Thief of Joy

I am not my husband’s first love. Not his first marriage. Not his first choice for forever. Not his first lots of things.

He’s a widower and the kind of man who commits for life, without fail. He is the most loyal man I’ve ever known. A true man of his word. But, as fortunate as I am to have a man like him, I wasn’t who he thought he would spend the rest of his days with. He had made those plans with the love of his life. When cancer cruelly took her in her 40s, he felt completely lost. It was as if he was dropped into the middle of a story he would never write and didn’t want any part in. He was grief-stricken, sick from the stress of loss and sadness, and helpless to fill the giant hole she had left in his life and the lives of so many who loved her. He was forever changed by the unthinkable loss of his person. And, even though I’ve known him since first grade, I didn’t really KNOW him as an adult yet. So, I’ll probably never know the man he was before he lost everything. Still I can't imagine loving the man he is any more than I do.

It turns out that there ARE manuals for how to date a widower. I read a few of them, but I wasn’t at all prepared. I had spent 10 years alone, healing from wretched relationships and abuse. After coming out of my own cancer battle, I prayed for God to send me the one I’m meant to be with. I reminded Him that I’m a terrible picker (He knew that, of course). “Please don’t waste my time,” I prayed. “Don’t send me anyone but THE one and make it super clear, Lord.” Three days later, I had a Facebook DM from the man who would end up being my husband.

The first thing I did in my reply was acknowledge his loss and give him room to feel it fully. His wife and I had battled at the same time. I didn’t know her, but people would tag us both in their prayer posts. Our small hometown contains a ton of lovely and generous people who prayed for and loved both of us. When I found out about her cancer, I prayed for her, too. As I was celebrating the end of my chemo, her family and friends were mourning the end of her precious life. It makes no sense. Even though I didn’t know her, I still mourned her. I knew the world had lost someone extraordinary. Little did I know at the time that, two years later, I would become closely connected to her world and would get to know her through photos and stories and the home she built. Again, I wasn’t at all prepared.

Her name was Natalie and she was a force of nature. Stunningly gorgeous. A smile that could stop traffic. Hair and legs for days. Clever. Ambitious. Kind. Funny. Gregarious. Strong. Really strong. She was everything a woman could want to be and more. And she was everything to my husband before he became mine. Absolutely everything.

My manuals told me I needed to allow him to continue to love her, to continue to talk to and about her, to continue to laugh and cry over her, to continue to honor her. Intellectually and as someone who has lost a parent, I totally understood that. My heart, however, struggled from time to time. I loved my husband (then boyfriend) and I wanted him to love me as well. I think that’s natural. What isn’t quite healthy, though, is I would sometimes compare myself to her. Her hair was long and thick and curly. Mine was struggling to come back from chemo. She was outgoing and the very definition of “life of the party.” I’m an introvert with an intentionally small circle who loves the quiet corner at gatherings. She was the nucleus of the family and everyone’s hearts orbited around hers. I was like a foreign object to the family. A stray dog that they were glad provided companionship to my husband, but nothing they wanted to invite into their lives. As much as I wanted to believe God brought us together, I was battling not to let everything- particularly my own struggles- break us apart.

Worse than my own comparisons to her, I imagined that other people were comparing me, too. I tried to do everything I could to avoid it. For example, I never wore or used the color purple because that was her favorite. I rarely wore my hair in its naturally-curly state because she had glorious curly hair and I definitely wasn’t trying to compete. I shrunk myself even more than usual in social situations, knowing I couldn’t match her energy and didn’t want people to feel disappointed in my presence. Sometimes, I accidentally stepped on comparison landmines. I offered to do flowers for a family member’s special occasion. I had no idea that was one of her things. I made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner one night and invited others to join. Again, I had NO inkling that was one of her most beloved dishes to make. Comparisons seemed inevitable, whether I invited them in or not. Did any of this make anything better for anyone at any time? Absolutely no. But, my humanly human heart was faltering.

At one point, I confessed all my comparisons to a dear friend and she said (as plainly as she says everything and I love her for it): “His trauma trumps your insecurity. Put that shit away because he deserves better.” And so I did. Most of the time. And when I couldn’t, I put myself in a time out to get my head and heart together. My man needed and deserved someone selfless and strong. So I tried to become that. I still try. It’s uphill sometimes. We celebrated our second wedding anniversary recently (we’ve been together seven years now). It felt so silly compared to their 23 years as man and wife. Right? Sometimes (and these moments are becoming more and more rare), I still feel like this weird alternate. Like second choice. Like a consolation prize. My husband does absolutely nothing to fuel this. It’s just my insecurity. I feel like a lot of women in my position might be tempted to have these dark emotional moments too, especially early on. It’s no excuse, though. Which is why I’m sharing this. Because I do believe so strongly that, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

Maybe all women my age grew up comparing themselves to others and against all sorts of beauty and lifestyle standards. Maybe we haven’t stopped. I mean, when I realized JLo and I are the same age, I definitely flirted with some self doubt. I remember so badly wanting to be like Marie Osmond, and then Mary Lou Retton (a stretch since I could barely pull off a cartwheel), and Cindy Crawford, and Jaclyn Smith (I knew I wasn’t the Farrah). The list goes on and on. They were all gorgeous, talented, adored by many, and on the cover of nearly every single magazine I read. Billion dollar industries have skin in this game. If they keep me comparing and feeling just a little less than, I’m more inclined to buy their stuff. And I do. I’m one of those “Had a little too much wine and woke up the next morning to a smaller bank balance and an order confirmation for a miracle eye cream/cellulite cure/weight management supplement/de-wrinkler/etc. etc. etc” kind of gal. Obviously a lot of us are or our Instagram feeds wouldn’t look the way they do.

Who doesn't want to be smarter, richer, thinner, funnier, or more youthful? But, focusing on who we aren't and what we don't have, robs us of feeling grateful for who we are and what we do have. That's an awful place for your heart to live.

I know this comparison game is a losing proposition for me. For everyone. So, I’ve been working really hard to forfeit it. I haven’t been 100% successful. That’s clear. But, I do have a few things that have helped me work around my darker tendencies, so I can show up as the person I want to be. Here’s what I remind myself:

• *I may not be what he had, but I am what he needs now in this moment. That is more than enough.

• *I may not be everything she was, but I am everything I am. That is more than enough.

• *I may not have the acceptance/approval of everyone I’d like to, but I have it from some I never expected, including myself. That is more than enough.

• *I may not have what they have, but I have what is meant for me. That is more than enough.

• *I may want to close myself to anything that might hurt, but opening myself has given me more than I ever imagined. That is more than enough.

• *I may not have the life I thought I wanted when I was young, but I love the life I have. That is more than enough.

• *I may never be the smartest in the room, the prettiest, the brightest, or the funniest, but I will always be the me-ist. That is more than enough.

  
  

I don’t have it all figured out. I love the vulnerability in sharing that, though. Because I believe the tenderest places in our hearts need to connect with the tenderest places in other people’s hearts. That’s how we learn and grow and get through this whole life thing together. And honestly, if we could all step into the fullness of who we uniquely are- without trying to be like anyone else- we would be so much more joyful. God made us on purpose for a purpose. No one else is like you or has your assignment. It's important to know that all of us are more than enough. Even when we don't feel like it.

Xoxo, B

P.S. To my dear husband who will read this (because he reads everything I write), I love you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for making room in your heart and your life for me. There will never be a way to replace what you've lost and no one should ever try. But, you've showed me that broken hearts can still beat and pour out and love and live. You are truly an example to everyone around you. Thank you for always loving me for exactly who I am. It has been the greatest gift of my life to be seen and known and loved by you. And it's a gift I want to give back to you every day for the rest of my life.