young widows

You Just Get Better

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I love marquee signs. You know the one outside of a church that says “Live so fully that Westboro Baptist Church will picket your funeral.” Or outside a DQ that says “Scream until your dad stops the car.” Signs add laughter to my day or sometimes, a little inspriration like yesterday outside of of a school.  

“It doesn’t get easier you just get better.”

Well isn’t that the truth!  When it comes to life’s blistering, brutal changes and curveballs it doesn’t really ever get easier. 

I’ve been doing this full time, single mother shuffle for nearly 15 months now.  Nothing about my life is any easier than it was a year ago.  This life, like that of many parents, can be hard, exhausting and overwhelming at times.  It’s still painful to read articles about the importance of fathers in their children’s lives and know that your kids don’t have that anymore.  It sucks to be so proud of your kids you could burst but instead you get teary because their Daddy can’t see what amazing little people they are.   

It isn’t any easier to work full time, parent full time, take care of a household full time and still have something left at the end of the day.  To not be so tired and worn that you are useless to everyone. 

It’s still a beast to figure out schedules, homework, errands and how to cook a meal when you’re only home for 27 minutes on Tuesday night in between carpools.   It isn’t any easier to keep the grass mowed, the laundry “done”, the field mice at bay and the oil changed in the car when said car always needs to be in motion.  None of this is easier.  Not one single thing.  But that sign was 100% spot on- I’ve gotten better.  

I’ve gotten better at absolving myself of guilt.  I didn’t chose this, Patrick didn’t chose this.  My kids are thriving, happy and strong.  I’ve gotten better at praying to my Heavenly Father and asking him to be a continued, glorious presence in their lives and to help me be a little better every day.  

I’ve gotten better at the day to day of our crazy, hectic life.  The management of work and home, of parenting and a personal life, of fear and faith.  I’m better at finding moments for quiet, moments to run, moments to be a little nutty and moments just for me.  

There are still stumbles, rough patches, hard days and nights when my chest gets so tight I don’t think I can breathe.  There are moments I still blink in disbelief that this is where my life is at age 40.  There are times when I am so physically exhausted that I hurt.  There are times I just go in the laundry room, close the door and cry.  (OF COURSE  I start a load of clothes when I’m in there-we widows have to multitask.) 

I know that I will continue to get better at managing it all- my job, our house, the schedules and the pain. I only have to look at how far I’ve come from this time last year to know that I WILL continue to get better.  That better will include a lifetime of prayer, work, an open heart and acceptance.  To quote Tim McGraw “I ain’t as good as I’m gonna get but I’m better than I used to be.”  

So CHEERS to all you barely broken, slightly struggling YET still smiling works in progress out there…may we all strive for better!  

The Days I Hate Lilly Pulitzer 

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Like any 40 year old woman worth her salt- I have a planner.  Like any over scheduled, crazy busy mother of 2- I have a big planner.  It’s a Lilly Pulitzer planner- the JUMBO size….and its full.  Every box for the foreseeable future is full (actually more like overflowing). 

Like any full time single mother of multiple children who also has a full time job to “bring home to bacon”, I often feel like I should work for UPS.  My life is logistics.  Seriously, there are days I don’t drive outside of a 20 mile radius and manage to burn out a 1/2 a tank of gas, feed a meal and 2 snacks in the car while one child is changing clothes and another is taking a quick power nap.  I haul my dancer, other dancers, band gear, soccer stuff, our latest Kroger Clicklist and enough old Cherrios to fill the Super Dome. I trade off carpools and even hire college students to help me drive my teenager or sit with a sleeping child because no matter how good I am- I can’t be two places at once.  I return work emails and texts while in car rider lines or in between halves of a soccer game.  It. Never. Stops.

My planner is my brain, the center of our school year universe.  It holds all the dates, times, events, lists, appointments and snack schedules.  I haul my Lilly planner everywhere and wouldn’t dare schedule anything without her.  Lilly is basically an appendage to my body and necessary to the mechanics of our family.  But some days, I hate that planner. 

There are days I look at Lilly with her cheery little pink and blue island pattern and cry.  I cry for how overwhelmed I am with my big, overscheduled life.  I cry because that stupid pink planner full of plans and dates is solely on MY shoulders.  I have no one else to shoulder that load or carry that burden.  EVER.  Every activity, appointment, check to be written, form to be filled out, waiver to sign and outfit to buy- it’s all on me.  I get mad at Lilly, at God for doing this to me and then at myself for being a baby.   I pray for peace, patience, humility, grace, calm, rest and for the stress that seems to have permanent residence in my neck and shoulders to leave- just for a bit.  I ask God to help me quit being a whiny, soggy, broken ball of stress and just trust him more.  (I spend a lot of time on my knees.)

I’ve now had this life for almost 14 months.  It’s not new,  I’m in my second season, but I’ve noticed it’s different right now.  The fog of immediate grief has lifted.  That fog- the body’s way of allowing us to go on after tragedy-is gone.  The grief fog last year was like grease to the gears of my life.  What is left this year is the reality of aloneness.  Of being the sole captain of a ship I don’t ever feel 100% qualified to drive.  It’s sometimes so raw and scary and heavy that I struggle to make it through a Wednesday or a Thursday without completely falling apart by 8pm.  

I don’t have a happy, hopeful ending to this blog because the gears of my life are still grinding together, squeaking in pain on more days than I’d like. It is Saturday.  My kitchen floor is crummy, the laundry is half done and the remains from last night’s slumber party are still scattered through my house.  Cheery old Lilly is laying open in my kitchen awaiting me to study her.  To plot out the next 7 days of transportation, appointments, practices, meetings, games, field trip lunches, dance classes and giving another birthday party.  However, today I’ve enjoyed a Jeep ride, a grown up lunch and am now sitting on my porch swing.  The sun is shining on my face and I’m letting it ALL go (at least for now).  Someone who is very wise reminded me this week to take care of myself because if I fall apart at the seams then so does this whole operation.  My kids need more than a whiny, soggy, stress ball Mommy.  So I’m going to sit, swing and read my junky magazine from February.  Somebody tell stupid Lilly I’ll be with her later on.  

I Ran a Race 

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August 26, 2017    9:44pm

I ran a race tonight.  Strangely enough it was 13 months to the day since I lost my husband but that wasn’t what I focused on.  Instead I noticed the beauty of my adopted hometown, the common cause, the community, the love.  The course snaked through my college, the place where I met my husband but only happy memories greeted me.   It was a race of conversation, of happiness and not worrying about time. It was about the beauty of small moments, hope for the future,  kind cheers and hellos from so many people I care about.  

I’ve run a race this month.  We are back to school- a new position for me, 8th grade for my daughter and daycare for my son.  We are getting back in the swing of schedules, homework, early morning mad dashes and evening exhaustion.  Life is again pushed by the synchronization of schedules, meals, chores and the packing of bags.  The hectic pace of happy, busy kids and a single mom who can actually perform under pressure with a tiny bit of grace. 

I ran a race this summer.  It was a race of becoming “normal” again, of finding my voice and spreading my wings.  A race of loving my kids even more than I thought I ever could because my head was finally clear and my heart was wide open.  A race of taking chances and finding out that God continues to fulfill his promises and bless me in ways I never imagined.  

I ran a race this past year.  A race of unimaginable heartbreak, of horrid fog and a million stumbles.   A race that involved months of treading water and gasping for air.  A race of learning, pain and a renaissance where I saw that deep inside, Heather was still there and she had something to offer the world. 

As I sit on my back swing and stare at evening sky, I am overwhelmed once again by God’s beauty and healing.  We can never know what the future holds- what our race may look like.  We can only continue moving forward with our eyes focused on the many blessings around us.  Thank you God for all my races- they’ve made me better.  

…let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.  Hebrews 12:1

A Year Later 

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To quote one of Patrick’s best friends “I’ve lapped this thing.”  I’ve been completely through the first year.  All the firsts- holidays, birthdays, anniversary and college football season.  I’ve been through the first school orientation, dance recital, awards ceremonies, the filling out of forms and writing “deceased” where it says father (that NEVER gets easier by the way.)  I’ve done all the firsts. 

The first year was a buffet of emotion, of fog, of light and of overwhelming thanks to my healing God.  I can remember one night just a week in when it took me almost 3 hours to change the sheets on our (my) bed for the first time.  I remember driving my kids to school when I was on leave and then coming home to just sit and stare.  I remember going back to work and thinking I could never possibly EVER be good at my job again.  I remember cleaning out Patrick’s closet and feeling as though someone had cleaned out my insides at the same time.

However I also remember the first time I let go and belly laughed with my kids.  I remember my first night out enjoying a glass of wine with my friends.  I remember kindness from family and I remember the first time I enjoyed being alone.  I remember walking on the beach during Spring Break and crying at the overwhelming beauty of a sunset.  I remember standing on the deck of the Disney Dream this summer humming “It is Well with my Soul” and realizing that a whole bunch of my broken pieces were finally stuck back together.  

I have struggled for a couple weeks with the right analogy for the first year- roller coaster?  Sinking ship with one lifeboat?  4 alarm fire?  Tsunami?  It all seems fitting in some way but I don’t know that there is really one way to describe this first year of young widowhood.  It is a journey full of mountains and valleys.  Of bone crushing sadness and the decimation of so many dreams.  It is also a time of acceptance, awakening and rebirth.

I know that some might find it strange that my oversharing self chose not to publicly acknowledge the anniversary of Patrick’s death.  That was a conscious decision on my part.  A decision based on what was best for myself, my children and his legacy.    Other crappy club members may choose differently and that is more than ok.  We all go down this road at different speeds and make different pit stops along the way.  What has resonated most for me is to remain authentic and true to me- to my feelings and to what I need.  At the end it is between myself and my Heavenly Father on how I handled things, how I honored Patrick, how I raised my children and how I forged ahead. 

My friend Amanda brought me a bag of groceries on the day Patrick died.  I don’t remember much of what she brought (although I’m CERTAIN it included Reese’s cups).  The one item she brought that I remember so very clearly was toilet paper.  Printed across the front, in huge block letters was the word STRONG.  She told me she thought I “needed strong” right now and boy I sure did!  I didn’t  know on that day, the most horrible day of my life,  how MUCH I would need that strength in the months ahead. 

I’m thankful for all of this first year- even the brutal, ugly parts. It has shaped me into someone different than the woman I once was.  I hope I’m a better child of God, mother, daughter, sister, friend, partner and teacher.  As I stand at the beginning year 2- I open my eyes, my arms and my heart to what God has in store for me.  Oh and by the way…I sometimes still buy the strong toilet paper.  

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.  Phil 4:13

I Can’t be a Daddy (no matter how hard I try)

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With Father’s Day fast approaching I’ve once again started wrestling with something I thought I had moved past about 6 months ago.  I. Can’t. Be. A. Daddy.  I am single mother and my children are fatherless.  This reality still hurts me deeply and brings tears to my eyes even now as I’m typing.

For months after my husband died I rumbled and wrestled with the unique feelings that come when you suddenly have fatherless children.  I had done everything the way I was supposed to…right?  I married a wonderful man and loved him dearly.  We had 2 great kids together and raised them in a happy, loving, Christian household.  My husband was an amazing father who always put the needs of our family above everything else (even college football and basketball).  He was a sports nut but he was even crazier about his kids.   How come MY kids had to lose their father??  Huh?  No fair…not what I signed up for thank you very much.  (This was semi-frequent routine at my weekly counseling sessions for months.  It was a long, slow path towards acceptance for me.)

Over time I came to understand that on this side of heaven, I will never understand why my loving God took my kids’ wonderful father.   For months I questioned…how can I be both Mommy and Daddy?  Then I realized…I CAN’T.  I can’t wrestle with my kids the way their Daddy did.  I can’t be the low, quiet voice of reason that my husband was with my daughter.  I can’t put my little boy on my shoulders and be too tall to fit through the doorway.  I can’t make the perfect cheesy eggs.  I’m not their Daddy.  I can’t be him and I can’t bring him back.  I also can’t spend my life angry with my God that he took this wonderful man from us.  None of that is productive or creates a joy filled family.

However, I CAN put family pictures all over the house, make photo books and tell countless stories.  I can cheer my kids on in an obnoxiously loud voice like I’m two people.  (Thank you Lord for my big mouth.)  I can plan awesome trips, cook special dinners and decide on a whim to go get ice cream even when it’s almost bedtime.  I can pitch baseballs, drive toy tractors and run around playing superheroes.  I can let my kids pummel each other in the living room and NOT tell them to “be careful.”  I can turn on Selection Sunday each March and fill out our family brackets.  I can take the kids to our college to tell them stories of their Daddy the football player.  I can surround my children with awesome male role models who provide a positive masculine influence.

I can never be their Daddy but I CAN be a rock star Mommy who prays hard, plays hard, tries hard, laughs hard and loves hard.  I can do all of this because I know that MY God is a father to the Fatherless (Psalm 68:5).

Happy Father’s Day to all!