Friday, 24 August 2012
The small miracle of anniversaries
You and I may be the only people who remember the significance of this day. And you are gone, so there is only me.
Thirty-five years ago, this day changed my life. Today my mind traveled winding paths of memory, thinking about you and us and what was and is.
Of course, we thought we were grown up and ready to face life. I guess we were for 25 and 23. There's only so much maturity you can pack into those brief years of living. I was working as a librarian's assistant and you were teaching guitar. We lived in a two bedroom apartment and had no car. We were poor, in love and learning how marriage worked. How each other worked. How God worked.
There were so many experiences. We had children, we moved; you got a job in your field and then a better one. I quit mine to have a baby, started a business and then another one. All our parents died. I closed my business and got a job downtown. You got a job you stayed at for 20 years. Our children grew up, married, and we became grandparents.
You got sick. Then sicker. We went to the CN Tower to celebrate our 30th anniversary. Two months later, you died.
One day, years before, we had a conversation entitled, "What would you do if I die?" It seemed odd to be having this morbid discussion, but it was one of those conversations couples sometimes engage in. "I will never marry again." you said. Hmmmm, I'm not sure what I think of that. I kept that response to myself.
"You will marry again, though. And I think you should."
Perhaps because of the subject of that conversation, it stayed with me when thousands of others fled.
Here I sit, all these years later, celebrating our thirty-fifth by myself. I am so happy that your pain (physical and emotional) is over, and that you experience the wonderful love of our Saviour daily.
So today, I want to tell you two things. I'm sure you know them, but I need to express it.
I always loved you. There are ways in which I always will.
And--you were right.
Happy thirty-fifth, Bill.