When the preacher told us this morning his sermon would be about fatherhood, he explained why it would be relevant to everyone. Young fathers would get a description of how to father well. Mothers would be glad to hear their husbands challenged. The rest of us were to think of our own fathers, especially if issues from difficult childhoods still tormented. The pastor hoped to help in each scenario.

My thoughts wandered to the father of my seven children, though he wasn’t on hand to hear the sermon. During Nate’s last weeks of earthly life, he often talked about his kids, proud of each one. He also had regrets over some of the fathering mistakes he’d made. Early zeal in parenting caused both of us to do and say things we wish we hadn’t.

Beneath Nate’s regrets, however, lay a foundation of undying love for his children that grew with the years. He used to puzzle over fathers who abandoned their families, unable to understand how any dad could behave that badly. He’d shake his head and say, “If a man takes part in bringing children into the world, why wouldn’t he want to stick by them?”

In his mind, children were the most precious treasure a man could have, proven by his deep satisfaction in having each of them under his roof when his health crisis escalated. For a father to walk away from them would be to experience a loss beyond description. Even when a couple of his own kids “churned the pot” pretty well during their teen years, Nate was always in their corner, and he often told them, “I love you.”

During church this morning, I also thought of my own father, a serious Swede born in 1899, who waited until age 42 to marry. He was careful, thoughtful, conservative and a Christian. As an older dad, he never rough-housed on the floor with his kids, but he did live out a faithful example of uprightness in front of us.

He was impeccably honest, so much so that he even refused to reuse a postage stamp if it came through the mail unmarked. “It did what it was paid to do. To reuse it would be to rob the post office.”

Dad was calm in a crisis, worked hard at the church, took us to Sunday school and was 100% dependable. He quietly gave time to charity, lived beneath his means and never tooted his own horn. After he died, as we read his will, we found Scriptures there to counsel us even as we mourned.

The pastor said it right this morning when he reminded us there are no perfect people and thus no perfect parents. But the two important fathers in my life were, at a bare minimum, really good ones.

“A righteous man will be remembered forever.” (Psalm 112:6b)

It’s been said that when we raise boys, we raise them to be either husbands or sons. Their parents train them to either serve others, or expect to be served by others.

Nate and I were privileged to have four sons, and as parents we fell somewhere between those two goal posts. Parental pampering feels good at the time, because we get to take kids to Hawaii, give them motorcycles and bee bee guns, put piles of gifts under the Christmas tee and offer pizza, ice cream and cash. Although it makes for a rip-roaring-happy childhood, it doesn’t do much to promote thinking of others ahead of yourself.

As a wife, I was fortunate in that Nate’s parents raised him to be a husband rather than a son. Although he lived through college and part of law school before marrying, once he became a husband he didn’t expect me to take over any of the chores he’d learned to do for himself: laundry, dishes, ironing, making coffee, running errands, even cooking meals. (His cuisine was limited, hamburgers and hot dogs, but from the start he offered what he knew.)

After we had a baby and I became a stay-at-home mom, he could easily have abdicated all his domestic efforts. But until he crawled into his bed for the last time last fall, he put every item of his dirty clothing into the hamper, kept neat drawers, offered to iron his own cotton business shirts, made all the coffee, took out all the trash and brought me a glass of bedtime water every night without fail. (See “Forgetting and Remembering,” Nov. 14.) Often I’d round a corner and find him bent over in his suit, his tie swinging with the effort to wipe up a spill or get rid of a sticky section of floor, not seeking credit from anyone. Most impressive, however, was his faithful clearing of the table after every dinner, putting the food away and then doing all the dishes. He did that until his disease dictated it was time to stop.

When I think of the tedious, never-done-for-good chore of washing dishes, it reminds me of when Jesus washed the feet of 12 men. That task required finding and carrying a heavy water basin, enduring the smell of dirty feet, making a watery mess, kneeling down, working while hunched over and cleaning up afterwards. But most significant was that it required self-humbling. Jesus, Lord of all, modeled servanthood for us, with perfection.

Our boys watched their father through their growing up years, observing his quick willingness to help at home, even after a high-pressure work day downtown. As they’ve grown older, I’ve seen this same character quality pop up in them, a priceless piece of Nate’s legacy to his boys. If their father was still with them, he’d say, “It’s good you’re helping a little.” And that’s how he saw it, as simply a little help.

Although Nate sometimes spoiled his boys, part of what he did well was showing them how to help in little ways that were a big deal to those he served. And I should know, because the one he pampered most with all his serving… was me.

”Whoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant.

(Matthew 20:27)

Although it seems incongruous, widowhood has its perks. Lest you think I’ve suddenly stopped missing Nate, I haven’t. His face, voice and personality run through every one of my daytime hours and often into the night. But several of my widowed friends are now encouraging me to count an unusual type of blessings.

For example, today I left the house on an errand-running excursion at 4:30. Around 6:30, I subconsciously knew I should get home to start supper. Nate used to walk in the door at 7:10 every weekday (6:50 when we lived near Chicago), and he loved to smell dinner waiting for him. It was a moment he looked forward to throughout each day, so I tried to make it happen.

Tonight as I pushed my cart from Walmart’s grocery aisles to its pet section, it dawned on me that I needn’t hurry. Nate wasn’t on his way home, a bittersweet thought, mostly bitter. But there was a bit of sweetness to it, too. I could finish my errands before heading home, a small thing but something my widow-experienced pals have told me to count as a blessing.

This is new for me, and it doesn’t always sit well. Although I looked for positives during every one of Nate’s 42 cancer-days, this kind of blessing-hunt seems different, something akin to betrayal. Feeling gratitude for a benefit that comes to me only because Nate died seems wrong, even though I’m trying to look on the bright side of life.

Does God want me to seek out these blessings of widowhood? Even before I answered my own question, I came up with something positive. Nate liked music, but very little of it. He never failed to appreciate an Elvis number, but his first choice was not to have music playing in the house at all. He thought it inhibited conversation.

My thinking was that music or radio added a dimension to chores, meals, entertaining, almost anything. Nate asked me only three times if we could “turn that off,” but I got his drift. After that, when he drove in the driveway, his tooting horn was my cue to click off the music. Sometimes I resented doing it, but wanting him to think of his home as his haven, I did it anyway. So what about now? Now I can listen to music around the clock if I choose. It’s a small thing but does qualify as a plus.

My guess is there are many widows who continue in the patterns of their marriages because they want life to stay the same as it was. I read of one widow who began doing what her husband wanted her to do, after he died. That doesn’t make sense, unless she was motivated by guilt or remorse. Complying with his wishes after his death probably wouldn’t soothe either one.

What is the proper balance between a merry widow like Scarlett O’Hara and one who can’t move out of the darkness at all? I believe God gifts us with good things every single day, all of us. Some gifts are obvious, and others are hidden, requiring us to search for them. Following this logic, a woman receives blessings when she is a wife but then also when she’s a widow. After a husband dies, his wife might be lost in grief for some time, but God showers her with good things even while she weeps. The person who can’t heal at all might simply need to hunt for the Lord’s touch on her life. When she finds it, her grief will ease.

I’m beginning to see new things as I move through the months, ways in which God is sustaining, encouraging and blessing me. And if Nate read this post about the music issue, he’d say, “Turn up the radio, Dear, and let music fill the cottage!”

“Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light.” (Micah 7:8b)