Love Letters

I see you crying. Leaning against that bookcase in your temporary home, head on your hands beneath your favorite picture of me. I’m here, Babe. I hear you. I love you. 

Reaching for me when the lights go out in your heart, I heard you say you’ve got an investment in heaven because I’m here. I’m watching and praying for you where I stand in the presence of Father. We see you. You’re not alone even though I know you feel like you are.

I’m here. He’s here. Fighting for you.

The hummingbirds that hover outside your window—they’re a reminder from me. Remember how I took care of them? Now they help care for you, reminding you I’m near, that the veil is thin. I’m praying for you to hold fast, Overcomer. This isn’t forever, this separation. We will be together again. You know that’s the truth.

That day in Montana when you stood in the cedar forest and had to lean against the tree for support. I was there, too. I saw you. I heard you. You said against the rough bark of that tree, “I wish I could show all of this to you, Rob.” We both enjoyed being in the woods together. I answered you there. “Wait til I can show you everything that I see here.” Remember? I watched your face. I know you heard me. Of course, we can still hear each other. We’re both in Christ and He’s in us.

That paper you framed and hung on the wall near the table in your room? The one Allie found after I left? It was a love letter from me. I want you to always know. Always remember. I know you—that broken heart of yours, wounded since you were a kid. Remember this always—you are “my love, my life, my all!” You’re still my Sanserai.

Watching you cry beside the rose bush today. The replacement for the one I bought you when you were the one who was sick. My name below it. I know that’s hard—to see my name and not see me. The feather dropped there beside it was for you. I’m so close and you don’t even know it.

Another tear. You can cry with me.

Baby, it’s going to be okay! We’ll be together again. Count on it. Face to face, in each other’s arms. Wait until you see what I can see, Babe. I’m still here. I’m more alive than I ever was. I know you hate to wait. I know how much you miss having me there. I’m so proud of you. I’ve always been proud to have you for my wife.

Hold on, My Love. Remember, this is temporary. Hold fast, Overcomer, hold fast. Hang on! I’m here. I’m waiting for you.

I love you, darlin’.

 

I re-read your letter tonight, honey. I've gathered up some of the things you’ve shared with my spirit in the last nine months and put them down on paper. Today was a day of sadness and delights. My first Thanksgiving without you, Rob.

There have been others, of course, when you were on duty and we visited you at the fire station. There’s no way to visit you now, but I felt your presence tonight as we all sat down at Katy’s dinner table—the one you grew up sitting around in your mother’s dining room. We bowed our heads and while Dan prayed thanksgiving, I felt you. I knew you were standing beside me, present with us. I prayed you were felt at Lee and Jess’s Thanksgiving today, too. Sometimes I just know when you’re near. Like tonight.

Katy and I talked at her counter while she pulled food from the fridge hours earlier. “I miss him today,” she said suddenly, and I nodded. “There’s such an empty space here that he used to fill.” She’s right. I felt it, too. I’ve felt it all day, trying to put on a brave face, throwing a spin on my perspective. “It’s just an American holiday,” I tell myself. “There’s no reason to cry. I’ve never even met a pilgrim.” It doesn’t work, though. It’s tradition. You loved Thanksgiving. Now we all celebrate the day that rings of paradox—thankful for God’s care. Brokenhearted that you’re gone.

I’ve tried to explain what this emptiness, this void without you, feels like. The closest I can come is to describe it like an amputation. You’ve been beside me for forty-four years. The vacancy is massive. It’s like I walk around in an empty stadium, looking for you, listening to the echo of my own voice, my arms swinging through oceans of air but feeling nothing. No one.

We miss you, Baby. I hear it in our son’s voice when we talk. I see it in our daughter’s eyes every day. I guess none of us knows what an impact is left by our wake when we set sail for the other side. Only those left behind see and feel its effects.

How I wish we saw and held you instead.

I am grateful, though, that you continue to make your presence known. Thankful for the reminders of your continuing love. Thankful that we can commune in spirit even if separated physically right now. I’m grateful for the signs you send my way that reinforce the burgeoning recognition that you and Father see our sorrow and provide comfort. Like the feather I picked up this evening near the pasture gate, to remind me you are near and I am held.

Happy Thanksgiving, Baby. I love you.

With gratefulness to Liz West for permission to use her photo above. The original can be viewed at the following link:

letters | I bought this packet of letters at an auction; it … | Flickr