A Moment in My Life – Saturday, October 17, 2020
This is a special entry because I don’t typically write my column on Saturday, but 22 months ago today, Mark entered his forever home in heaven. On the 17th of each month, I honor his memory with one of his favorite foods to help me cope with my loss. This morning, I woke up speechless—almost unable to write the caption on my Facebook posting for this month’s food selection. This month I made the curry chicken over rice recipe that Mark taught me during our early days. Funny how he taught me many recipes that survived the test of time, and he wasn’t a cook or a baker. Yet, these recipes became our comfort foods. He gave me the gift of yummy foods that I could use to honor his memory with each month.
As the day progressed, the weight of our separation sunk in, and the words came to me. These moments birthed the monthly Angelversary celebrations, but today reminded me that honoring his memory this way doesn’t erase my loss, the void, or the emptiness of not having him here each day. It doesn’t make missing him any easier. It’s only a means to honor his memory, which I gladly take every opportunity to do.
I would never have imagined that we’d be apart for 22 months. It makes me laugh when I think about the time Mark and I were apart for 22 days, and I was clawing the walls because I couldn’t stand being away from him for that long. It’s hilarious now that I think about it because although 498 miles separated us, we talked on the phone, messaged each other, and did Facetime every day. I was greedy—that wasn’t enough. I couldn’t wait until we were physically together again. We are currently physically and technologically separated by dimensions—not miles—and not 22 days but 22 months. What a huge difference! What I would give to be able to connect with him again, technically!
Daily, I tell him everything that goes on in my life. I imagine him sitting on his couch in front of his TV in heaven while he watches over me. As I talk to him, I know he’s talking back to me, but I can’t hear him. I see him grinning, shaking his head and saying, “You never could hear me!” That was our joke. I used to ask him a question, and I’d walk out of the room before he answered. He’d be answering me, but I couldn’t hear his answer. I have to laugh because it seemed like God was preparing us for today. So, in that way, nothing’s changed. I talk to him, and he talks back, but I can’t hear him. This scenario helps me feel closer to him.
I have my pockets of happiness when things go well in my day. I have my moments when I lose it. It’s a roller coaster ride. I will survive. I do what I can to live my life fully and live it well for him because he doesn’t get to live his life anymore—and for me so that he’d be pleased with how I lived. That doesn’t mean that Mark’s forgotten. It just means that I’m coping and getting by. I miss him dearly every day. When I thought I was handling it well, that old familiar heaviness weighed on me, and the tears welled up as if it were yesterday. It doesn’t matter how many months it’s been. It doesn’t get any easier.