grief

A random act of kindness…on Valentine’s Day

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 2 Comments

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.

flowers

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.

 

“Happily ever after??”

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 1 Comment

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The reality is you have no idea where your life will take you tomorrow. You are like a mist that appears one moment and then vanishes another.

James 4:14 (VOICE)

“And they lived happily ever after… The End.”

How many times have you seen the above words, either at the close of a fairy tale or the end of a movie?

How many times have you, as a parent, read a story to your children that concluded in this manner?

Attention, people of Earth:  There is no such thing as “happily ever after” this side of Heaven.

It’s a crock, a pie-in-the-sky term which plays to our romantic side and wistful daydreaming.

No one, no matter how lovely the life or the relationship or the family, lives happily ever after.  “Happily ever after” gives a false sense of security, a technicolor existence that can never live up to those three words.

“Ever afters” eventually come to an end.

And endings are not pretty, at least the ones I’ve experienced in my life.

Endings are messy.  The majority are not wanted by at least one of the parties involved.

Endings may evoke sadness, helplessness, hopelessness, and anger.  They may cause great pain.  Lives are forever changed by endings.

Death is the ending feared most by the human race.  But let’s face it by taking the bull by the horns.   We’re going to die some day.  As James so eloquently puts it, we’re like a mist, a vapor–here today, gone tomorrow.

Endings are inevitable.  We cannot get around them.

Embrace that reality.  Incorporate it into your daily living.

The sooner that simple fact sinks in to our sometimes-thick skulls, the sooner we can go about the business of living “happily every day.”

Whether you like it or not, at some point in your life (or at many points in your life), an ending you’re not prepared for will occur.

Your “happily ever after” stops.

The best way to deal with the reality of endings is to live fully in the moment.

Every minute of every day, every day of every month, year after year after year–don’t take your happy for granted.

Choose it.  Live it.  Experience it.  Love it.

Instead of happily ever after, live happily every day.

Then when “the end” comes, you can face it with no regrets.

An open letter to grief

/ Nancy Heath Howell / 3 Comments

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