Really?

Posted on by

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)

Know or Be Known

Posted on by

Mom used to tell me she learned new things about Dad even after 50 years of marriage, but I couldn’t imagine it. Recently, though, I discovered something new about my own husband, who I haven’t seen for eight months. Actually, I discovered two things.

A guest at our cottage stumbled across a copy of “The Flashback,” a school yearbook published in 1958. It has Nate’s name printed on the inside flap, and his picture is on several of its 55 pages. He looks younger than his 12 years, but that might be because none of the cynicism of adolescence had yet set in.

Apparently Churchill Junior High School was brand new that year, opening its doors to 1000 students 53 years ago, on September 3, 1957. I went on line and learned the school is still functioning, although today it isn’t labeled “state of the art” as it was in the fifties.

Paging through the yearbook is a lesson in American history. Girls wore skirts or dresses with saddle shoes and rolled down socks. The rule, said one girl, was “blouses tucked in or a trip to the advisor’s office.” The boys had short hair, tucked shirts, belts, slacks, no blue jeans.

So, what did I learn about Nate? First of all, I never knew he played football! I did know of his interest in the high school newspaper (the editor) and the debate team (the captain) but was surprised to see him kneeling in the second row with the team (far left). In 40 years of marriage I never saw Nate toss a football, and he attended games only to see Hans play in the marching band.

The second surprise was his keen interest in girls. At the age of 12, he was already watching carefully. His yearbook has a penciled X next to the faces of those he considered cute and a line under their names. He’d selected eight girls in all.

I loved reading the farewell messages on the autograph pages, particularly the one that mentioned one of the X-ed girls: “Nathan. To a good friend who kept me up (April 12, Sunday morning) to 2:00 AM on Marilyn and her features. Lots of Luck. Bruce.” Had I seen this gem a year ago, I could have asked Nate a few questions.

None of us can know everything about somebody else, not even a long-term spouse. That’s because we’re good at covering things up, and we don’t necessarily even want to be fully known. But Scripture tells us God does know us fully, like it or not. It doesn’t affect what he feels about us, though, and what he feels is intense love.

Nothing we do surprises him or changes his mind about us. This is a huge relief, because it means we don’t have to play games or hide anything from him.

I’m sure young Nate hid his feelings about Marilyn and never let her know how enamored he was of her “features”. But all in all, it’s probably best that she never knew.

“God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

Up a Creek

Posted on by

I’ve been coming to the same stretch of Michigan sand every summer for 64 years. Although the dimensions of the beach have changed each year based on the depth of the lake, one thing hasn’t changed in 100 years: the creek.

As kids we played endlessly in Deer Creek, a shallow, moving mini-river of water flowing mysteriously out of dark woods into the lake. Despite summers when algae grew on its surface or bark turned the water brown, nothing could keep us out of that creek.

If we left the beach and followed it back into the deep woods where it was cool on hot days, we would find treasure beneath the water: minnows, sparkle-rocks and best of all, gray clay. During the carefree days before we hit the double-digit years, we were sure this clay was the key to flawless beauty. Working carefully on ourselves and each other to cover every square inch of exposed skin, we’d emerge from the woods looking like a potter’s wheel had gone berserk. A quick swim, however, would remedy the matter.

In the 1950’s, the creek mosquitoes were so thick we looked like a batch of measle-infected kids. One summer a dozen of us decided to follow the creek as far as we could, knowing it “went forever.” By the time we’d traveled less than a mile, stirring up mosquito nests all along the way, I had so many bites I actually became immune to them. After that, whenever a mosquito bit me, no red bump would develop. I tested it again and again, watching while the bug filled with my blood. The immunity is still good today.

Sometimes wild winds knocked trees down, placing them as perfect bridges. We’d run back and forth, competing to see who could cross the fastest before misstepping and crashing into the water. During moments of rest, we’d straddle the “bridge” and talk for hours, sharing childhood’s secrets. I credit our parents with the gift of letting us roam free. Not everyone is that fortunate.

Last summer Jack and I had a carefree adventure of our own. Since the creek flows through the woods directly behind our cottage, we decided to walk home from the beach in the creek. Between fallen trees, slippery rocks, tangled roots, knee-deep water and low-hanging branches, we barely made it. But I felt like a kid again, and it was worth the effort.

There aren’t many children following the creek these days. Maybe their parents are worrying about accidents and stitches. It’s a long way from the beach to the emergency room. Maybe they’re nervous about who else might be in the woods, although there’s never been an incident. Maybe the kids are all on the internet or playing video games. Whatever the reason, they’re missing out on one of summer’s delights.

My goal as a mom was to be sure our kids appreciated God’s handiwork the way I’d learned to do, motivating me to push/pull them outdoors. Even studying the tiny body of a mosquito teaches of God’s attention to detail and establishes admiration in the heart of a child. Although God fully understands the internet and should get full credit for the World Wide Web, catching minnows in a beach towel or harvesting a bucket of sticky clay beats computer fun any day.

“God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.” (Genesis 1:31)