Tag: Becoming Me Without You

Larry and I met Bob and Nancy Little over thirty years ago when we began a relationship with Jimmy and Suzi Kallam of the Church at Charlotte. Bob and Nancy were very involved in ministry there, but it wasn’t until our move to Charlotte in 2016 that we began to spend time getting to  know more of their story by sharing meals together and attending gatherings in their home.  Nancy and I bonded as we shared prayer concerns and ultimately the death of our husbands. Nancy and I also found that we had a lot in common: both coming from Christian homes with a deep spiritual heritage, enjoying the ministry of hospitality and connecting people.

Nancy shares her story of the first year of widowhood in Alone But Not Alone.  If you have read past articles in this blog, you’ve realized that each one who experienced a death has their personal journey.  This is Nancy’s story.

Becoming me without Larry,

Rachael Crabb

A Becoming Me Without You Blog
By Nancy Little

Bob and I were married for sixty-two and a half years when he died and left me a widow.  We were fortunate to have been told of his pending death.  I say fortunate because for the last six months of his life, we talked openly about what life would look like for me after he was gone.  He told me a lot of what I needed to know both practically and emotionally.  When he took his last breath and entered into glory, I had a great sense of peace.  My family surrounded me and gave me support and encouragement I needed.  They continue to be nearby for me but the truth is that I will never have that close relationship again.  I am alone when I face every day.  When I go to bed at night, I am alone.  Every decision I make, I make alone.  But I don’t really feel alone. 

I was with a group of friends recently when one asked me how I was doing living alone. I told them I didn’t feel like I was alone.  I couldn’t explain it to them, and I can’t explain it now.  However, there is a sense of purpose and fulfillment with me as I go from day to day. I have also found there is freedom in not being dependent on another person on a daily basis.  By being free, I mean that I am free to be available for what God has for me to do.  Much of my time had been taken up with caring for Bob which wouldn’t change for a minute.  However, it limited what I was able to do for myself as well as the interests and people that fill my life.  This is the sort of freedom that I have not experienced since I married Bob, helped in his many vocational endeavors, raised two children, and more recently enjoyed my four grandchildren.

I have never been a person who didn’t have some sort of project I was working on.  So, now I can press forward this the projects God has put before me without interruption.  Writing this article is one God has placed in my life, and I hope it can be an encouragement for each of you.  God has also put me in a wonderful neighborhood filled with very caring people.  Some of my neighbors and I have started a Bible study, and together we are seeing God work in this part of His world.  I guess what I am saying is that God is filling me with His presence through the people He has placed around me.  How can I feel alone?

My husband had a project he was working on when he died.  He was writing a book about how to retire with a purpose.  A friend and I are trying to put it together and in the process I have learned a lot about my husband.  I think much of the principles  he put forth apply to living alone after being with someone else for so many years.  God has a purpose for each one of us.  Widowhood doesn’t change the fact that God is in control of my life.  As I put one foot in front of the other, He show me what He would have me to do with my life.  I know that He is with me.  He is guiding me.  He fulfills me, and I follow His lead.  Deuteronomy 31:8 has become my guiding force.  “The Lord Himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave or forsake you.  Do not be afraid, do not be discouraged.” I guess this is the reason I can be alone but not alone as I learn to be me without Bob.

Our guest contributor to this month’s column is Dr. Robert Crawford, the younger brother of Janice, the matron of honor in Larry’s and my wedding.  Janice and I have continued OUR friendship without paying much attention to our siblings except for occasional prayer concerns. I knew Bob was a professor in Canada, his wife was sick, he had a son and a daughter, had written books and articles.  I asked Janice for his contact info; we chatted; he tentatively agreed to a column; and I asked him to fill in the blanks of his bio. 

Bob was the son of a Plymouth Brethren itinerant preacher who attended Greenwood Hills Bible Conf as a teen. (I met Larry at this camp, along with lifetime friends.) He earned a BS in Engineering Science from Penn State (roomed with another Greenwood Friend, Carl) and earned a PhD in Computer Science from Cornell.

Bob served as a professor in the School of Computing at Queens University, Canada for 42 years and is now a Professor Emeritus at Queens.  He is also chair of the elders board at Bay Park Baptist and chair of Ryansdale Transitional Housing (a charitable group in Canada that operates transitional housing enabling men to move from homelessness to independent living).

I have had wonderful catch-up conversations with Bob in the past few months, and he connected more dots between the 3 of us (Bob, Larry and me) by writing the following: “I knew Larry (Philadelphia Young People) and rode with him in his convertibles, and I knew you (that’s me) from Greenwood Hills.  You two were the coolest couple.  I, as a complete nerd, could only wish….”

More importantly, I introduce you to Bob, the loving husband, father, grandfather, brother, friend, and God-follower, who is willing to share a softer and gentler grief story with us.

Becoming me without Larry,

Rachael Crabb

A Becoming Me Without You Blog
By Bob Crawford

In January 2011, Anne was diagnosed with follicular lymphoma, with the assurance that this  was a slow acting cancer and that she would likely die of something else. The next nine years  included various rounds of chemo, a clinical trial drug, some localized radiation, and two stem  cell transplants. Given all of that, Anne led, as much as possible, a normal life. She continued  to lead a Bible Study for young women, mentor many, and travel when treatment schedules  permitted. 

Then, early in 2020, Anne experienced considerable back pain. More tests and scans. The  cancer had gone into her spine. Trips to the hospital became more frequent; medical care in  the home was a regular thing; changes in medication were common; the symptoms increased.  A walker became essential, then a stair chair. For some months, there was hope for something  to “work.” But by mid-2020, as far as treatment was concerned, they had run out of options.  Then it was palliative care, at home, and it was clear that the end was near. 

For the last few days, when she was no longer responsive, I would tell her two things, “You can  go now.” “We’ll be fine.” And I thought that would be the case. But it was a lie. At 2AM on  September 18, 2020, she went home to be with Jesus. I was so happy for her. But it wasn’t  true that I was fine. I thought I had grieved with others in their losses, as was only biblical. I  learned that I really never had. I didn’t have a clue. Real grief is raw; it is painful. 

And it wasn’t that I needed someone to look after me. I had been doing the cooking and  cleaning and other household chores for quite some time; I was happy to do that. And I didn’t  miss people or feel lonely. I had wonderful family and friends. My daughter and son were  amazing. I just missed her. I missed Anne. Her smile, her wit, her prayers, her listening ear, her  companionship, her friendship, her encouragement, her love. 

On a purely practical note, consider the timing. Anne’s serious difficulties arrived just as Covid  did. So in 2020, there were hospital visits that I could not be part of, except by phone while  sitting in a car nearby. And although we weren’t gathering with others socially, neither was  anyone else. We had a small graveside service with twelve family and friends. Though it was  all that we could do at the time, it denied so many others the opportunity to reach closure at  least in some way.  

So I began this new journey that I think of as walking at the intersection of grief and joy. I have  great joy in my life; joy for years of an amazing marriage, for a wonderful family, for a career I  enjoyed, for being part of Christ’s body the church, for God’s love and peace poured out on  me. Yet the grief is so real, and I have learned at least a bit about lamenting. I don’t alternate  between joy and grief; I walk at their intersection, both aspects present all the time. 

Not long after Anne died, I read Randy Alcorn’s book Heaven. I wanted to know all I could  about where Anne was and what our future together would be like. I yearned for heaven …  because I wanted to see Anne. Then I felt guilty; I was supposed to want to see Jesus. But I  recalled, “Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” If  I was to love my wife that much, in that way, that wasn’t a love that could end abruptly when  she took her last breath on earth. God wouldn’t expect it to. He understood. 

It was eight months after Anne died that I had a thought one day that if when we were getting  married a voice had come from heaven saying, “You need to know that I can only give you 51 

years”, I would have responded joyously. “Wow! We’ll get 51 years together?! What a blessing.  And anyway, by then we’ll be old.…” 

It was after that, that I began to recognize that my grief was softer and gentler. Still there. Still  very real. But not so acutely painful. Not so pervasive every moment of every day. I am so  thankful. 

Mostly I smile when I think of Anne. I mention her regularly in conversation, and family and  friends do as well. I do it naturally and in ways that others are, or seem to be, comfortable with.  I choke up a bit when others share memories; so do others. That is okay. 

After Anne died, a cousin shared with me how, over the years, “Bob & Anne” had become like  a single word to him and his family. I liked that. What an amazing thing to have been part of  “Bob & Anne.” But now it’s just “Bob”. Becoming Bob without Anne.