Hankie-Help

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Rhett Butler was never without a handkerchief when Scarlett needed one, because he was a classy guy. Having a ready hankie was the mark of a true gentleman.

Nate was a gentleman, too.

I can’t count the times I needed his hankie-help when we were away from home. Coffee spills, make-up gone awry, tears at a funeral or sticky fingers. The uses were endless. His hankie was usually out of his suit pocket before I’d looked up from my sudden need, and he never gave a thought to the fact that he might want it later himself and find it soiled by his wife.

I can remember watching my mother put a handkerchief in her purse each time she went out, noticing that my father had one, too. People of that generation didn’t use Kleenex with abandon like I do. They were “thinking green” well before it was the thing to do.

I also recall shopping with Mom to buy a bridal shower gift. She selected a handkerchief made of gauzy white linen fanned out in a square flat box and wrapped in tissue. The embroidered pink roses on one corner were matched by a pink edging all around. As a young girl I knew the bride would love it and wondered if she might even carry it on her wedding day.

When we were cleaning out Mom’s drawers after she died, she had quite a collection of beautiful hankies. But short of using them in an art project, we didn’t know what to do with them. Times had changed. Although I remember every elderly auntie tucking a handkerchief in her dress sleeve  with the decorative part showing, today’s women were different. And Mom’s hankie supply went to Good Will.

I can see how hankies are wonderful for mopping up moisture — from eyes, noses, clothes, children’s faces and unnumbered other places. And life is fraught with messes that need this kind of attention. Although I’ve never owned my own hankie, I was delighted to be married to a handkerchief-carrying gentleman. I needed him, and I needed his hankies. Both helped me clean up many a mess.

Sometimes I think about the Lord and his expertise at cleaning up after us.   Throughout the Bible he mopped up a variety of disasters, and he’s in the same business today, offering his services to those of us who keep messing up. And the best part about his cleaning is that it isn’t just surface work. What he offers goes deep into the heart and fixes up what cannot be touched with a hankie but is far more difficult to clean. It’s the buried soil of sin.

But the beauty of God’s mess-mopping is that once things have been cleaned up, he’s willing to let the past stay in the past. Although I don’t think God actually forgets anything, he does promise not to keep bringing up the messes we’ve made. They’re as good as forgotten.

I still remember quite a few of the wet clean-ups Nate’s hankies helped me with, and many of the handkerchiefs show stains to testify of their histories. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, Nate never brought these things up to me again either. Like Rhett Butler, he was just happy he could help.

” ‘Come now, let’s settle this,’ says the Lord. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them as white as snow.’ “ (Isaiah 1:18a)

Husbands or Sons?

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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)

The Gift of Sleep

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During the night God gave me a gift – ten hours of sleep. I can’t remember ever sleeping like that, although as a teen I surely must have.

Yesterday had been strewn with melt-downs and tear-ups, and one thing I’ve learned during the eight months since Nate died is that grieving is exhausting. Although I didn’t expend much physical energy yesterday, by the time I crawled into bed, I was whipped.

Before Nate died, I had no idea about this part of new widowhood, but now I’m getting an education. Years ago I asked a recently widowed friend if she wanted to come for lunch, just her and me. I knew enough not to invite a crowd but had no understanding of how hard she was struggling to cope. Without even pausing to consider my offer, she said, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t have the energy.”

Her response took me by surprise. I’d planned a simple lunch, assuming talking with someone who cared about her would be encouraging, maybe even strengthening. I had no knowledge of the drain it would be for her to get ready, drive to my house, answer my questions and struggle to maintain composure throughout her visit. Now, because I’ve been on the flip side of that situation, my friend’s rejection of the lunch makes complete sense.

The process of grieving a loved one is strenuous, and losing a spouse is wrenching. Although I’ve seen both of my parents pass away and experienced deep sadness both times, grieving for Nate is in a separate category. When people get married, they “leave and cleave,” which is biblically correct and should set parents down a peg on the priority list. After marriage, a husband trumps mom and dad.

As the years and decades of marriage compile, the marital bond strengthens, or at least that’s the way it should be. Though we’ve known our parents longer than our mates, the parental bond doesn’t have the power of two-becoming-one.

Mary asked me yesterday if I missed Nate more than I expected I would. The answer? Definitely. It seems there’s no end to my discovery of the ways he was dear to me. We were undeniably two halves of a whole, but when he was with me, I didn’t give much thought to that idea. Now that he’s gone, it’s painfully evident. And when half of anything is removed, the other half falls.

Since none of us can “walk in another’s moccasins” until our experiences overlap, we can’t appreciate someone else’s response to a life crisis, just as I couldn’t comprehend why my friend didn’t want to come for lunch. But as we live through our own experiences, we gain understanding. The gains come with pain, but they eventually become the way we can help others. Maybe that’s why my Widow Warriors are so precious to me and have blessed me profoundly. They’ve already walked the road I’m on, which validates their counsel. And many of them have advised me to “get good rest.”

After last night’s sweet sleep, which was God’s timely gift, today has been a much better day.

“This is what the Lord of Heaven’s Armies, the God of Israel, says: ‘I have given rest to the weary and joy to the sorrowing.’ At this, I woke up and looked around. My sleep had been very sweet.” (Jeremiah 31:23,25-26)