I’m exhausted.  Emotionally, physically, and mentally.  Not how I hoped to be at the end of the boys’ Spring Break.  In years past, Spring Break has been spent skiing in New Mexico, in Beaver Creek, Colorado (where I was witness to the most beautiful snow ever!), and in places like Oklahoma City (watching the Thunder, strolling the botanical gardens & zoo). 

Last year, Mark and I split the time up, he and Andrew heading to our Kansas pasture land to work on musk thistles….Ben and I headed to Kentucky to check on my mom and extended family.  It was necessary, we had responsibilities in two states, but miserable to be apart.  We swore never to do that again.  And we didn’t, as long as he was alive.

But for this Spring Break,  I took our two sons, loaded up our Jeep, and headed to Kentucky in the most torrential rain I’ve ever driven in last Sunday.  It rained, literally, on us for 12 hours…from the time we left our driveway, until the time we pulled into my mom’s.  I was thankful for many things, but mostly for the 4WD available on our vehicle.  I engaged it in East Texas, never missed a beat driving in rain so heavy at times that I could not see a car length ahead of me.  I didn’t take it off until arriving safely in Mayfield, KY.

I could write a half dozen blog entries about my trip.  I may, before all is said and done.  I had been doing so well here, riding out the latest wave of peace and solitude—I didn’t think it would be that hard to be in Kentucky without Mark.  I was wrong.  Everywhere I turned, everywhere I looked, I was bombarded with reminders.  Reminders of our dating days.  Of how early spring in Western Kentucky is so very beautiful, remembering how wonderfully in love two young biology graduate students were in 1987 and 1988. 

I had to deal with greeting friends and family who hadn’t seen me since becoming a widow.  It ripped the scab clean off the wound I thought was healing so well.  I cried.  A lot.  At the most inopportune and crazy times. 

Precious time was spent with my mom, brother, sister in law, and two nieces.  It’s tough on them all, they all loved Mark, too.  The littlest one, almost 8, still can’t talk about him.  He spent time with her, sitting with her, being interested and involved in her endeavors.  He had a way of making you feel you were the only person in the world, whether you were his wife, his sons, his nieces, or his friend. 

Looking for a distraction, I took the boys to our old cinema to see “John Carter” on family night, where admission was only $5 a head; thinking the place would be packed, I was disappointed to see that we were 3 of only 4 people in the entire theater.  The place looked totally different than how I remembered it.  Why is it that as an adult, when you visit places you regularly went to as a kid, everything looks smaller? 

As the theater lights dimmed, the three of us were stunned to see an American flag on screen, with the Star Spangled Banner playing.  The native behind us stood up, placing her hand over her heart.  We followed suit, and I sang the words out boldly, in the darkness of the empty theater.  As it ended, A.J. commented, “Well, that was awkward.”  But it is a tradition at that particular cinema, before each show.  Gotta love small towns, right? 

The movie was spectacular.  It made me sob like a baby on the way home.  John Carter, the hero, is a soldier who loses his wife and child in a fire while he is away at war.  He finds them, buries them, and wears two wedding rings on his hand (just as I did for months after losing Mark).  I don’t want to ruin the plot for those of you who may go and see it, but after several years, he finds true love again, albeit on Mars.  He removes those rings and moves forward with his life.  This is why I cried.  It was embarrassing.  In the darkness, travelling on a road that I’ve ridden on and driven thousands of times, I cried so hard I could not speak.  The boys, in the backseat, reached forward, comforting me. 

I thought I had it all together.  I thought I was ‘enough.’  I keep putting one foot in front of the other, but deep down, I wonder if I will ever feel whole again.  My boys look to me to be the glue that holds us together, their shelter in a storm.  I know that without God, I am nothing. 

I feel overwhelmed.  I have pasture land in Kansas that I need to walk, looking for musk thistles.  I have taxes to file.  I have decisions that have to be made.  Where is home?  Where will be home for us in the future? 

For the first time since leaving my parents’ home in Kentucky, I realize with 100% certainty that my home is not there.  It is not in Kentucky.  I found myself yearning for Wichita Falls, for my home, my dog and cat, my friends, my warm comfy bed. 

But what about Kansas?  It’s where Mark wanted us to be.  It’s where our sons’ heritage is.  They are the only representatives of the next generation of Howells, for land that’s been in this family for over 100 years.  It is the land he loved.  And, since I loved him so much, I love it, too.  His mom’s moved from the homeplace into a duplex in town.  What will become of the farm?  It worries me.  I cannot take care of two homes in two states. 

All of these questions and possible scenarios play through my head, and this past week, it has ruled my life.  I pray for wisdom and discernment as the situations work themselves out.  I’m at a loss; God will be very busy helping me in the days, weeks, and months to come. 

This I do know for sure….Wichita Falls Texas never looked as good to me as it did last evening, right around 5:30 p.m.  As we rounded Henry Grace Freeway and started the westward trek on Southwest Parkway, heading toward the Howell Four Sixes Ranch, all three of us perked up just a little.  This, friends, is our home for now. 

And as far as the future goes? Well, I just have to borrow the old line from the gospel song:

A manila folder filled with handwritten thank you notes, from a elementary class that Mark took seining on Lake Arrowhead.  Hand-drawn pictures from his sons, held on to the side of a filing cabinet with magnets of fish and German-shorthaired pointers.  Textbooks.  Field Guides.  Publications with several of his papers inside, from places like Pittsburgh, Chattanooga, San Francisco, Baltimore, Davenport IA.  A one-cup coffeemaker, gathering dust.  A bulletin board filled with pins, nametags, certificates, and photos.  A calendar on the wall, still showing July 2011, just as he left it.

I encountered all of the above, and so much more, as I began packing Mark’s office items into boxes today.  Several months ago, I’d gone & removed much of his personal belongings from his desk; I kept putting off sorting through the bookshelves and cabinets, of taking the rest of his stuff off of the office walls.  Today I thought I could make it.  Surely I could drive that familiar route, in a Toyota truck that could probably get there on automatic pilot, without the tears that usually accompany me.  It was a cold, rainy day in Wichita Falls, and my mood was a bit dreary, too.

Surprisingly, I didn’t shed any tears while there.  In some way, it seems that I have succeeded in partitioning off this part of my grief, and packing his professional items away is a duty I must complete.  His two sons, now only 10 and 8, will want some of these things in the future.  Right now, I do not have a clue as to what will be important to them—neither do they.  So, I will throw away nothing, and at some point down the road, we will open these matching turquoise blue rolling plastic containers, and reminisce about the most wonderful father a kid could possibly have.  Then we will decide what should stay and what should go. 

I stayed about an hour or so, and the task will take several days to complete.  Folks have offered to help me, but it’s really something I want to do alone.  I enjoy running my hands over his textbooks, looking at old limnology tests from Murray State; chuckling at a desk calendar from April 1986, where on the day before my 25th birthday (4/14/86), he has in bold print: “Pop the big one to Nancy.” meaning propose to me.  He planned everything, was sentimental and therefore saved everything.  Ben is exactly the same way, as evidenced by his massive collection of used electronics and stuffed animals.

I miss him terribly.  Always will.  But I’m finding that the bitter taste of his being gone is becoming tempered with the sweet memories I am reminded of dozens of times a day.  I can walk into what was his office without bursting into tears.  I can lovingly pack a box full of his professional items without losing it. 

But I still can’t write about it without crying. 

I’ve learned to drill holes into a broken fence, and mend it with the proper screws.  I’ve become great at using the weed-eater, and now I know how to fix it (yep, I broke it).   I reserved a hotel room for my boys & me, using some of our hard-earned Marriott points, staying for free (Mark absolutely loved a bargain!).  I finally succeeded in building and maintaining a wonderfully-warm fire in our fireplace today (it’s harder than it looks).  It may not sound like much, but all of these items were a first for me, things that were taken care of by Mark. 

His love and confidence in me continue, even as he watches over us from his new vantage point in heaven.  I feel him urging me on, to take responsibility, to try new things.  I hear him gently reminding me to be a good steward of what he and I worked so hard to accomplish financially.  I imagine him smiling, all the time, just like he did while he was here on earth.  And if I still want to see him, I don’t have to look far.  For his sons, one who looks just like him, the other, who acts just like him, are living proof that there once was a scrawny farm kid from Kansas who lived and became everything God wanted him to be.  I hope that someday someone will say the same about me. 

I looked out my bedroom window this afternoon, and caught a glimpse of a pair of doves, snuggled close together on a branch of a tree.  Mates already, they huddled against the cold rainy wind, and it made me smile.  Life’s easier whenever you have someone by your side, on good days, as well as bad.

Without Mark physically by my side, I’m huddling with his two sons.  And my God.   Together, we can get through anything.

“I miss Daddy.”  “Tell us a story about Daddy, you know, one we haven’t heard before..”  “Tell us again about how when you were pregnant and so fat that Daddy would come up behind you while you were sitting in a dining room chair & grab your bottom, hanging off both sides, telling you how beautiful you were carrying his sons.”  “Mom, I feel Daddy close by.  Do you?”

I get those questions, and dozens more each and every day.  My sons are no dummies.  They are intelligent, empathetic, loving boys, growing into young men so quickly that it hurts my head sometimes.  We talk about Mark daily, multiple times daily.  No subject is off-limits; I’ve answered their questions while laughing, crying, so choked up that I can hardly speak, and even matter-of-factly, with little emotion at all.  The emotions associated with grief and loneliness are a Pandora’s box, a Forrest Gump’s “box of chocolates”—I truly never know what “I will get” whenever I reminisce about the man that loved Andrew and Benjamin (and me) more than anything else in this world, besides his God. 

All three of us miss being loved that passionately.  I know that he loves us still, up in heaven, but that tangible, physical extension of his love is gone.  I can grab our sons and squeeze them tight, but it will never replace the bear hugs of their dad.  I can hold their hands, but never quite recreate the safe, warm secure grasp that his hand had when he was holding mine.  I can only hope, at some point, God will see fit to send someone into our lives that will appreciate a 48 year old woman with two
elementary school-aged boys.

For years, I have marvelled at how “lucky” I was to have found Mark.  We were two halves, making a perfect whole.  Then it hit me today–it wasn’t luck that brought Mark and me together.  It was answers to prayers.  My prayers.  At age 22, I began praying for God to send someone into my life, someone that would be my better half.  And God did.  Mark often joked that I prayed him “out of Nebraska” where he was working a temporary job in fisheries.  While there, he realized that he must pursue a Master’s degree program to be able to secure his dream job.  And the program he chose? Well, it was in Murray, Kentucky, where I was waiting.  Looking back, that poor guy didn’t have a chance.  We were brought together by a God who has a sense of humor, and we had 25 years of fun, love, and laughter together.

Am I being selfish to want to find that again somewhere down the road?  Is what I had truly a “once in a lifetime” love, or will God open my heart (and my sons’ hearts) to someone else in our future? God only knows.  I do know this.  If I live to be 100 years old, I will continue to love the father of my children.  He was the single most important earthly influence in my life, and he was my first love.  But I also think that the human heart has great capacity for love, and that, if God sees fit, I might have room in mine for another, all in God’s time. 

Am I ready for that now?  I honestly don’t know.  I know that I miss adult conversation.  I miss cooking.  I miss debating the day’s news items with my best friend.  I miss having someone to laugh with over the boys’ escapades.  I miss sharing a good microbrew with someone while watching college basketball or major league baseball. 

Whatever happens down the road, I am content.  For all that I’ve been through, I can honestly declare that I am in a good place.  I am comfortable in my own skin, feeling more at ease daily with my new-found responsibilities and power as head of the household.  And I just have to trust that God knows what He’s doing.  As one of my newer Christian friends shared with me this week, “Nancy, I was with you on the worst day of your life.  Seeing you now, how you have progressed, is wonderful.  But I want you to know this:  God didn’t pull you out of that deep water you were drowning in, after losing Mark, just to leave you in the shallow end still all wet.  He will continue to hold your hand, and walk with you the rest of the way out, until you’re all dried off.” 

So here I stand, in the shallow end of the pool.  Am I ready to step out, dry off, and move ahead?  I’m still not sure….

Mark’s laughing at me today, I just know it.  You see, I don’t think heaven would truly be heaven for Mark Howell unless he could see his sons growing and prospering, and well, he sees me, too, I’m sure of it.  I’ve felt his presence several times since his untimely death, especially at night, as I have our two sons snuggled in on either side of me, in our big king-sized bed. 

He’s probably shook his head a few times at me, but today, I truly think I almost heard him laughing.  You see, we have a garden spot out in our front courtyard.  He made it his mission to work that ground each spring.  He would plant flowers, tomatoes, peppers, and other vegetables.  He threatened to plant sweet corn and okra…but I convinced him that his wife, a Kentucky native, would never hear the end of it if there was 6 foot tall sweet corn growing in the front of her house.

The garden spot was his baby.  Oh, he tried to get me involved.  I would occasionally weed it, or pick the produce that was growing in it, but 90% of the time, it was his baby.  Last year, he said, for the umpteenth year in a row, “Sugar, do you think that next year you could help out with the garden?  It would really be nice..” and I nodded in agreement, mainly to get him off of my back.  I had enough to do around here, without adding that to my list.

Fast forward to this year.  I don’t have him anymore.  Every responsibility that he had is now mine.  My list has grown exponentially.  And so have the weeds in our courtyard.  So, today, I got on my gardening clothes and gloves, found the garden hoe, and began work.  That’s when I could’ve sworn I heard him chuckling.  Yes, dear, I am helping with the garden this year.  I probably won’t do it as well as you did, but it will just have to be good enough.  I’ve pruned the rose bushes, gotten rid of the dandelions, and I’m on my hands and knees, pulling weeds by hand amongst the prize perennial butterfly plants that his master naturalist friends gave us.  It will get done, but it’s slow going for now. 

On another front, I’ve got a new slab of concrete in my front yard.  It was poured earlier in the week, and will allow me to pull his truck over to the side, out of the way of our double car garage.  For in the garage is a shiny new red Jeep Wrangler. 

Before his death, we talked at length about purchasing a 4wd vehicle, a Jeep, one that we could use on our Kansas land.  A four door one, with room for two boys who are going to be tall.  They have just about outgrown the back seat of his truck already.  We talked of going camping with it, off-roading in it, going to friends in Colorado with it.  All part of our intricate plan.  Until he died, and left us trying to piece together our lives without him. 

The thought of that 4wd Jeep would just not go away.  I tried to put it out of my mind, really, I did.  I made a “pro” and “con” list, hoping to talk myself out of getting one.  I solicited opinions from three close friends. And when push came to shove, I decided to start looking for a Jeep.  I looked at used ones.  I drove a Toyota FJ Cruiser, but it didn’t have enough room in the back seat for my growing sons.  I couldn’t afford the Jeeps in Wichita Falls, but found a pretty red one (my favorite color) in nearby Henrietta.  The boys and I travelled on President’s Day to take a look at it & drive it.  Long story short, I used my savvy car-dealing skills learned at the feet of the master (Mark), and got a heck of a deal.  I drove it home last Tuesday. 

In my quest to become an outdoors woman, to be the best kind of mom I can be for my sons, I now have a Jeep to help in that journey.  It’s so funny, whenever we drive it, none of us can wipe the smiles off of our faces.  The hard tops come off, and with this lovely 80 plus degree weather, we’ve enjoyed the wind in our hair and the sun on our faces.  Coming back from the gun club Thursday, Andrew, laughing, with his blonde hair blowing around, exclaimed, “Mom, this is the best!” 

I see his dad, nodding in agreement, flashing that million-dollar grin. So I have a truck to haul my bird dog and firewood in, a hybrid car for long trips, and a Jeep for nothing but fun.  My boys and I are going off-roading tomorrow, I have room for two more people.  If you’re in the Wichita Falls area & interested, give me a call. 

Life is short, friends.  I don’t have Andrew and Ben’s daddy around anymore.  He put off so many fun things, just because he thought he had all the time in the world.  He didn’t.  None of us knows how much time we’ll be given.  So, for the time I have left, I’m going to embrace the good, shake off the bad, and make the most of every day.  I’m making memories with my boys…good memories to go along with the great ones they have of the four of us. 

And….I really look good in red.

With all due respect to the last time I saw that in print, I am confident as I proclaim “mission accomplished”….I overnighted Mark’s nomination packet to Athens TX at 5:10 p.m. last evening, a full 50 minutes before the post office closed.  It was a full day, a day that started with a sick 4th grader staying home with me; I feared that taking care of him would keep me from finishing my overwhelming task at hand, but it did not.  Thankfully he began to feel better around noon, as evidenced by his ability to play indoor basketball with the goal on the front hallway door. 

As I travelled home from the post office, I had such a jumble of emotions inside, all welling up to the surface.  I was relieved, proud of my work, even prouder of my husband’s work, tired, emotionally and physically exhausted, melancholy, and running on pure adrenaline.  I can only compare it to the feelings I experienced after Mark’s services in both Texas and Kansas.  It was like I had run a marathon, and had crossed the finish line, tired and drained, but still satisfied I’d run a decent race.

My friends Mike & Carol, who had come over Sunday to help me edit my narrative, came by last evening, and we toasted to Mark….and to a body of work that should be recognized by the Athens TX committee.  I bought special Boulevard beer (Kansas City brewed, one of Mark’s favs), “Double-wide IPA” (complete with a pic of a trailer on it!).  We drank.  We ate pizza.  We laughed.  We cried.  We shared Mark stories.  I do not know what I would do without my friends. 

As I was reading the narrative over the phone to my mom in Kentucky yesterday morning (she’s also one of my editors, even long-distance), I thought Andrew was asleep on the couch, not feeling well.  After I ended our conversation, he came over to me.  “Mom, I woke up just before you starting reading that to Nana.  My dad was really something, wasn’t he?”  “Yes son, he was!”  He then told me how proud he was that I had worked so hard to get this stuff together to honor his dad.  Andrew is proud of ME.  Wow.  That means more than I can express in this…mere words in no way can convey what that meant to me.  And after I returned home from the post office, packet mailed, both boys were jubilant.  They get it.  They know how lucky their dad was, getting paid to do a job he loved.  I can only hope that someday, our boys get the same opportunity.

Bedtime was 9:30 last night for us all.  I slept like a baby, for the first time in weeks.  This morning, I can see how much I neglected while on my quest for Mark.  There’s not a clean spoon in my kitchen (and we have about a dozen).  Two days’ worth of dishes are piled in the sink (the dishwasher’s clean dishes sit, ready to be put away);  laundry, well, it’s piled up, too.  All that stuff will be addressed, but for now, I’m going to have my second cup of coffee, prop up my feet, and savor my mission accomplished for just another 30 minutes. 

For those interested, I am posting my narrative I sent in to the committee.  Warning: it may make you cry.  And for anyone worried that I embellished any facts (you will remain nameless, and I doubt you can even sign on to the internet), I sent along a detailed listing of accomplishments & awards that back up every statement made.  He was amazing.  And he was all mine.  🙂
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Procrastination:  the act of procrastinating; putting off or delaying or deferring an action to a later time; to put off doing something, slowness as a consequence of not getting around to it…

My name is Nancy.  I am a procrastinator.  I’ve been one most of my life. In the past 7 months, I’ve been more of a go-getter….I haven’t had a choice.  Procrastination is for those who can afford to let things go, and I certainly haven’t had that luxury in most areas of my hectic life since becoming head of household in an earthly family of three. 

But this weekend, the rubber meets the road.  I have procrastinated, in a large degree, about a project that must be postmarked and delivered to Athens TX by the 29th of February.  That’s a mere 4 days away!  The project is something very important to me, and I must give it my all. 

On October 25 (coincidentally, Mark’s birthday), I received a press release from TPWD.  No biggie, since I subscribe to them, get them on a regular basis as the Outdoor writer for the local newspaper.  But this one was different.  It was announcing that nominations for the Texas Freshwater Fisheries Hall of Fame are being accepted until February 29, 2012.  It goes on in detail to explain that a person, living or dead, or an organization can be nominated.  They will be judged by a committee in various areas, including fisheries management expertise, civic involvement, betterment of fishing in Texas due to the actions of this person/organization, etc.  When I read it, I immediately thought of Mark.  I realize I am a bit prejudiced, but his accomplishments are many and if I can put together this application in time, he might have a legitimate shot of getting in. 

Now, way back in October, February 29th was 4 months away.  I’ve solicited folks to submit memories, have gone through 20 years of his desk calendars to find specific information, and his lovely regional secretary combed through his performance evaluations to give me highlights from his illustrious career. Local folks have shared wonderful stories.  I have letters from fellow board members, students, folks he mentored, and the general public that have brought me to tears.  Good tears, mind you, but tears nonetheless. 

I’ve looked through 20 years of photos, both film-based and digital.  I’ve scanned through years of outdoor columns, tv interviews, and gone through boxes of plaques and recognition certificates from many organizations.  He was one busy guy.  He gave so much to the community, so much above and beyond what his job description was.  I just want to do this right.

But the clock is ticking.  I need to pull it all together.  And I’m starting to panic, just a wee little bit.  The procrastinator in me sees the handwriting on the wall.  At the very latest, I need to take the completed packet of information to my local post office no later than Monday afternoon;  I will gladly pay the exorbitant amount of money to have it over-nighted to the committee in Athens.

I know it will come together, it always does.  I’ve neglected my housework, my boys, and my running schedule, all in order to finish this submission.

On some level, I think that finishing this application and mailing it in will mark another chapter in my healing process.  I want more than anything to have this man honored in this very meaningful way.  It would be the icing on the cake, a way to cement his contributions for all to see, in the Texas Freshwater Fisheries Center in Athens, TX.

And if, for some reason, he’s not chosen this year?  I’ll re-submit him again next year.  Because even though I am a procrastinator, I am persistent and tenacious.  He taught me well.

Time marches on.  Whether I like it or not, it’s been almost seven months since I became a widow and single mom to two amazing boys.  Whenever Mark died, more than one person told me that Andrew and Ben would grow up more quickly in some respects;  they most certainly have.  As I’ve encountered this, I’ve chosen to embrace it, since I cannot stop it from occurring.  It is not necessarily a bad thing.  I’ve seen more compassion, more thoughtfulness, and more empathy in them; I’ve also seen a quiet, subtle sadness that makes my heart ache. 

But such is life.  I am saddened that they have to travel this road with me, but at the same time, so thankful I don’t have to travel it alone.  By “alone,” I mean in the physical sense only—I’m glad that my house remains loud, boisterous, and anything but dull.  I cannot imagine going through life a widow without my precious sons. 

They are growing by leaps and bounds.  Both are over 56″ tall, almost up to my shoulders.  My latest facebook posts show Andrew, outdoors playing catch with me, and Benjamin, showing off his robotic alligator he spent all day building.  They are so different and yet so alike; the perfect combination of both Mark and me, all jumbled up into two tween bodies.  I dread the upcoming changes that will take over, as puberty, hormones, and boy questions beg to be addressed…but I trust that God will give me the wisdom to handle whatever they throw my direction.

Yesterday, I tackled mowing our enormous (at least by WF standards, a 1/2 acre) yard.  We here in North Texas haven’t had much of a winter to speak of, so mowing has remained a chore throughout this season.  We have a riding mower, sitting on our back porch.  Don’t get me started about that, it’s something Mark and I agreed to disagree about.  I’ve never ridden a mower, my Kentucky daddy informed my husband before we married in 1988 that “mowing was man’s work” and that I had never even started a mower, riding, push, or otherwise. 

I had occasionally used our push mower, a self-propelled beast that is actually easy to run.  Since Mark’s death, I’ve mowed both front and back yards, using only this mower, because I haven’t a clue as to how to run the riding monster.  Heck, I don’t even know where the key is.  Mark hid it from our mechanically-inclined son, Ben, whenever he was barely 2 years old.  I’m hopeful I can locate it before summer rolls around. 

Mark always told the boys that once they became 10, they could 1) shoot a shotgun and 2) help with the yard mowing.  Andrew’s actively working on that first one, we’ve been duck hunting, and he’s now shooting trap through 4-H twice a week.  The yard mowing, though, I’ve been hedging (no pun intended) on.  I don’t know why I’ve been stalling…Andrew is more than mature enough to take my instruction on using the self-propelled mower.  He is strong enough to engage it, smart enough to grasp the mechanics of it, and has more energy in his lanky 75 lb body than I will ever have in my almost-49-year-old one. 

So, last night, I gave in.  Mowing 6 inch high grass in 40+ mph winds (hello, now I know what the Dust Bowl was all about!), I glance at the back porch.  Andrew’s sitting in the chair, sad because I told him “not today” again.  He’d already declined the weed eating option, he’s been doing that for over a year, and today, it’s all about conquering something new.  As I make my umpteenth pass by the porch, I catch his attention, and wave him over to me.  I swear, he literally sprang off of that porch, his face a mixture of jubilation and disbelief.  “You’re going to let me mow??”  he exclaims.  “Heck, yeah, if you think you can handle it!”  I reply. 

After a few instructions on general operation and safety, I pull the mower start cord, and off he goes.  As I stand, no hover, nearby, making sure my “baby” is doing all the things correctly, I can’t help but notice that he looks a little taller…a little older, as he walks our yard, handling the mower with the maturity of a much older kid than 10. 

He mowed for quite awhile, and did a good job.  He will be ready to do it again, and looking at our weather forecast, he’ll definitely get the opportunity soon. 

Yep, time, it marches on.  I can’t stop it.  All I can do is follow the advice of a very wise man that I knew and loved for over a quarter century—embrace it, grab hold of every day, and have no regrets. 

Hurdles.   Although I am a runner/jogger, and have been for almost 2 years now, I wouldn’t for one second consider myself athletic enough to jump hurdles in track.  I’ve always been fascinated by the prowess necessary to accomplish that feat.  I cannot imagine what thought process occurs inside a hurdler’s head as they are running as quickly as possible, then look ahead, see a hurdle, and make the adjustments necessary to hit their stride, anticipate the exact moment whenever they must leap over the obstacle, and clear it.  Afterwards, they must kick it into high gear once again, because there’s another hurdle set up in their sight, and the process begins yet again.

I may not be physically running hurdles, but emotionally and spiritually, I’m becoming quite skilled at attempting them.  I’ve labelled major life events since losing Mark as my own personal hurdles.  Let’s see, in quick succession, since losing him, my family’s experienced: 1)pulling together services in two states, including an out-of-state burial, 2) beginning of school for our boys, 3)what would’ve been our 23rd wedding anniversary, 4) what would’ve been his 56th birthday, 5) Halloween, 6) Thanksgiving, 7) Christmas, 8) Andrew’s birthday, 9)New Year’s, 10) probate of Mark’s will, and 11) Valentines Day.  Makes my head hurt just to type these.  And that’s just the major ones, there have been numerous, smaller hurdles that I’ve encountered along the way.  Those are just becoming part of the new daily normal my family’s trying to live. 

Some, like significant dates (anniversary, birthdays, holidays, etc.) stretch out in front of me, and I try the best I can to prepare for them.  Honestly, none of them have been easy, although some have been easier to jump than others.  For example, Thanksgiving?….the absolute toughest thus far.  However, Christmas, which I dreaded worse because of my Thanksgiving hurdle, was not as bad as anticipated. 

The hardest ones are those that sneak up on me, like the will probate.  Or the hurdle last week that blocked my path and knocked me on my backside—a school situation where my younger son was being bullied by a couple of classmates.  My boys have always been popular, good students, no trouble to teachers (that I am aware of ), and are generally great kids.  My older son is an enviable combination of athleticism, personality, and brains—his dad always said he took after him (LOL).  The younger son is different, always has been.  His great personality and brains are not disputed, but his athletic abilities are yet to show themselves in any grandiose way.  He’s okay with that.  He doesn’t have the competitive drive and spirit that his older brother has; he’s content to be part of the crowd, developing his musical and computer skills.  He’s built his own website.  He’s already the resident geek squad at our house. 

He is a gentle giant, without a mean bone in his body.  He never complains.  So whenever he casually mentioned that a kid pushed him aside during PE, as he was attempting to catch a ball, telling him “he couldn’t catch it anyway,” I talked with him about it, but dropped it soon after.  He told us that kids were taunting he and another 3rd grader about their inability to play sports as well as some of the others.  He mentioned it again a 2nd time;  and on Friday, whenever he happily told me it was library day for him, so he wouldn’t have to go to PE—I knew we had a problem.  A hurdle. 

But how do I handle it?  My adult sounding board here is gone.  I turn to two close friends, who advised me to contact school officials ASAP.  I texted the guidance counselor, who visits with my boys on a regular basis, since they are dealing with so much after losing their daddy.  She springs into action, asking me to document the situation and email the principal, PE teacher, and herself. 

I compose an email early Monday, and have two quick responses within an hour.  The situation was not tolerated, it was nipped in the bud, and by Monday afternoon, I had a happy 3rd grader once again.  I will be forever grateful to a school administration that has a zero tolerance policy on bullying.  They made my hurdle a bit easier to leap over. 

I realize that Ben needs to stand up for himself more, and we are working on that.  In the meantime, he can be at school and not worry that someone’s going to make fun of him because he’s probably  not going to be the next Dirk Nowitzski.  But he very likely could be the next Bill Gates! I tell him that the kids bullying him now will be trying to get a job working for him whenever they are all adults…and would be darn lucky to get one 🙂

As I look back over the hurdles I’ve passed in my race over the past months, they are in various stages of disarray.  A couple were cleared cleanly, and are still in pristine condition, awaiting the next race.  Others have been knocked down, run through, and a few were dragged along with me after I was sure I had cleared them and left them behind. 

I’m bruised.  I’ve scraped my knees.  I’ve had muscle cramps, strains, and headaches.  My hurdle jumping hasn’t been pretty or neat or precise, that’s for sure.  But I’m still running.  And I have no regrets.  For you see, there’s no “do-overs” in this race, I simply don’t have time.  I anticipate the hurdles, prepare the best I can, link arms with God…and, as Dory puts it so succinctly in “Finding Nemo”—- I just keep swimming, just keep swimming (or running, or jumping, or crashing) through these life hurdles. 

I hope to be in the best shape of my life–spiritually, emotionally, and physically–as I hit my next hurdle:  my birthday.