It’s just the third day of the New Year, and I’m sitting inside my home, watching big feathery wet snowflakes wafting down from the sky. So much has changed in this past year; I can hardly wrap my head around it all. I gave up my weekly writing gig at our local paper…not enough time to devote to it.
I’ve been “too busy” to blog. I’ve been “too busy” to do many of the things I love. Without going into the boring specifics of the past couple of years, I found myself in need of a full-time job, basically for health insurance for my family. An opportunity presented itself at the perfect time, and I began a full-time remote position as a stylist at a subscription clothing service in 2017. Setting my own hours?
Working from home in my pjs?
Being able to log off, go pick up my kids from school daily?
The best health/dental/vision insurance of our lives? …All positives. The negatives?
Sitting in front of a computer, inside my house, for 40 hours a week.
Having practically no adult face-to-face contact or interactions.
Feeling isolated from coworkers & the branch office–there was no incentive to go to events, no pay for the 2 1/2 hour drive to get there.
No chance for advancement, no cost of living nor yearly increases at evaluation time.
But the worst part? Not being given the tools to be successful in my position.
Not hitting the metrics set by said company led to my being disciplined. Several times.
My superior was just following protocol. She was probably being called on the carpet due to my inconsistencies (directly related to not having necessary items to do my job well). I became so disheartened that I would begin saying, “I hate my job, I hate my job, I hate my job…” as I signed on for another 3 to 4 hour stressful session of styling.
AJ said, “Just quit Mom, we don’t like seeing you this way! You’re miserable.” Aah, but you see, young grasshopper, it’s not that simple.
When I was a married woman, it would’ve been a no-brainer. Mark would have told me to quit (he did that a couple of times during our 25 years together). I would have written a beautifully succinct resignation letter and given this place two weeks’ notice. Instead, it finally (after seven years, I know, I’m a bit slow on the uptake sometimes) hit me:
I am the breadwinner of our party of three. I am it.
Health insurance, home insurance, car insurance, bill paying, home improvement projects, and 150 other tasks all fall in my lap. I’m the one who checks to make sure all the doors are locked and the alarm system activated before bedtime. With these responsibilities, I was stuck until I could find a viable alternative to my current situation. I began looking in earnest around late May or early June 2018. I found it impossible to condense all my work experience on a single sheet resume, but made it as short as possible while extolling my skill set. As I was perusing the job possibilities, my 15 year old son, Ben, had a heart to heart with me. “Mom, why are you looking at clerical positions? You know what Dad would say if he were here?”
No, Benjamin Wallace, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me…”He’d say you have two college degrees. You should use them. Aim high, don’t settle!” In my life B.C. (before children), I was a medical technologist and a clinical laboratory database administrator. But that was close to 20 years ago!
I gave it up to be a full-time stay at home mom, thinking I would never have a reason to go back to the clinical setting. But as we all well know, many times life doesn’t turn out the way you plan it. Instead of moving to central Kansas in 2013, I became a widow in 2011. Plan A, then B were gone; heck, I think we’ve gone through at least 7 or 8 more in the years since 2011. My best estimation is we’re currently on Plan H, for “HOWELL.” Taking the advice of my very wise son, I reorganized the resume and put in applications at the local hospital and city. I was a bit surprised not to get at least an interview with the hospital, considering I worked there for almost 7 years, leaving on what I thought were good terms. (Heck, I doubled my salary by leaving…any one of the superiors there would’ve done the same).
Sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office, which is situated in a clinic here in town, I had a mini-revelation: the Clinic had a laboratory.
I pulled up the website while in the waiting area. They had an opening for a medical technologist.
After arriving back home, I filled out an application and finished all the on-line processes. The next morning, around 11 am, they called wanting to interview me. Sitting in my pajamas, working in my home office, I asked if we could possibly schedule something for the next day. Long story short(er), they didn’t offer me the medical technologist position. After my interview, they formulated a job description that would play to my administrative and computer skills.
Yes, I accepted a job I didn’t interview for, before I had the opportunity to look over said job description.
I didn’t even know what my official job title was until I went in for my pre-employment physical. I joyously sent a message to the hospital HR department, saying I was no longer in need of a position & to pull my applications.
I had to cancel another interview with the city as well. The new job began last month.
I’m slowly settling into a routine. I haven’t worked outside the home, full-time, since AJ was a baby.
That baby turned 17 the day after Christmas. I’m loving the adult interactions, having a reason to get up, get dressed, and get out among the living. I could not for the life of me find my ASCP certification certificates, nor my two diplomas from Murray State University (necessary documentation for my position).
My best bet is that Mark Howell put them away some place “safe”whenever we were reorganizing our home office about 10 years ago.
You know what? I found out replacements can be ordered 🙂 The best thing that’s happened in the past month is my happiness and contentment have returned.
I’m no longer stressed about meeting metrics or being held to impossible standards; I don’t have to choose between my integrity or my job. The boys noticed the difference as soon as I turned in my notice. “Mom, you’re like a different person. You’re so happy!” I don’t want my sons to look back on their high school days and remember my yelling at the computer, saying how much I hated a job. I want them to see their mother working a full-time position, using her degrees and certifications, in a job that even the 15 year old computer geek is impressed by. (Dude, a lot of your knowledge came from moi.) When they were younger, I worried they might never see me as “more” than a stay at home mom. I wanted them to know I had a career until age 40.
I walked away because I could, and it was what was best for our family. Now they’re adapting to my not being able to stop, drop everything, and be chauffeur.
Or lunch delivery person before the band leaves on a 4 hour trip for a football game (Whataburger travels quite well in a backpack).
I can no longer pick up the younger one at school. Instead we’re depending on the kindness of friends to fill in the gaps. I’m missing several of the older one’s varsity basketball games, after promising to be in the stands for every game possible.
His response, “Mom, it’s okay. You’re a working woman now.”
I’m truly excited for this new year, this new opportunity for a career.
A re-start, an annotation to the previous chapter, the beginning of a completely new one.
And I have time to do what I truly love…..write.
You may get tired of reading my sometimes-disconnected-almost always-funny musings. I’m back, baby.….
Widowhood
I’m jealous…
Subconsciously I’m in turmoil.
Oh I may look calm, put-together, and self-assured on the surface. I’ve actually become a master (mistress??) of the look.
You know, the look of “normal.”
The look of a person who has moved forward, despite some crappy circumstances.
The look of a person seemingly content to sit at sporting events, cheering on her kid…alone.
The look of “happy-happy-joy-joy” everyone feels more comfortable being around.
I assume the look to avoid what many have said to me:
“Aren’t you over that yet?”
“Why don’t you move on?”
“It’s time to let it go.”
You don’t “get over” the loss of a spouse to death.
You don’t “move on” in life. You can, however, “move forward,” and my family is living proof that can be done.
Let it go?
You’re kidding me, right?
For over two thousand days (2,061 to be exact), I have awakened as a widow.
No matter how wonderful those days may have been (and there have been many more good days than bad), that simple fact remains.
I. Am. A. Widow.
My sons awaken to the realization they are still orphans (Biblical definition: fatherless).
And while we’ve made a new life, one that incorporates the best of their dad’s legacy while still moving forward, they are missing out. Big time.
Today, it hits me like a ton of bricks–my subconscious turmoil is jealousy.
I am jealous.
I am jealous of two-parent households.
I am jealous of kids who have their dads cheering them on from the stands, offering batting stance tips and advice on fielding.
I am jealous of women who awaken as wives, their husbands snuggled in close beside them in their beds.
I am jealous of extended families who make themselves available to help one another with what to me are logistical nightmares at times.
My sons have me. Period.
Uncles, aunts, and two cousins live states away, as do both grandmothers.
Questions about sex, dating, shaving, and peer pressure? Fall to me.
Teaching them to drive? Me.
And while I look all calm and pulled together on the surface, I’m like those ducks you see on ponds, gliding along beautifully—underneath that calm, under water? They’re paddling like crazy.
I’m paddling like crazy to maintain the beautiful glide.
I’m also working on this green-eyed monster, ’cause it doesn’t jive with the whole being a Christian thing.
Naming it and claiming it are good first steps.
Savoring the sweet….
In this roller coaster ride called life, you’ve got to savor the sweet.
There will be sour, dour, unhappy times–of this you can be sure. Some folks seem to get more than their fair share of the unhappy, which makes the happy & sweet even more precious to behold.
Every once in awhile, God gives me a glimpse of the bigger picture, one that I have cursed, cried about, begged to have taken from me numerous times in the past almost-six years.
I didn’t want to be a solo parent.
I didn’t want two little boys to be without their daddy.
I didn’t want to learn how to mow the lawn, weed-eat, take the vehicles for oil changes, inspections, and registrations.
I didn’t want to be responsible for making every adult decision in my household.
I didn’t want to even tend the garden out in front of my house.
And that’s just the few things I came up with, right now, off the top of my head. Heaven knows there are hundreds more.
I still remember the first time I was given a respite, where God, in all His glory, gave me a few moments of peace in the first few months of this gig I have now embraced (if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em). I was waiting for my boys to come out from their elementary school. It was a lovely, bright spring day.
I sat at an old picnic table, way past its prime at the time. There was no one else around. The wind was blowing slightly, rustling the new leaves in the huge trees above me. The sun lazily peeked through them; birds were going about their business of courtship, with lovely tunes filling the air.
In that moment, all my worries and sadness slipped away. I felt content. I felt peace. I knew my boys and I were going to make it.
That moment lasted maybe 30 seconds. But it was exactly what I needed to keep plodding along.
There have been other similar moments throughout the past few years, but the first one will always be memorable.
Yesterday, God gave me another.
The eighth grader gets picked up from school first, so we have about 10 minutes of alone time, just the two of us, while heading to the high school to retrieve the freshman & two of his friends.
Some days, we just have small talk. Some days, we don’t say much at all. Still on others, we jam to music, singing along if the tune’s worthy of our pipes.
Yesterday, though, Ben clearly had something he wanted to share.
“Mom, I’m really glad you don’t have to work out of town, or crazy shifts, where we wouldn’t get to see you.”
Ben, so am I. Your daddy and I worked long and hard–we are so very fortunate that I am able to be here for you and your brother. Many parents don’t get that opportunity.
When I probe a bit further, I find he’s worried about a fellow student. A student with both parents living. One works nights, the other, days. This kid rarely ever sees the one parent, who is either sleeping most of the time the kid isn’t, or when not sleeping seems to have priorities other than family time.
My kid, the one who lost his dad at age 8, is putting himself in another person’s shoes.
“Mom, I feel sorry for him. I know that he has both his parents. And I really miss Dad. But I want to tell you, you’re like having two parents. You do it all.”
I’m like having two parents.
That is, most likely, the sweetest sentence I have heard in years, outside of “I love you.”
He’s being all matter-of-fact. And I just lose it, right there on Kemp Boulevard, next to Applebee’s, in the midst of after-school traffic.
Tears. Nose running. Laughing and smiling.
“Ben, you’ll never know how much that means to me. You’ve made my week. You very well made my month!”
God, once again, knew what I needed whenever I didn’t have a clue. A spring-time glimpse into the bigger picture.
A picture that evidently includes two empathetic, loving young men, developing beautifully in spite of the fact their dad is in heaven.
#thanksGod
A random act of kindness…on Valentine’s Day
This was destined to be another low-key holiday, similar to most any other day in my household. At least for the past few years, since we’ve left elementary school behind, Valentine’s Day is just another day.
No more school parties overrun with cupcakes, candy, hand-decorated shoe boxes, and valentine cards. I miss watching boys painstakingly choose and address cards to each classmate, using an official homeroom roster as guide.
I even miss the inevitable sugar rush that followed school dismissal, along with excitement shared over the loot received.
Thus far our family has been a “girlfriend-free” zone. We’ve stood fifteen years without any relationship drama—I’m betting this is the last Valentine’s Day I can claim such a distinction.
With a freshman and an eighth grader, it’s not a matter of “if,” but “when” they begin the pursuit of romantic relationships. I haven’t discouraged them, instead encouraging them to wait as long as possible.
Once you dip your toes in the water, there’s no going back. The absence of girls hanging around has just given me a longer run as my sons’ favorite female.
I’m not going to sugarcoat the fact special days such as today are difficult. Guessing they always will be.
I dread this holiday more than most. I would much rather avoid it all together.
Opposed to love and relationships? Nope. Nothing could be further from the truth.
When you’ve had a great love and lost it, whether to death or divorce or some other sort of separation, these days are tough. To armchair therapists, sitting on the sidelines with no personal experience of a love lost, who say time heals, I emphatically call “hogwash.”
Healing occurs, but it leaves behind a scar.
It’s a constant reminder of what you had.
Add in non-stop Valentine’s ads for jewelry, candy, flowers, alongside seemingly-perfect couples and you can see where I’m coming from.
Last Friday, I drove to Denison, Texas, to watch my freshman’s basketball game. He has my promise I will never miss being courtside nor in the stands when he is playing.
So far I’ve kept my end of the bargain; I plan on continuing throughout his high school career. The extended drive time gives me ample opportunity to think. And listen to music non-stop.
That can be a problem whenever you’re missing a special someone, the person who used to do all the driving. And made all big family decisions seem like child’s play.
All that, coupled with the approaching holiday, got me feeling pretty low.
I won’t lie, tears flow most of the way home.
The younger son comforts me the best he can. We make it home safely, even with the crying, nose blowing, and snorting.
Anticipating a delivery of a much-needed laptop briefcase that day, I walk around to our front door from the garage.
In the fuzzy glow of the street light, I can see my package, but also glimpse something else.
The distinct outline of flowers.
A beautiful nosegay of roses and gerbera daisies waits, along with a note and envelope.
I can hardly believe my eyes.
A closer inspection under indoor lighting gives me pause—there’s no name.
The sweet note explains this is a Valentine’s Day random act of kindness; I am the first person who came to this person’s mind. Their words touch me deeply. A spa pedicure certificate is also attached.
On a day when I feel alone and somewhat unlovable, I get an unexpected gift—from a person I can’t even properly thank due to their anonymity.
They may never know how their gesture threw a life preserver to me in the midst of a sea of Valentine sensory overload.
If you’re responsible for my surprise, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
You have singlehandedly restored my faith in the intrinsic kindness of people.
My wish is for everyone—single, unattached, or otherwise—to experience the same. I will most definitely be paying it forward.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Life is difficult…
Have you ever felt like you’re watching yourself from another vantage point, almost in an “out of body” experience?
I see myself walking around, going through the motions of life, but remaining detached and unaffected.
This month has paralyzed me.
Certain memories (that I was pretty sure I had processed and moved forward from) have come back with a vengeance.
Unfortunately I’m replaying them all this week, surprised and dismayed at details I thought had long since been forgotten. Hospital, surgery waiting room, ICU, confused and helpless doctors, ventilators and tubes, codes and crash carts….a daddy looking at two little boys, giving the “I love you” sign to them as they leave his hospital room. It is their last memory of a strong, handsome, loving, pretty-close-to-perfect father who loved them more than anything on earth besides God (and on most days, me)…
I’m treading water. Barely.
With God’s help, the boys and I are doing well. There’s been rebuilding. And restoration. We’ve put in the work, but God’s done the healing. The three of us have our feet firmly planted again on solid ground.
Then why do I feel like I’m in quicksand?
I’ve never hidden my emotions from my sons, and they, too, are processing their grief a bit differently this week.
We’ll survive, God promises it.
Through it all, we cling to the realization we aren’t doing this alone.
Next week, we’ll turn the calendars to August and collectively breathe a sigh of relief.
We’ll settle back into a more normal routine. The bad memories will again get filed away, and we will focus on all the wonderful blessings God has given our family.
I’ll re-inhabit my body and do more than “go through the motions.”
Life is difficult.
Life is beautiful.
Surprisingly, it can be both at the very same time.
We’re living proof.
Waiting for the Lord—or is He waiting for me?
I’m waiting.
Waiting to see how my health insurance coverage will turn out.
Waiting to see if I have to re-enter the workforce full-time after the first of the year, just to acquire insurance for my family.
Waiting to hear back from a book publisher.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
I feel stuck. I’m worn.
I’m tired of being chief cook and bottle washer, breadwinner, chauffeur, only parent, landscaping guru, keeper of the vehicles, financial advisor, vacation planner, decision maker—as my father would have said, “jack of all trades, master of none.”
I may look like I’ve got it all together, but this Jesus girl is filled with insecurities about the future. Heck, I have insecurities about the present.
We made it through the absence of Mark yet again yesterday, on what would have been his 60th birthday. Five October 25ths without his laugh, his love, his strong hugs, his wisdom, and his physical presence.
It was tough.
For any person reading this still blessed with your significant other, I don’t expect you to get “it.”
“It” will not go away. (Heaven knows I wish it would at times.)
“It” will not completely heal.
If you think I’m beating a dead horse, so to speak, just do me a favor and quit reading this. Right now.
Grief is a life-long process for those left behind.
“It” gets better, you heal through the grace of God.
But it’s always there.
If you don’t get it, trust me—someday you will. For your sake, I hope your “someday” is many, many, many years down the line.
Death is a part of life.
An integral part.
The more I pray about my waiting game, the more I see that waiting for problems such as health insurance coverage, book deals, job possibilities, and the future of my family to be reconciled are trivial.
I should be waiting for the Lord.
He is my problem solver.
He is my portion.
He is enough.
He knows I still cry everyday, at some point, without fail.
He sees how difficult it is to walk into a Sunday School class full of couples, and feel like a fish out of water.
Unfortunately, he hears as I utter a not-so-nice word while trying to crank a self-propelled push mower that will not cooperate.
In one simple verse, the Psalmist David gives me the solution to all my self-imposed problems.
Wait for the LORD.
Be strong.
Take heart.
And wait
FOR THE LORD.
Psalm 27:14 (NIV)
People will fail to meet my expectations each and every time.
But God? He fails not.
He doesn’t grow weary.
He doesn’t mind my anger. He forgives me for saying that curse word over the mower.
He checks in on widows and orphans. We have a special place in His heart.
He wipes away the hot tears dripping down my face.
He is enough.
If He can bring a dead man back to life, he can most certainly help my family with health insurance.
The photo above is from a series sent to me after Mark’s death. They document a work trip down the Brazos River several years ago. I’ve looked at the photos dozens of times, but never noticed this one until now.
All others show a beaming fisheries biologist, doing what he loves and getting paid to do it (how many of us can identify with that?). His smile lights up every picture. I needed those.
This photo, however, is a metaphor for my family’s life now. His back is turned. He’s got his fishing rod in hand, waders on. His glorious plan has come to fruition.
At almost 4 1/2 years since his heaven-versary, Mark’s got important things to do. He knows God has us in the palm of His hand.
In other words, he’s got bigger fish to fry. And while he is in heaven cheering us on, he knows that God’s got this.
So he can enjoy his happily-ever-after without worries.
His back may be turned, but we’ll never forget his smiling face.
I see it in the increasingly-chiseled features of our 8th grader. I hear him in the soft wisdom voiced by our 7th grader.
I feel his hugs while in their strong arms.
I give every trivial, hard, silly, crazy problem to the Lord.
He’s been waiting for me to do it.
I will not be stuck. I will not be defeated.
I will be strong, take heart, and wait.
For the Lord.
An open letter to grief
Dear grief,
I hate you.
For a bit over four years, I’ve battled you on a daily basis. In the beginning, I was numb–really I think it was shock.
I’ve lost loved ones in my lifetime prior to this. Grandparents, a 44 year old uncle, a 46 year old aunt, my dad, my father-in-law, and several close friends. You took up residence with me for quite awhile. The most difficult being the loss of my dad, I remember crying in bed on a nightly basis for months. I was so blessed to have a husband who loved me, who held me close while I cried.
Then a little over four years ago, the unspeakable happened. That loving husband and daddy to two little boys died.
And grief? You welled up inside me, spilling over like hot lava from a volcano eruption, pouring out all over my world.
You damaged everything I knew and loved.
Not only was I dealing with my grief, but also the unimaginable grieving of two boys–old enough to grasp the depth of what they had lost, and smart enough to ask the tough questions.
I didn’t know how we’d get through you.
Counseling helped.
Immersing ourselves in our faith, our church, and being surrounded by a loving support group of friends and family also gave us the lifelines we needed.
All I knew for sure was I had two boys depending on me to suck it up, and I needed to find some semblance of normal. Not the wonderful, safe, lovely normal we previously had, but a new one, fashioned on a wing and a prayer.
If you’ll excuse the language, grief, you are a sonofabitch to live with.
I never know when you’ll rear your ugly head. For the first two years or so, you were a constant companion, no matter the circumstance. We assumed you would be with us every waking moment. You were with us, at times, in our dreams.
Then, slowly and deliberately, you stepped back from the spotlight, content to roam around the periphery of our lives. We began to laugh again, to have fun, to really enjoy life, all without any guilt.
Oh sure, you decide to pop up when we least expect it, but the times without you are now more numerous than those with you.
Not only do I hate you, grief, but also your siblings: guilt, regret, and fear.
Guilt and regret, when coupled with grief, keep one looking in the past. “What if I had done this?” “If I had only…” “Why did he not…?”
None of these are healthy. Nor do they do my family any good. It’s a bit like worrying. Worrying won’t change anything, and will only rob you of joy in the present.
Fear is your worst sibling, I call it the “black sheep” of the family. Fear is the absence of faith. When fear creeps in, right alongside grief, it’s a one-two punch of bad. The only way to beat fear is to face it, head on.
But as much as I hate you and your siblings, today I had an epiphany:
I am a better person because of you.
You, with your twisted pain, have molded this family into a unit far stronger than I could have ever imagined.
We’re tough. We don’t take anyone or anything for granted.
We grab hold of each day as the gift it is.
And my sons?
They are astonishingly normal, in spite of you (and me). Empathetic, sensitive, confident, full of hope for the great futures that await them.
Secure in the knowledge that even in the midst of a terrible, crappy situation where their dad is in heaven, they are still so blessed.
They are confident, young Christian men who are already making a positive difference in their little corners of the world.
And although I wish their dad were still with us, physically, we know he is with us nonetheless.
Because of you, grief, I am a different person. A more compassionate person. A better person.
And I’m going to spend the rest of my days helping others deal with you.
You’re ugly and messy and a hard pill to swallow. But battling you makes one strong. When you are cut down to size, with God’s help, you really aren’t so scary. You’ll always be in the shadows, but you’ve finally learned your place.
Death is a part of life. Our society sweeps it under the rug, it’s a taboo subject most are too uncomfortable to discuss.
Although you will never be welcome in a household, some good can come from you.
I thank you for the lessons learned, the love that’s multiplied because of you, the hope that’s sprung in our hearts in spite of you.
Hey, grief, don’t get too comfortable…I still hate you.
But you’re evidently an integral part of the plan God has for my future, the future of two boys. So I accept you for who you are.
We’ll tolerate you for the rest of our lives.
Respectfully,
Nancy
God may very well give you more than you can handle—that’s why you need Him.
Any temptation you face will be nothing new. But God is faithful, and He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can handle. But He always provides a way of escape so that you will be able to endure and keep moving forward. 1 Corinthians 10:13 (VOICE)
If I see one more quote or social media meme with the flowery, lovely phrase,
“God won’t give you more than you can handle,”
I. Will. Scream.
No where (let me repeat that–NO WHERE!) in the Bible are these words found. This sugary coated phrase must have originally come from a poor interpretation of the passage above.
Give. Me. A. Break.
Life is messy.
We, as mortals, as humans of free choice, created in God’s glorious image, made sure of that. Way back in the beginning, in Eden, we had it made.
Everything man and woman could want or desire was at our fingertips.
God was such a good friend that He came and walked in the garden with Adam and Eve.
Imagine that. God, visiting. God calling out to us, by name.
But were we satisfied? Nope.
You know the story.
Temptation.
A chance to know everything God knows turned out to be the beginning of the end of perfection, at least this time around on the planet.
So, instead of living in a perfect place, surrounded with everything we could possibly want or need? We struggle.
We live in a broken world.
Broken people, broken promises, broken homes, broken hearts.
Life is not fair.
To reduce God to a Deity that willingly and purposely piles on–excuse the word–crap to see how much we can bear? Blasphemy in my humble opinion.
Life is about choices. A multitude of them, put in our paths every. single. stinking. day.
The God I serve didn’t take away my loving husband on purpose.
He didn’t intentionally take away a dad from two little boys who desperately needed him.
He’s not up in heaven, checking my status updates, seeing just how much more can be heaped on my plate before I hit maximum capacity.
Because, believe me, dear friends, that plate has tipped over many days, and I’ve thrown up my hands in frustration at my circumstances.
The Bible says He will not allow you to be TEMPTED beyond what you can handle. That’s an important distinction.
What He does give is the strength, perseverance, and grace to handle what you have.
Until He comes again, in the glorious form of His Son, life will be full of tough stuff.
Brokenness will be the norm, not the exception.
But the brokenness and the strife found in day-to-day living can forge a beauty and a strength which has no limit.
For it’s in the brokenness where we find what we are truly made of.
It’s in the trials we catch a glimmer of the original perfection in the creation God intended us to be.
And until He sends His Son to restore this ugly, sticky, sinful mess of ours into what His original blueprint designated, we will more than likely have more than we can handle.
Saying and believing anything else is just flowery, feel good “Christianity.”
I’m now crawling off of my soapbox and heading out for my morning run.
Together, God and I will handle whatever the world throws at me today, because I cling to the promise that He will help me to not only endure, but also Keep. Moving. Forward.
I’m counting on it.
July stinks
I hate July.
That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I truly dislike this month.
This month holds too many memories. Most of them wonderful, great, and fun. Some of them, however, are very, very bad.
July 30, 2011, was the day we lost Mark. That day, my life forever changed.
That day, our sons’ lives forever changed.
I became a widow.
They became orphans, at least in the biblical sense.
I felt like my arms had been cut off. I lost my best friend, husband, lover, confidante, and biggest cheerleader.
My boys lost a wonderful role model, someone who was compassionate, just, loving, patient, and had integrity to spare. They lost a dad who loved them beyond compare.
Life goes on.
We adjust our sails and move forward, because that’s what Mark would want us to do. I have two boys to raise, and by the grace of God, we’re doing okay.
And while there’s been great healing in all our lives, and we’ve forged a new path, July still takes us back to the surreal place in time where we were forced to say goodbye to not only the best man we’ve ever known, but also a way of life.
So we hurt.
And grieve.
And cry, in the midst of smiles, remembering.
Life’s not fair. You play the hand you’re dealt.
I’m determined to play the heck outta this hand until the dealer’s out of money and the casino’s closed 🙂
“God in His holy house is a father to those who have no father.
And He keeps the women safe whose husbands have died.”
Psalms 68:5 (NLV)
Howell, Party of 4, Wilderness Lodge, Walt Disney World, August 2010
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