Widows and wolves

After my husband Jim’s death, wolves crouched at my door, catching me by surprise.

First stop was the funeral home. My pastor cautioned me, “Don’t overspend. The man you meet at the funeral home is a salesman. The least expensive vault and casket will do.”

My pastor’s advice led me from the spotlit showroom filled with mahogany caskets starting at $8,000 to a storage closet with chain-pull light bulb. There sat a doll-sized model of a casket available in cardboard or pressed wood. I opted for the $2,000 pressed-wood option that resembled something from Little House on the Prairie. Simple. Jim would like that.

Just before the funeral, representatives from Georgia Legal Claimant Services contacted me, telling me they’d located a dormant account in Jim’s name. They would be happy to recover the funds “for a certain fee.” For my convenience, they included a four-page contract to sign and return. I left it on my desk for a week, hoping to ask someone about it later. After all, I had grieving to do, children to comfort, and a beloved husband to bury.

Before I could get back to them they called and emailed again. After doing some fact checking, my brother-in-law assured me that no “dormant account” existed. I tore up the contract and mailed it back with a note: “No thank you. I do not require your services.”

A real estate broker also came by. “I’m here to help. I’ve done a quick assessment of your home,” he said. “Selling now would be best.” A realtor friend disagreed. “Wait a year,” she said. “That’s what I tell most widows.”

“Widow.” I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the label.

Eager to get probate out of the way, I carried my husband’s will to court, expecting a probate judge to stamp it so the title to our home and cars would carry over to me. But the probate clerk fingered Jim’s will and shook her head, saying, “It’s not worth the paper it’s printed on, ma’am.”

This began a nine-month battle to obtain clear title to my house. Had we used a lawyer licensed in our state, the will would have been accepted. Had the title to our home included a right of survivorship clause, probate would have been unnecessary.

I went to the bank to consolidate accounts and deposit my husband’s life insurance check. Though treated kindly, follow-up phone calls invited me to meet with the bank’s investment department. Fortunately, a senior bank executive in my church drew his sword. “Don’t go,” he said. “I know how the big banks work. Let me find someone who will work for you and not the bank.”

After I packed up my husband’s clothes, my phone rang. The lawyer on the other end of the line “had concerns” about my husband’s medical stay. Using bits and pieces of information he’d gathered, he assured me I had a case against the surgeon who operated on Jim and the huge hospital company that could “pay big.”

For more than 25 years, I had worked for that huge hospital company and alongside the surgeon. I knew in painful detail the stellar care Jim received. Great medical care does not guarantee a positive outcome.

I pushed back: “What exactly would you like me to sue the surgeon for?” Before the lawyer could answer, I offered suggestions. “How ’bout I sue him for canceling a long overdue cruise with his wife so he could be at by husband’s bedside? And how smart would it be for me to sue my employer, especially when it did nothing wrong?”

The Bible warns against defrauding the widow and her children:

“You shall not mistreat any widow or fatherless child” (Exodus 22:22, ESV)

“Woe to those who … rob the poor of my people of their right, that widows may be their spoil, and that they make the fatherless their prey!” (Isaiah 10:1–2, ESV)

A friend told me, “It’s good you knew better.” True enough. But home alone with my tears debating a lawyer over my husband’s medical care was gut wrenching.

Still, every wolf who appeared at my door met a faithful, unexpected defender: a pastor, a family member, a realtor, a banker, and many others God placed by my side at just the right time, reminding me that I’m not alone.