Hope Soars

“The calendar’s rolled back,” I said as she listened quietly. “Today is Day One again.” And the tears fell. I didn’t know. I hoped that once I’d made it through five weeks of remembering where I was at any time of the day one year ago. Once I’d passed the surprise anniversary of the last day that we lived a normal life together. Once I made it through the final three days marking his last three, and the worst day, the nineteenth of February, was over . . . Then. THEN I would feel some lifting of the heaviness of the last month.

“Don’t have expectations,” I was warned several times. “Take it as it comes.” Of course. One day at a time, sweet Jesus. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One breath at a time. The number one is quickly becoming a symbol of exhaustion. It’s hard to see the horizon in the distance when you’re focused on each breath. Hope is out there somewhere, but I still can’t see it. I don’t have the energy to try.

“The second year is worse than the first,” I’ve read more than once. “And the third can be just as difficult.” I would renounce that in the name of Jesus, but I’m not sure it would accomplish anything. Already, today, the twentieth of February, feels harder than it did yesterday. And yesterday was tough as granite.

Through all of the first year, there was always a day when I could say, “Last year, Rob and I . . .” Phase Two of losing Rob means I can’t say that or remember him that way anymore. There’s an entire year now between today and every memory I have of our evaporated life together. A year ago I held his denim jacket against my face and imagined I was weeping on his shoulder. A year ago flowers and cards flooded our home with the reminder that I am now ‘that woman.’ A year ago I had stacks of heartless paperwork to fill out, declaring that I am alone in what’s left of the union once known as Mr. and Mrs. Rob McLeod.

A year ago my life collapsed right before my eyes.

I’ve spent the last 365 days doing what had to be done, buying Kleenex by the truckload, processing my feelings on paper and in counseling, building a home to live in by myself for the first time in my life, and learning how to exist with an aching desire to see the face of the man I love one more time - while knowing I can’t.

A lot can happen in one year.

I decided to drive to Texas to be with my sister on this first terrible anniversary. We always have fun together. We also cry together. Rob was a brother to her. Only five when he and I got married, she doesn’t have a single memory in which he doesn’t exist. We headed to our favorite haunt, Magnolia Market in Waco, Texas, filled up on Joanna Gaines’ cupcakes, and took a drive across the Brazos River to explore the countryside. There were no expectations or agendas or familiar roads. We just drove.

That’s when I saw it. Circling and soaring, doing loop de loops through strands of clouds set against a deep blue sky, its light brown wings were stretched as far out as they could go. Watching what I was sure was a hawk, the bird rose jubilantly in the air and flew directly over my truck as my sister and I drove the open highway of central Texas. And for the first time in over a year, my heart soared, too. “Good for you, Baby,” my soul sang as I watched the freedom displayed in one of Rob’s favorite signs of hope to my children and me. I was so surprised by the momentary joy I felt as I sensed the liberation Rob is experiencing, that the pain I’ve lived in for so long was eclipsed by hope. Just for a moment or two. It didn’t last long. It didn’t have to. This isn’t a race I’m running to hurry and be okay again. There’s no deadline that demands that I get a grip and return to normal. The anguish of losing Rob won’t be shed like a worn-out garment.

I will never be the same woman again. Death and loss change you. If they don’t, life and love didn’t either. Grief has to do its work in a broken heart. There is no healing without grieving. And that will take as long as it takes.

I’ve been told, though, the grief will change. I will always long for Rob. Always look for him in a crowd. For the past two days as my sister and I have been on the road together, I’ve reached for my phone every afternoon with the thought that I’d give Rob a call and tell him about my day. And then the pain started again. He was my life.

But today, as joy eclipsed that pain for a brief moment, I saw the horizon for the first time.

And he knew it. Hope called my name and, much to my surprise, my wounded heart answered with joy.

Maybe that's why the hawk soared.

With thanks to David Bush for permission to use the photo seen above. The original can be viewed by following this link: Soaring | Class: Aves Order: Accipitriformes Family: Accipit… | Flickr