my lucky day

May 27th is a particularly lucky day for me.  On May 27, 2006, I met my husband.  On May 27, 2007, he asked me to marry him.  On May 27, 2008, I found out I was pregnant with our baby girl.  Obviously you can see why I celebrate the end of May, but I can tell you that it didn’t start out that way.

I went on my first date six months after my first husband died.  I know, that sounds wayyyyy tooooo early!  But, I had sound reasoning behind my decision.  I needed to meet new people.  My inner circle was so full of sorrow for me and my grief; they were so full of desire to help and their need to show support, that I began to feel unhealthy in my own life.  I was a young widow, and I was in danger of assuming that role for decades to come.  What if widowhood wasn’t just a chapter in my life, what if it was my entire book?  I felt desperate to ensure that I got unstuck.  I was determined to heal and decided the best way to start was to do the one thing I was most terrified of doing, dating.

I joined Match.com, and I signed up for a service called It’s Just Lunch, where I got set up for lunch dates a couple of times a month.  I had many first dates, and then, like a teenager, I never returned their calls.  In May a friend phoned and wanted to introduce me to Tim.  She invited both of us to a dinner party to see if we clicked.

Frankly, we didn’t talk much that night.  Still, I wasn’t completely surprised when he called me a few days later.

After a bit of small talk, Tim said, “So I don’t really know much about you; I mean except that you’re a tragic widow.”

A tragic widow?  A TRAGIC WIDOW!  “I’m not a tragic widow,” I snapped.  “And my children are definitely not tragic.”  I didn’t come right out and call Tim an asshole, but I implied it with my tone.

“So why did you agree to see him again?” you ask.

That is a very good question.  I agreed to see him again because of my girlfriend, Alex.  Alex was at the party the night I met Tim.  The next day she called me and said, “He’s totally your type.”

“What type is that?” I asked.

“If you went running across train tracks and fell just as the train approached, Tim looks like the kinda guy who would sprint to your side, scoop you up, and throw you out of the way.  That is totally your type.”

“Oh God, that IS totally my type!”

So I agreed to have dinner with Tim because he had massive biceps and looked strong enough to launch me off train tracks.

Still, it was not love at first sight.  Tim claims I didn’t talk for three weeks, and that is not completely untrue.  I am a bit shy and a rather hard nut to crack.  Tim, on the other hand, is a man with strong opinions and a strong sense of self.  He is easily irritated by stupidity, and unfortunately for him, the world is rather stupid.  Tim was like a pissed-off Energizer Bunny, with O.C.D. and a touch of road rage.  While he spent the first month waiting for me to talk, I spent the first month waiting for him to calm down.  Still, I kept seeing him because he had that bicep thing, and he kept seeing me because he felt obligated not to crush the spirit of the tragic widow, plus we made each other laugh.  We still laugh A LOT!

As weeks turned into months, we stayed together.  After that first summer Tim said, “I believe all women are crazy and eventually, given enough time, they will unpack their crazy and show you just how insane they are.  Then, a guy has to decide whether he can live with that level of dysfunction.  I keep waiting for you to unpack your crazy, but now I realize you are completely up-front with your insanity.”

“Yes,” I said.  “All my crazy was unpacked by our third date.  And I keep waiting for you to chill out, but now I accept that you are simply not capable of relaxation.”

And we lived happily ever after.

grace

When I was five, I asked my dad how we knew that Jesus was born on December twenty-fifth.  He said, “We don’t know for sure, but it is a day that people have agreed upon to celebrate.”

I thought a lot about this, and that night I started saying happy birthday Jesus at the end of my evening prayers.  At five, I was concerned that perhaps Jesus was born on May fifth, or July twenty-third.  What if the actual day went by and no one acknowledged it?  I decided I would wish Jesus a happy birthday every single night for a full year, that way I would be sure not to miss it.  A year passed, and I kept wishing Jesus happy birthday.  It became a habit, a ritual that lasted thirty-one years.

The night of June 30, 2005, I found out my husband had died in a motorcycle accident.  That night, I stopped praying.

I realize that makes me sound petulant and melodramatic.  Grief, with its soup of anger and fear, forced me to reevaluate and create a new relationship with God.  It was a slow process.  Eventually I acknowledged three things.  One, God has a plan for me and my children.  Two, Scott’s energy was and always will be a force in our lives; his spirit is safe, and I believe, blissfully happy.  Three, I had an opportunity to rebuild and create.  This opportunity was a remarkable gift, unmistakable proof of God’s pure grace.

It is coming up on the eight-year anniversary of Scott’s death.  I still don’t pray.  I’m not bragging about this.  I realize this is, perhaps, not ideal, but I don’t ask God to keep my children safe.  I don’t ask God to guide me toward joy or peace.  I don’t ask God to take care of people who are hurting.  I believe He will do his job and carry out his intentions without me pointing out the people who need help.  My goal is to remind myself daily to have faith in his plan; complete faith that when things make the least sense to me, they somehow make the most sense to God.

In the wake of the bombings in Boston, I am staying focused on three things I believe to be true.  One, God is up to something.  He is working in the lives of the victims as well as the perpetrator(s).  Two, the darkest moments are disguised opportunities to rebuild and create, proof of God’s pure grace.  Three, Krystle Campbell, Martin Richard, and Lingzi Lu are safe and blissfully happy.