And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (17 page)

BOOK: And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed
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As I neared the finish line, I could hear the din of the crowd cheering us home. And above it all, louder than the roar of the crowd, like a balloon suspended above the noise, I heard my dad calling my name. That voice has cheered for me my whole life. I raised my hands to the sky as I ran.
I can’t see you, Dad, but I hear you. And I’m almost there.

Hand in hand with Melissa, my Tuesday running companion and friend for more than twenty years, I crossed the finish line. The boys spilled out from the crowd with hugs, high-fives, and clapping hands, and Tyler promptly untied my running pants. From runner to mommy in .2 seconds.

“Mommy, did you win?”

“In my own way, yes, I did.”

“Well, I would be more proud of you if it hadn’t taken you so long.”

“I wasn’t trying to win, kiddo. I was trying to do my best. And I did. So I won.” Keep this in mind in your own races, little man. And I’ll try not to rush you.

I felt a certain exhaustion and weariness on the morning after, coupled with a blend of quiet victory. I allowed myself to rest. I mean, honestly: I had run my first race. But even as I rested, there were parallels. I was reminded of the rest I must allow myself after other taxing laps of this journey—long, hard pushes that might not be so visible. Practiced runners remind me to stretch and drink water today, perhaps even go for a walk. And therein lay the reminder that I’m not
really out of the race; even on the day after, I have to take care of myself.

Am I a runner? I thought I was. But to this day, I haven’t laced my running shoes since that first race. Turns out, I was just angry. But running proved to be a safer, better remedy than having crazy amounts of sex, getting stupid drunk, or doing brainless drugs just to satisfy my inner rebellion.

Jana had said to me, “Tricia, be honest, angry, frustrated, tired—be all these things; but please do not free-fall. Cling to everything and everyone you must, but do not stop loving. There is no rest in it.”

I ran until I could rest, until I could sleep again at night.

Robb’s hobbies included fixing, improving, upgrading, and knowing the ins and outs of his computers. Incidentally, his hobbies also included serving his wife to the best of his ability, so he kept my PC up and running, fully equipped and updated. He made all our computer decisions, and since he was so confident and able, I didn’t bother to step into that arena. He simply presented me with a working machine, and I worked happily and efficiently with my machine.

My PC laptop became geriatric, and in her old age, she began to function not quite so well. Anything I asked her to do, anything at all, she seemed to scratch her gray hair and respond with, “Oh, dear me. We’ll need to think on this. Where did you put it? What is it called? Can you give us a hint? And about an hour?” A writer really needs her techno companion to keep up. I don’t have time for the computer to think more slowly than I do. Time to upgrade.

I have long listened to the diatribes of my Apple-loving friends: “Once you go Mac, you’ll never go back.” But we were a PC family. Surely I need to keep this in mind as I take this next step. Except, I’ve lost my PC expert. Hmm. I announced, “I’m buying a Mac today.” Nobody can accuse me of taking too long to decide. I may debate a decision in my mind, but once I make a decision, I’m in.

I consulted my Mac experts, and they all guided me in the absolute same direction: MacBook Pro. Do it, Tricia. Go. So I did. I entered the Apple Store, totally faking the knowledge and confidence I had about this realm of technology and major purchases. “I’d like to purchase a MacBook Pro, please.”

“Ah, yes ma’am. I’ll help you with that today. My name is Justin.”

Twelve minutes later I was walking out the door with my new laptop in hand. It was that easy.

I came home with a skip in my step, and I promptly left the box on the kitchen counter.
I’ll open it after the kids are in bed.
I certainly wouldn’t want to be distracted from my duties as a mom.

Um, yeah, so the kids are in bed now … but I’ll open it tomorrow.

So, good morning, it’s tomorrow … Maybe I’ll open it tonight.

Or maybe I won’t yet. It’s one thing to buy a computer; it’s another thing to get it up and running, to make it mine, to own it. I’m not a computer girl. Maybe somebody could get it all set for me and then hand it to me. That’s what Robb would do. That works well for me.

The white box sat on the kitchen counter, teasing me. “You know you want to open it.” I do. I just … can’t. I just can’t yet. What if I can’t do it? What if I missed my window to become technologically savvy and the opportunity left with Robb?

My mom can sniff out my intimidation from a mile away. She has patience with it but little tolerance. She didn’t raise me to be a girl who will be put in a corner. A daughter of hers will not be easily bullied, put in a box, or defined by anything but God’s best for her.

She tapped on the box. “Tricia, turn it on today.”

Right. That. Turn it on. Sure will. I sure will.

I unpacked it. Unwrapped it. Loaded it and its many foreign accessories into my computer bag. I was careful to bring the instruction book, just in case. I settled in at Starbucks, bought my drink, and delayed, delayed, delayed. An argument unfolded in my mind: Starbucks time is reserved exclusively for God. I get myself here, and he meets me. This time is manna for my day. I can’t let myself compromise that discipline; I can’t let anything come before it. I’ll read and journal first. And then, if there’s still time, I’ll turn it on.

We’ll see. Maybe I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Maybe I will. Or maybe I won’t. Surely the geriatric laptop has a little more to give.

My mom called. “Did you turn it on? Just checking.”

Ah. Accountability. The wise sage on my shoulder. “I will. Right now. I will.”

I got it out of the bag, set it on the table. I tried really hard not to look like a Mac novice. I pretended I knew what I was doing. I turned it on. I did. It was pretty easy, actually. One button, turns out. And things began to unfold before me. These Mac people know what they’re doing. This beautiful machine seemed to breathe on its own, simply prompting me with new passwords, simple decisions, and language I could understand.

And, would you believe, confidence and strength—and maybe the Lord—met me there in the installation and claiming of my new MacBook Pro. Anxiety threatened me, reminding me,
Hey, keep in mind you don’t know what you’re doing. This was Robb’s gig. You’re not the computer girl. Give it a shot if you must, but be ready to bail out when you hit the limitations of how smart you really are.

Guilt hung over me.
Don’t be good at this. Even if you can, you shouldn’t. If you do something for yourself that only he could do, maybe it’s like you didn’t need him. If the wound begins to heal, how will you remember where he fit? He was a PC man. You should be a PC girl. You should. You shouldn’t do this. Don’t stretch your wings too far; it’s not time for that yet.

I clenched my fists, shutting out the words that weren’t true.
Shut up, you. Don’t talk to me that way. I’ll do this thing. I can do this. I can. I am. See? I am. I am doing this. And he would want me to.

I felt empowered. Smart. Capable. I couldn’t stop smiling, and actually I kept giggling. And before I knew it, I was up and running. Software installed. Passwords set. Mine, all mine. I did it. It was the first major decision I had made in twelve years without his verbal approval and decision alongside me. I began to learn a new side of me, find access to parts of my mind that had rarely been used.

And yet I felt Robb smiling.
You did it, baby girl. You did it.

He often reminded me of the reasons he married me: he loved that I am smart, confident, and capable. He held fast to those parts of me, especially when I felt torn between the way God made me and the prescribed definitions of a woman in a Christian subculture. Those
don’t always match. We are not always supposed to be smart, confident, or capable. But Robb wouldn’t let me think otherwise. “Go do it, babe. I know you can.”

I did it today. I am finding a new me. One I never knew I could be. I didn’t know she was hiding in there. Turns out, sometimes you gotta take it out of the box.

“I think Daddy can see me right now,” Tyler said, as he built a race car of Legos. He’s older now, and his fine motor skills soar in the presence of Legos. Sadness tugs at my heart; Robb didn’t live long enough to see the Lego stage. He had big dreams of little cities to build with his sons.

“You think so? What do you think he thinks?”

“About me. I think he thinks about me.”

“And what do you think he thinks about you?”

A long, thoughtful pause. So long that it seemed he had forgotten the question.

“I think he thinks I’m just who he wants me to be.”

I think so too, little man.

Together, the boys add to their endless list of aspirations:

“When I’m a daddy, I will chew gum.”

“When I’m a daddy, I will find a beautiful wife.” (Between now and then, I’ll coach them to reverse the order of those two goals.)

“When I’m a daddy, I will wear my seat belt only when I want to.”

“When I’m a daddy, I will eat spicy food.”

“When I’m a daddy, I will take care of you, Mommy.”

“When I’m a daddy, I will stay up late.”

This is the epitome of their aspirations. They make such declarations once a day or more, telling me their grandiose plans for midlife.

In my mind, I think,
When you’re a daddy, I’ll be a grandma.

When you’re a daddy, you’ll understand this consuming love that can strangle your heart with its tentacles.

When you marry the beautiful wife you’ve imagined, you’ll think of your dad. You’ll want to love as hard as he did, but you might be tempted to hold back enough to keep her safe in case she doesn’t get to keep you. Don’t do it, sweet boy. Give it to her. Just like he did.

When you’re a daddy, if you have two little ones, you’ll learn anew how demanding it truly is to keep up with the constant coming and going, needing and giving.

When you’re a daddy, when your son is three, you’ll begin to imagine how much your daddy loved you, how much he didn’t want to leave you behind.

And if you ever find yourself within the snarling teeth of the black dog named depression, you’ll discover how I pushed myself to the very edge to stay present every single day. Love fights viciously against the snarling teeth of depression.

When you’re a daddy, you’ll begin to know, to understand. Or you might not. Some things will make the most sense to you right now, before you enter kindergarten.

When you’re a daddy, be a good one. And let God be yours.

BOOK: And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed
11.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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