive to the beautiful land with our names on it.

Am I good enough to stand in his place?  Do I have the common sense to walk the land?  Mark could’ve walked it in his sleep, the hundreds of acres that have been in his family for over a century–me, I sometimes have trouble discerning north from south, east from west.  Heck, maybe I’m the one that needs the GPS, not Maggie. 

It’s been a difficult week.  Sunday during worship, the tears begin welling up inside of me.  They began to spill out on the drive home.  My boys talked me through the drive thru of Arby’s, then insisted it was their turn to take care of me, and made me go to bed Sunday afternoon.  I know that this Thanksgiving has to be better than last year’s, our “first” without him.  But this is another “first”….hunting without him.  And I think that’s where all of my emotions are coming from. 

I may be doing well generally, but I need extra prayers this week as I try my darndest to continue to make Mark Howell proud of me.  I also need to relax and remember that I can’t make our trip perfect.–but that God can make it special, regardless of what happens. 

And whether or not we bring back birds is a big deal to A.J….but to me, the big deal will be walking the bluestem-filled prairie, alongside Mark’s little image, behind his bird dog. 

We will be comforted, regardless, as I share the words of Isaiah with both boys before our trip tomorrow:

I’m at a crossroads.  I began this blog soon after Mark’s death, and it was my outlet for grief, supplication, memories, and growth for well over a year.  But in the past month, particularly, I know deep within my heart that I have progressed down “grief road” past the raw emotions I once wrote so often of.

Am I “over” the grief?  Nope.  Do I have sad moments, times whenever I still well-up and cry, in the most unusual of situations or circumstances? Yep.  But the deep piercing wound that was inflicted upon me on July 30, 2011 is healing.  Finally.  Praise God! 

My boys are doing well.  They still have their moments, too, and if I ever just sit and concentrate on what they have lost, it breaks my heart.  So, I don’t sit around and dwell on it.  It doesn’t do us any good.  As I said in a recent newspaper column, nothing positive ever comes from a bunch of people sitting around on their hands, reminiscing about “the good old days.”  I choose to believe that my family has many “good NEW days” on our horizon.   And for those days to come about, I have to get off of my hands and spend some time on my knees. 

I am surprised by how the simple act of literally getting on my knees puts me in a receptive and open mind frame for talking with God.  Maybe it’s a United Methodist thing, or just a Heath family thing, but kneeling to pray (other than at the altar of the church itself) wasn’t the norm for me.  But let me tell you…it became the norm for me, as I knelt with my sons in the chapel of the hospital, the day before their daddy died. 

I still may pray alot while in the upright position, or while I’m resting in bed, before sleep comes every night.  However, there’s no better position to be in whenever you are laying it all out on the line than head bowed and knees on the floor. 

As I wonder what is next in God’s plan for my family, this particular scripture from Ecclesiastes keeps running through my mind:

My blog posts are becoming less frequent.  Although I still have much to share, it seems like I’m too busy with everyday life to sit and reflect.  For me, that is both a good and a bad thing–I’m doing well, happy with the way life is heading, even though it is without Mark here alongside me in the physical sense.  It’s a not-so-good thing because I feel that time spent in this medium has been one of the reasons so much healing has taken place in our home over this past 15+ months. 

Recently, I had an epiphany.  I was driving home from Sunday morning church service, alone.  With the exception of school hours, I am never alone.  But the boys had acolyte training after the morning service, and I was free until 1:30, the appointed pickup time.  Driving down Kemp Boulevard, my car headed south towards the Howell Four Sixes “ranch,” I realized how very quiet the car was.  Now Sundays are difficult, because I’m still not used to sitting by myself.  Boys head off mid-service to children’s worship, and Mark would sit closer to me.  I loved it, just the two of us. 

Since his death, A.J, Ben, and I have become a close-knit threesome family unit.  We are there for each other, a true team.  Shortly after Mark’s death, I told folks the boys would be my saving grace.  But I never truly felt how much they were until that Sunday, as I was driving home alone.  IF I didn’t have them, driving home would be that way.  Everytime.  No  laughter, no whining or teasing, no singing along with the radio.  No deep discussions about life, about what we learned at church, no lunch suggestions.  I would be ALONE.

It gave me a renewed sense of thankfulness.  Even though I hate it that my sons no longer have their daddy here, I am oh-so-glad they are here alongside me, walking this path so that I am not alone. 

Not that any of us is ever truly “alone”….we always have the Holy Spirit with us.  I not only feel Him, but also Mark, at various times throughout each and every day. I know that heaven would not be heaven for him if he could not see his precious boys. 

So maybe there’s a bit of truth in the joking phrase I tell people—that if I didn’t have my boys, I’d be some crazy widow with about a dozen cats in the house….

Glad I won’t have to find that out. 

With all the recent focus on elections and various beliefs, questions about candidates’ religious views, the way they were brought up, how they govern, how they parent, etc. etc…..I have pretty much remained silent, except for expressing my personal opinion to a few close friends (who, by the way, don’t give a rat’s behind as to what political persuasion I lean toward).  But reading my Message Bible this morning, I find something worth sharing, worth thinking about for us ALL:

I came home to Texas after my She Speaks conference focused and ready to do whatever God had in His plan for me to do.  I had the interest and business card of an assistant publisher to one of the most well-known Christian publishing houses.  I had notes.  I had new books.  I had plans. 

Here it is, two months later.  And I have yet to email the publisher, even though she is awaiting my blog link, samples of my outdoor columns, and a possible idea for a book.  I purchased mp3 recordings of several of the conference lectures, and have yet to download them. 

What in the world happened in the interim?  A lot.  After returning to KY after my conference, the boys and I hurried home, where we spent less than 48 hours before heading north to KS for several days.  It was a tough trip, and coincided with the one year observance of Mark’s death.  He, of course, is buried there.  His mom’s farmhouse was in the process of being emptied, so it can be readied for rental.  In a previous lifetime, Mark and I were going to retire to that house.  Plans changed drastically. 

Made it back to TX again around the first of August.  I think it took a good two weeks for us to get everything unloaded from our travel vehicle, much less put away.  With school on the calendar for the 27th, we kicked it into high gear, buying school supplies and necessary clothing items.  You see, my boys grew quite a bit this summer, so most all of their clothes and shoes were too small. 

In the midst of my day to day existence, I injured the ankle, and was put out of normal commission for almost two months. 

When I read all of these reasons above, it just makes me shake my head.  Life got in the way.  It got in the way of pursuing what I know, deep within my heart of hearts, God wants me to pursue.  There will always be excuses to keep from doing what needs to be done. 

There are innumerable household projects to be completed.  Two boys’ bedrooms must be emptied completely so that painting can occur.  New furniture awaits in Home Zone’s warehouse, waiting on my call to give the thumbs up to deliver.  Old furniture must be dissassembled and either given away or taken to a storage unit.  By the way, I am now paying rent on storage units in two states–Kansas and Texas.  What in the world is up with that?  Whenever housing is built for us in Kansas, I’m hoping to consolidate the storage contents and get rid of both rental units.

Normal fall activities have begun, including orchestra and piano for Ben, and school choir for AJ.  Both are involved in church on Wednesdays, as am I.  One look at our calendar shows that we tend to be overbooked, no matter how hard we try to do otherwise.

And my house?  Clutter.  Clutter everywhere.  Storage boxes containing childhood memories of Mark’s, office items, textbooks, etc. are everywhere.  Boy stuff is in various stages of sorting–outgrown clothes & toys to Goodwill, a few items for nostalgia’s sake to storage, and a plethora of junk to throw away. 

But the clutter is standing in my way.  Physically preventing me from following my dreams.  My plans that God has for me.  Just in the same manner as the former acquaintance raised Cain about my worth as a Christian in July, spreading copious untruths about me before I headed to North Carolina, these inanimate objects, strewn throughout my home, are making me second-guess my dreams today.

And just as I decided in July that the trials I went through were orchestrated by the devil to dissuade me from going to NC, I’ve realized the clutter in my house is doing the same thing…keeping me occupied so that I continue to leave the requests for columns, blog links, book proposals, and syndication packets on the back burner. 

What am I going to do about it?  Well, I think the realization that there is a problem is a big step in the right direction.  The world won’t come to an end because I have unfolded clothes in a heap on my floor.  My boys won’t be scarred permanently from temporarily sleeping on mattresses on their bedroom floors, while the new furniture awaits my painting the corresponding walls. 

I will do more of what I know I should be doing.  Praying.  Studying my Bible.  Reading some of those wonderful books I brought back in July (one on organization of clutter is a God-send!)>  Spending quiet time, each and every day, just sitting still and listening…so that I can hear when God is talking to me.   I want more than anything to keep my heart and mind on Jesus.