“She’ll never graduate from high school. Never get married. There will be no more birthdays or Christmases. She died.”
She was arrested for speeding in the fabric store. Ok, that's not true. But the rest of the story will always bring tears.
“When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path.”
Decorating was always my wife’s thing. But now that she was gone, what was I to do?
When will the power come back on? Of course. The same question applies to internet outages: When will my Internet be back up?
Going down these stairs meant you were going on an adventure. If you were going up these stairs it was because you were going home.
“Everything can be rescued and mended, even broken hearts.”
And just like that the tears threatened again, in the toy aisle, taking to a stranger from Kansas.
Would you leave the front door of your home unlocked at night? Probably not.
Yesterday was a difficult day in the most difficult time of the year.
Happiness, joy, and wonder are everywhere. So why, pretending to look at the program, am I trying to hide my tears?
She was one in 34,000. Literally, one among thousands, tens of thousands. And I found that one.
Don’t ask me to pray today as the family gathers for our first Thanksgiving in 50 years without her.
It is an important life lesson, not to step on the crack in the sidewalk.
I am told that it is a beautiful place, and that there, the laughter of loved ones is contagious, compelling, drawing.
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It is my hope that my two losses, added together, will equal a win for those who read what follows.
Life - and death - happen, in the family room.
I was the canvas, she was the brush, God was the painter.
There is a great deal of sadness in my life with my dearest treasure on all this earth being gone. But one sadness will never describe me.
I know how much it meant to me, in those final months, then weeks, and then days, to hold her hand as we walked the halls of the hospital.
We'd been often to the mountain, the ocean, and the forest, our little bug, my wife and me.
Soon Thanksgiving, then Christmas, To gather our dear family, But not the one who loved to decorate, With the berries from the tree.
When you've lost your dearest treasure, little things matter.
It’s not an ego wall. There’s not a prized catch in the wild mounted on the wall. It’s just an ordinary wall.
It was one of our favorite outings, to take country roads just to see where they led.
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What can burst the iron bands affixed around the heart, the bands keeping the heart from breaking due to the sadness of grief?
A journey most difficult to make. To enter hedges where broken hearts pour out their grief. To bury a treasure beyond price.
What beauty had been there just seconds before had disappeared into the shadows of the forest. Such is life.
It is J.R.R. Tolkien to whom is attributed the phrase “Not all those who wander are lost.”
“Do we get a prize for hiking this trail?”
Years advanced, what we think about when all alone.
Like a drifting, incrementally enveloping, all-obscuring fog, that fateful day had arrived.
Colors that have been in the leaf all its life begin to show through, but only as the masking effect slowly fades away.
World River Day, and the day my grandson and I rowed the boat together, are about beginnings.
It is a cry for help. A supplication from the depths of despair, a pouring out of grief even as the skies pour down an onslaught of rain.
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It was the whole cross-the-crowded-room first glimpse that became a second glance that became my opportunity to ask my question.
Today she has been gone but six months. And this evening, as with most evenings, I will return again to our quiet place by the lake.