I like to fix things.  Blessed (sometimes cursed!) with a “way-type-A” personality (Mark’s observation, he was correct, as usual), I need situations to be resolved, harmony to be found in discord, and order to be made of entropy. 

Looking at my life and house today, you’d never know that about me.  Laundry’s piled up, begging to be washed.  The dishwasher’s contents are clean and sparkly, been that way for three days—if I’d just take the time to unload it, the sink full of dirty ones could take their place.
 
There are three, count ’em, three, unmade beds.  And what am I doing?  Sitting at my laptop, drinking my much-needed second cup of coffee, while the back door screen is open, allowing the coolness of the morning to creep into this messy house. 

My type-A personality has met its match–in my 8 year old.  As much as I want, I cannot “fix” Ben’s grief.  Struggling, with what looks like the weight of the world on his young shoulders, he’s just stumbling through life at the moment.  It breaks my heart.  No mother should have to watch as her two young sons try to make sense out of losing a close-to-perfect daddy.  He softened my rough edges.  He was the voice of calm and reason whenever my emotions got the better of me.  He was “Mr. Fun” to my “Mrs. Reality.”  He made everything in our lives run smoothly, and he made it look so effortless. 

But he’s gone, and the three of us are fumbling our way, trying to bring some sense of order and routine to the complete chaos we were left with. 

Ben’s feeling emotions now that he stifled, buried deep within him for months.  He tells me he has a “sucky life.”  When I press him for details, he tells me he’s stressed out at school, overwhelmed by homework and deadlines.  This from a child who has gotten 98, 99, and 100s on his report cards all year!  Whenever I ask him if others are struggling, too, he’s not sure.  I urge him to bring home the work so he can finish it without interruptions. 

He starts out in his own bed each night, but ends up in mine before daybreak most mornings.  His sparkly brown eyes seem a tad cloudy; in his normal happy-go-lucky gait, you see a slow, underlying sadness that just won’t let go.  His posture has begun to slump from the weight of the grief.  I am worried about him.  I don’t know what to do for him.

And this morning, as we are running late for school, he sits on the couch, in underwear and socks, hair uncombed.  I urge him, three or four times, to finish dressing, that time’s a-wasting.  Nothing.  In my next pass through the den, I raise my voice.  He bursts into tears, and runs to his room.  Great.  I am only human, and patience is a virtue I’m continually working on.  I go to apologize for yelling.  He finally finishes dressing and begrudgingly puts his backpack on.  I tell him there’s only 12 more days of school. 

This summer will hopefully be a season of healing.  With no schedules, no deadlines, no demands on any of us (except my outdoor column once weekly), I pray that we can begin to put our lives back together.  Right now, it feels like we’re functioning on a wing and a prayer, with a great deal of duct tape keeping us together. 

We’re broken.  We’re not sure of our future.  And as I see my Benny, seemingly drowning in a sea of grief and sadness–I want so badly to pull him from the deep water.  But I know I cannot.  Only God can do that, as He did for me, and for Andrew.  The water I tread isn’t quite as deep as it was, that’s for certain, but there are days that big giant waves still knock me off of my feet.  And let me tell you, the worst days I’ve had personally are nothing compared to watching my sons suffer their own personal pain.  I’ve lost a spouse, a lover, a best friend.  But they’ve lost their dad, their male role model. 

I pray for them, without ceasing.  I cry out to God and ask Him to take away their pain.  I ask Him to give their pain to me.  I’d give anything to see my Benny smile again, to hear that silly giggle, to see the light sparkling in those enormous brown eyes that seemingly look into my soul. 

It’s my job to see that he thinks he has a “sucky life” only for awhile.  I pray for the wisdom to get him through this.  I pray for God to reach in and pull him out of the deep water quickly. 

No mother wants to be witness to such pain……

As I typed that last sentence, in my mind, I see Mary, mother of Jesus, watching her son be crucified.  I cannot imagine her pain.  I feel so guilty.  Here I sit, worrying about my sons, when she had to endure His dying, right in front of her.  For sins He didn’t commit. 

Thank you, God, for putting that image into my mind.  For showing me that the pain I feel is nothing compared to the pain both you and Mary felt as you watched your Son hang on a cross for hours and die.  Surely I can help my sons get through this grief, with Your help. 

I look back at a new favorite devotion, from May 1st: 

April 30, 2012.  Nine months ago I lost the love of my life.  In many ways, it seems like a lifetime ago; in other instances, it seems like only yesterday.  Our family’s still suffering from aftershocks, from a post-traumatic stress syndrome of sorts.  One minute, we’ll be fine, laughing, having fun.  The next, crying as we miss and reminisce about a great guy that we were lucky enough to love and call our husband and daddy. 

Yesterday, I fulfilled one of my promises to him.  I ran the Oklahoma City Half Marathon for the second consecutive year.  When I completed it last year (my first attempt), Mark was so proud.  He gushed about me on his facebook page, which was so out-of-character for him.  He urged me, 12 months ago, to go ahead and book a hotel room, so I could run it again this year. 

I didn’t book the room, but it was in the back of my mind that I would, indeed, train and run it in 2012.  He would remind me at various times, and even had me promise that I would do it last June.  It seemed like an easy promise at the time.  But then July came and went, and I was now a widow. 
Training for a half marathon was the least important thing on my radar.  I began my usual routine of running 15 or 20 miles a week last fall, but didn’t think I had the drive nor time to train.  A good friend thought otherwise, and convinced me to register.  We, in turn, convinced another friend to go for it, too.

As the date approached for the marathon, I began to wonder if I could truly do it justice.  So much has happened in these past nine months.  I completed last year’s half in well under 3 hours; this year, I knew that probably wouldn’t happen.  I worried about how long it might take me this year.  Then it hit me…..who cares how long it takes?  Heck, I’ve literally had the rug pulled out from under me since last July.  Any finishing time is a victory for me…..just as long as I finish.  My crossing the finish line will be symbolic—it will prove that I’m still standing, still kicking, still in the game of life. 

So I ran.  And ran pretty well, until mile 11 (of 13.1 total miles).  My left hamstring developed a knot the size of a tennis ball.  It hurt.  Not sure why it happened, but I know it stopped me dead in my tracks.  My 12 minute mile average went down the toilet.  I slowed to a limping walk.  To add insult to injury, my iPod battery died, at 12.1 miles.  No more upbeat contemporary Christian music to urge me forward. 
What should I do?  I’ve come this far, but there’s no way I can run the rest of the way.  Saying a quick prayer, I massage the leg, and try to walk.  Surprisingly it doesn’t hurt too badly, so I continue walking.  And praying.  Those were the longest 2.1 miles of my life.  People passed me right and left, but I didn’t care.  All I wanted to do was finish. 

I finally spot the finish line, and hobble from a walk to a very-slow-jog.  I cross the finish line a few seconds short of 3:30…..not great, but not bad.  Such emotion washed over me as I accepted my medal.  The first thought I had?  I couldn’t wait to call Mark, like I did last year.  I wonder how long it will take my subconscious thought process to quit that.  As soon as the thought enters my mind, in a millisecond it’s replaced with the thought he’s not here to call anymore.  But it still occurs to me.

I’m thankful I’m still standing.  I don’t know what’s in store for the boys and me in the next months, but I’m ready for whatever God has in store.  I’m sore today, but the hamstring is better.  I’ll take a few days off to rest up before I head out and hit the trail again. 
I spent precious time with three friends, we each completed our chosen race in Oklahoma City.  I hope we can do it again next April. 

And my new favorite song, the one that gets my heart pumping and singing along on the run?  It’s by Group 1 Crew, “He Said”:

The house is quiet.  It’s Monday morning, 8:30 a.m., and I have way too much to accomplish today.  I really shouldn’t be sitting with my feet propped up, drinking this second cup of coffee.  But I’ve been putting off writing, and since this is intended to be a means to chronicle our journey through this grief for my boys, I’m taking time to blog.  This season of grief for me is much more introspective, which makes it more difficult to put down in writing.  There’s so many emotions running through me, I can’t put my finger on any one of them long enough to write.  But I’ll try…

It’s been a busy week.  I am continually amazed at how much work there is to be done around the house.  There’s always something that needs fixing, feeding, mowing, or cleaning.  My arrangement with Mark (he tends the outside perimeter of the house, I tend the inside) was really a pretty sweet deal for us both.  I got very very good at my tasks, he was proficient at his.  With him gone, I’m fumbling around at best with many of his chores. 

Since last blog, I’ve had the grim news that his riding lawn mower is irreparable.  No great surprise, given its age and the proximity to the woodpile, where rats scurried through it for a few months before I took them out.  But that’s just yet another issue to deal with.  As Roseanne Rosanna Danna so succinctly put it on SNL, “It’s al-ways something!”  A new one will need to be purchased.  Researching whether to buy new or used, zero turn or regular, Briggs & Stratton engine or Kohler—it’s maddening!  I’d much rather stick to research involving Dillard’s shoe sales or buying the latest Vera Bradley on clearance. 

The boys are doing okay.  Ben is dealing with enormous grief, and it’s difficult for him most days at school.  I’ve told him not to keep his feelings stuck inside, and that it’s okay to cry.  Unfortunately, crying during class has brought teasing from a couple of boys.  The vice-principal had a very long talk with them last week–maybe that will stop.

AJ?  Well his baseball team just won the mid-season Little League tournament yesterday, we spent alot of time at the ballpark this weekend.  He seems to be doing well, he tells me that his dad is with him on the field, urging him on, giving him advice.  I tell him I have no doubt that would be where Mark would want to be.  Even as lovely as heaven must be, being with his sons would be a very high priority, I’m sure of it.  He pitched a complete game on Saturday.  If I can get the boy bulked up a little, he’ll be able to put some speed behind his throws.  He is a natural, and baseball, his game.

I have a half-marathon to run next week.  In tip-top shape last year at this time, I’m struggling this year.  Guess I have a good excuse, given the circumstances of the past nine months.  I will be able to complete it, but not in the time I did last  year.  And that’s okay.  For this year’s finishing will be symbolic.  It will be so much more than just crossing a finish line and receiving a medal.  It will be proof that life has gone on.  Is it better?  No way.  I’d go back to the way things were in a heartbeat, if I could.  Life is just different.  I feel like a survivor.  The boys and I have gone through a firestorm, of sorts, and we’re still here. 

I catch myself looking ahead to our future, wondering what will happen, where will we go, where will we live, who will be in our lives……and a still small voice says, “Stop it!  Enjoy today.  Let Me worry about tomorrow.”  And laughter fills my car as two boys tease one another during the drive to school; I take a deep breath, fight back the tears, and join in. 

The possibilities of today are limitless.  I’ll try my best to enjoy it.

Today is my birthday.  I am 49.  Right on the cusp of a whole new decade, beginning the last year of my 40s….never did I dream that I would be celebrating it as a single mother to two boys, a widow of almost 9 months. 

I didn’t know what to expect today, what I would feel.  But I woke up feeling joy.  Pure, unadulterated joy that I have been blessed with this day, able to get out of bed, go worship my God with a church family that supports and loves us, and be with the two most important men in my life all day.

Is this the life I would’ve chosen?  Heck, no.
I responded to a friend’s Facebook birthday greetings saying I wish I could just be the person I was before last July, when Mark’s death forever changed me.  Her reply? 

There’s no way she could’ve known how much I needed to read that.  Because I’m not the Nancy I was before July 30, 2011.  I’m this Nancy, shaped by circumstances, sadness, grief, love, and uncertainty.  I’m standing because God has carried me, carried my boys through hell and back, as we’ve adjusted to be a family of three.  I can’t go back to who I was.

Some days, it’s easier than others.  On any given day, I can go from pure joy to sadness to tears to sighing to laughing, sometimes within a matter of minutes.  Talk about an emotional female 🙂  And I just roll with it.  What else can I do?

Last year at this time, Mark was taking me out for a romantic dinner, and I watched as he played with his food.  You see, unbeknownst to me, he’d had his diverticulitis attack two days earlier, out in the middle of Palo Pinto county while doing a grass carp inspection for work.  Totally alone, he recounted later the pain was so intense, that he doubled over, unsure if he could even make it back to the state truck.  I try not to wonder “what if,” but what if he’d been in his office when that attack happened?  Or at home with us?  In either of those circumstances, we would’ve rushed him to the hospital.  And maybe he would still be with us. 

But looking backwards and wondering what could’ve or should’ve been does nothing but create more sad memories for us in the present.  We can’t live in the past.  We don’t know about our future.  We are only promised “right now.”

And “right now,” I am looking out at my beautiful garden, the temperature’s a cool 73 degrees, the sun is shining, my roses are blooming, and my two boys think I’m the most wonderful mom in the world. 

Tomorrow?  I’m not going to worry about it.  My plans for us, long-term?  Haven’t the foggiest.  Where we will be in 3 to 5 years?  Not a clue. 

What I do know is that God will work out the details.  If He can set the universe in motion, and create all that I see and love, He can surely show me the path that I should follow.

 I talk to Mark, too, and tell him I need his guidance.  He had so many plans, and several of those I owe to his sons to fulfill.  I don’t know how in the world I am going to accomplish them, but I will. 

His legacy, his two sons & family land in Kansas, will be forever intertwined. 

Worrying about our future does no good.  Wondering if God has someone down the road to share in our lives does nothing to help me cope in the meantime. 

So, we do the best we can, and we move forward.  Never forgetting what we had, always a bit sad for what could’ve been, but enjoying the lives that God has given us to enjoy today. 

“Mama, will you pray for me?” 

I love those words.  Those are the words I heard tonight after I’d put both boys to bed. Lately, the boys have requested that I pray aloud for them, with them, as they drift off to sleep.   Tonight, Andrew seemed more settled and I didn’t want to upset him with the prayer.  I sneaked out, thinking I would steal a few minutes to relax in Mark’s big chair, maybe watch the local news and weather, or even write here in my blog.  You see, my boys, our boys, are having a hard time, especially at bedtime, missing their daddy.  I think it’s because he was so involved in their nightly routine, and the fact that they’ve slowed down, gotten quiet, and they have time to think about him more.  They think about what they’ve lost.  What they used to have. 

But Andrew needed that prayer tonight.  I cranked down from the chair, crawled into his bed, held him tightly and prayed. We pray for comfort, strength, wisdom, understanding.  We pray that God’s plan will be revealed to us.  We pray that our worries will go away, that we will relax and live for today, leaving God to work out the details of our future.

It’s tough for me, too.  The boys want separate rooms, and are sleeping that way.  But it makes it doubly hard on me.   Trying to comfort and console two sobbing boys, in separate rooms, at the same time, is practically impossible.  I’m doing the best that I can, we all are.  I hope that it is good enough to get us through this latest bump in the road.

“Mama, you are the best mom in the world.  I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

I love hearing that one, too.  It’s natural, I guess, that they’ve become more attached to me, more appreciative of the things I do.  Ben has moved out from my bed, which is a big deal.  He was becoming too attached, and we both needed our separate space. 

“Mom, when did you know that you loved Daddy?”

That’s a great one.  For me, it really was love at first sight.  It may sound like a tired old cliche, but it was true in our case.  It took awhile to get your Daddy to come around, but homemade brownies, piano music, and good old Kentucky Southern charm finally won him over. 

“Mom, why did God take Dad?”

I don’t have the answer to that one.  I never will understand God’s reasoning.  I’ve been told by many wiser people than me that on the day I stand face to face with Jesus, in heaven, I will understand it all.  In the meantime, no earthly explanation makes any sense whatsoever.  The best I can come up with is that bad things happen to good people all of the time.  No family is immune. 

Even in the midst of all this pain, I can look back over these past 8 plus months and see good things that have come from it.  I have developed a deeper relationship with my God, and I am a kinder, gentler, more patient woman and mother.  I don’t take anything for granted, and I’m striving to live every day the way Mark did, to the fullest.  I try to look for the positive in people and in situations, like he did.  I never heard the man utter one negative comment about anyone or anything, and that’s no exaggeration.  I could do alot worse than live like he did.  “Living like Daddy,” that’s my aspiration.

 Andrew and Ben, good kids before losing Mark, have become simply extraordinary.  They are so empathetic, so kind, generous to a fault.  They are fiercely protective of me, and of each other.  I know Mark’s so very proud.  They seem wise beyond their years.  It’s a direct result of their circumstances, and I can’t stop it.  So, instead I choose to embrace it, making sure they have abundant opportunities to “just be” 8 and 10 year old boys. 

We made it through Easter, and it wasn’t as hard as I expected.  That is a good thing.  We planned an over night getaway for that evening, with the boys being off yesterday;  Great Wolf Lodge was the diversion, and it was a resounding success.  They played, they swam, they waterparked.  They spent hours on MagiQuest throughout the lodge (a sort of interactive game with wands and specific quests/hunts for items).  I relaxed a bit, working on my column in the big cozy lobby while 3 boys cast spells and looked for clues. 

Mark didn’t get chosen for the spot in the Texas Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame this year.  I was initially disappointed, because I know in my heart he deserves it, but I was encouraged to re-submit him next year.  I have decided that time will give me a more objective perspective on his application, and I can make it so much better by next February.  See, there’s that positive spin I’m trying to put on things….

We’re healthy, we’re busy, and we’re making it.  There are happy moments interspersed in the midst of the tears and sadness.  We laugh.  We cry.  We remember.  We laugh some more. 

We know where Mark is.  We know that we will see him again.  The boys chuckle that they are sure that he’s cooked fish for Jesus, and that he free falls on a regular basis, just because he can.  They talk to him, and they say he talks back.  I believe them.  I can hear him urging me on, or chiding me whenever I do something he wouldn’t approve of.  I want to make him proud.  I’ll spend the rest of my life doing just that, raising his boys the way he wanted.  For they are his greatest legacy.

I made three trips to Ben Milam elementary school this morning, all in under an hour.  AJ had to be there early for UIL math work;  I took Ben at the normal time, only to find we’d forgotten his conduct folder at home, so I trekked back home, located it, and returned for the third time to the school.  Good thing that we 1) live within 1 1/2 miles of the school, and 2) drive a hybrid that gets good gas mileage. 

As I was returning from Milam for the last time this morning, I marvelled at how busy I stay.  Seems like there is always something to be attended to immediately, and I have lists of long-term jobs that I will get to “eventually.”  I again thanked God for the opportunity to be a full-time stay at home mom, even as a widow, because it allows me time to focus completely on our two boys and the busy lives we lead.

I then began to wonder…..if I didn’t have AJ and Ben, what would I be doing?  How would I be coping? 

Would I still be getting out of bed each morning?  Would I still have purpose?  Would I still think life was worth living?  Or would I be a total mess, staying in my pajamas all day long?  Holed up in a house that was once full of laughter and love, would I venture out, keeping old relationships and interests? 

A dozen different scenarios flood my mind.  I hope that I would still get up in the morning, keep myself busy, and continue living.  But it would be incredibly difficult.  Thankfully, I won’t find out.  Like it or not, I have no choice in the matter.  Two boys need raising, and there’s no one else to do it. 

As I was returning from dropping AJ off at baseball practice last night, I did a bit of yelling at Mark.  I’m not proud of it.  I yelled it should be him at practice with Andrew, he should be there with his glove, ambling out on the field, shagging flies, shouting encouragement, giving positive reinforcement to his son.  I’m a poor substitute, at best. 

This time last year, Mark was preparing to be a Little League umpire, he loved calling games.  He hoped it would be a fun thing to continue whenever he retired, and he was good at it.  Thick-skinned, with a self-assurance and self-confidence that rivaled anyone I’ve ever known, he was the perfect umpire.  Never got his feathers ruffled, never raised his voice, never got personal in conflicts with coaches (or parents).  Steady, with a conviction to always do the right thing, and with a love of the game that still amazes me, he would follow the rules, implicitly.  No shortcuts. 

That’s how he lived his life.  He followed the rules.  He didn’t take any shortcuts.  He “grabbed life by the horns” each and every day, enjoying and relishing both simple and not-so-simple tasks and experiences.  He was my hero.  He’s left a pair of big shoes to fill, but I’m doing the best that I can.

At least I know a bit about sports.  I’ve loved baseball since I was a kid, so I can carry on a reasonably-knowledgeable conversation with AJ, aka “Mr. Baseball.”  Andrew appreciates that, and realizes every mom may not know what an RBI (runs batted in) or SLG (slugging percentage) is.  I think he feels lucky that I do. 

I’m learning new things each and every day.  He taught me last night how a fantasy baseball team operates, and I advised him on his pitching staff.  Ben’s his “co-manager,” so they are working with sports on the computer, a win-win for them both. 

After we said our prayers, exchanged kisses, and said our goodnights, I sneaked back in to watch both of them, sleeping.  I’m so thankful I have them.  They give me a reason to get out of the bed in the morning, and they make me want to be a better person.  They make me believe that our little party of three will make it. 

Grief doesn’t maintain a schedule; there’s definitely no timeline.  Everyone grieves differently.  Some stages you get through, thinking there’s smooth sailing ahead, and then it all comes crashing down on you again.  Everything I read tells me this; I just want the hurt to get better for all three of us.

In our family, Ben is finally grieving.  He’s kept the majority of his emotions bottled up, just underneath the surface.  He’s my reflective child, the deep thinker who I sometimes think has the answers to all of the world’s problems.  But he doesn’t have his daddy anymore, and he finally came to grips with that after we returned home from Spring Break.  From not wanting to talk about Daddy at all, he now is okay with us discussing him, although it brings tears.  I tell him the tears are healing; I’m not sure he’s convinced.

He is lucky.  He has an older brother to comfort him; Andrew’s been through this already, and even though Ben’s emotions pull both Andrew and me back to a place we just thought we’d put behind us, he still consoles his little brother.   I try my best to keep us all going, but bedtime for the past week has been so hard.  They cry.  I cry.  I pray.  They pray.  We hold one another as closely as possible.  It’s all we know to do. 

Ben has great support at school.  His counselor is an angel to us all; she took both boys out of class last week and spent quite a bit of time with them.  The principal took Ben into his office and shared his own personal story of loss and grief with him.  Ben’s dealing with many emotions, one of which is anger.  I told him God can take it; I’ve been mad at both God and Mark at various times since last July. 

I will never understand God’s plan when it includes taking a vibrant, loving, hands-on Christian daddy from two young sons.  I guess I don’t have to.  A close family friend told me that I will understand it all whenever I am face to face with Jesus.  Only then will it all make sense.  In the meantime, while we’re left here, I just have to accept that He knows what He is doing.  I pray that good will come out of all of this pain and grief.

Baseball season is upon us, and watching that blonde lanky 10 year old on the field makes my heart skip a beat.  Flash back 40 years, and it could be his dad stroking a rope to center field, or making the play at first base.  He loves the game, and the game loves him. 

So, we’re making it.  Mark’s mom and his sister, Kathy, travel to Wichita Falls tomorrow.  They haven’t been here since his services in August.  We’re all looking forward to the visit, but know it will be bittersweet. 

Andrew commented tonight on how we’re doing as we drove home, just the two of us in the jeep;  I told him I thought we were doing okay, considering the crappy circumstances.  I also told him it would get better.  His reply?  “I don’t know how it could get any worse.”  My answer?  “I know how—we could be trying to do this without God.”

We went outside to play with Mark’s dog, Maggie, who’s become our dog.  It was just before sunset, and she was elated.  As the two boys gave chase to her, and she was outrunning and outsmarting them, I wished for Mark.  He would’ve been laughing louder and harder than the three of us put together.  Just as the thought of Mark crossed my mind, I heard honking….three Canada geese flew so low overhead that we could almost touch them.  I know in my heart it was no coincidence.  Mark was letting us know that he was there. 

Dear Andrew and Ben,

It’s been awhile since I felt compelled to write to you specifically.  You know that this entire blog is for you, for your comfort at some point down the line whenever you are old enough to grasp the enormity of what we’ve all lost. 

But I am astounded at the level of maturity I see in you both since your Dad’s death; you weren’t slouches by any means before, but you’ve had to grow up in ways I never wanted in these past eight months.  You bear a burden that no 10 and 8 year olds should have to bear.  And I would give anything to be able to take this hurt away from you, to give you your fantastic Christian daddy back. 

I know we’ve been rocking along pretty well the past couple of months, things have somewhat settled into some semblance of a new normal;  I liken it to being on a boat (freshwater lake, you know that’s where Dad would want us), and we’ve had clear and calm weather for a bit.  But this past week, we’ve hit some waves, some bad weather that seems to be tossing us to and fro on that formerly-calm water. 

It began for me, again, as we travelled back to Kentucky for spring break; foolishly, I didn’t think it would be any “big thing”, but I was wrong.  Being back in my hometown, travelling to places where I was with your daddy, where we fell in love, etc…was very difficult.  I tried my best to put on a brave face, but you both know that there were a couple of times that I lost it, and thank you so much for comforting me. 

While in Kentucky, we missed Texas, and were so glad to get back home.  However, I think coming back here was even more upsetting for you both.  The last time the three of us returned from KY without your daddy, he was eagerly and anxiously here, anticipating our return.  I can still hear the loud whoops and hollers of joy and laughter, as you two scrambled out of the car, opened the utility room door, and crawled all over him with hugs and kisses.  Wish I had a picture of it. 

This time, there was no one to greet us, just a lonely cat and dog. 

Every night since we’ve returned, bedtime has been difficult for you both.  I’m sorry that I don’t know what to do for you, except hold you and cry along with you.  I feel so inadequate and I squeeze you as tightly as I can, knowing that it’s still not as strong as your Daddy hugged you. 

I pray for you.  All the time.  I know how much I miss him, and I truly cannot fathom how much you two do.  I know he was your favorite 🙂  My goodness, he was everyone’s favorite.  Fun-loving, full of what we jokingly call “hooey”, always with a sparkle in his eye and mischief somewhere in that intelligent brain of his.  He was “one in a million,” as you so succinctly put it last night, Benjamin.

But he lives on in you.  I am so proud of you both.  You’re taking a terribly sad, unfair situation, and you’re living anyway.  He may have been one in a million, but there are two more Howell men in my house that will no doubt rival their daddy when they are all grown up. 

Last night, as I tried to comfort you, A.J., I asked if you would like to wear one of Daddy’s t-shirts to sleep in.  I was at a loss, and it was a shot in the dark.  You agreed, and I went to one of the drawers that I have avoided for the past 8 months and pulled out a soft white cotton T.  Being an XL, it swallowed you, but it gave you comfort.  Heck, it gave me comfort, as I hugged you tightly, smelling the clean scent, feeling the soft fabric over your warm beating heart.  You and Ben may have found new sleeping attire.

I pledge to do whatever it takes, and I mean WHATEVER, to get us through this.  We are so lucky to have good friends, family, and a tremendous support system at both school and church.  I realize I cannot be everything for you, and I need to be able to ask for help, especially from good male friends. 

As we shopped the aisles of Academy last evening, I thought, “Yep, this is another thing I never thought I would do….shop for a new aluminum baseball bat.”  But we did it.  Together we figured out what length, what ounce would work to get your power stroke going, Andrew.  I look forward to cheering you on as you take the field in a couple of weeks.

And as you both lay in your bed every night, after saying your prayers, talking to your Daddy….you can rest assured that he is there.  That was part of the bargain the day I let him go to heaven.  I told him that as fun as heaven was going to be, and as busy as he was going to be, he would still have to be near us, especially near you two, all the time. 

After I turned off all the lights, enabled the security system, and headed for bed….my nightly ritual continued as I watched both of you sleep.  I thank my God for you everytime I think of you, everytime I look at you.  And before crawling into my big bed, I got down on my knees, literally, and asked for help, wisdom, and discernment in this part of the storm.